The Inn At Rose Harbor Part 9

"The specials are cream of broccoli for the soup du jour and a shrimp basket for the entree." She read off the list that was posted on the countertop and smiled her dazzling smile.

A sudden childhood memory flashed before Josh. He must have been around ten years old at the time; this was before his mother had met Richard. It'd been just the two of them back then and his mother had taken him down to the Sat.u.r.day farmers' market on the waterfront. A boat had docked at the marina, selling fresh Hood Ca.n.a.l shrimp.

His mother had bought two pounds and they'd brought the shrimp home and boiled it in a mixture of spices. In all his life, Josh had never tasted more succulent shrimp. The two of them had feasted on the shrimp with homemade hush puppies and fresh coleslaw. Teresa had found some Cajun music and they'd done a silly jig around the living room. It was one of the happiest memories of his childhood ... a childhood with far too few such memories.

"Josh?"

He looked up from the menu to find Mich.e.l.le staring at him. "Sorry, my mind wandered away for a moment." He realized he was too much in the habit of keeping everything to himself and so he described the memory to her. Once again he was reminded of how much his mother had loved Richard.

"What do you remember about your father?" Mich.e.l.le asked.

Josh guessed she was offering him the opportunity to compare his birth father to his stepfather.

Josh shrugged. "I have only vague recollections of him from when I was small. The only thing I really remember is Dad throwing something at my mother and her screaming, grabbing me, and then running into the bathroom and locking the door."

Mich.e.l.le simply shook her head and didn't comment.

"I never saw him again after that. Well, not that I remember, anyway."

Mich.e.l.le placed her hands in her lap. "You've never looked him up?"

Josh leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "I did when I was discharged from the army. Apparently he died when I was seventeen. It wasn't that long after I lost my mother ... six months I think. He was living somewhere in Texas at the time and had remarried."

Not once had Teresa said a negative word about Josh's father. Not a single word. No need really. What little Josh remembered of his father said it all.

The waitress came to their table. Josh ordered the shrimp basket and Mich.e.l.le asked for the soup.

"You're not eating much," he mentioned when the waitress left their table.

Mich.e.l.le hesitated. "I'm so upset with Richard that I could scarf down half the menu in one sitting. But I know better than to let emotional eating get the better of me."

Josh admired her ability to gauge the difference between real hunger and emotional hunger. It occurred to him that she was much more self-aware than he was.

"You said that Richard had a hard time after Dylan pa.s.sed," he said.

Mich.e.l.le set her fork and spoon next to each other in perfect alignment. "He's never been the same."

Josh had suspected as much.

"He retired from the shipyard and hibernated," Mich.e.l.le continued. "He sat in front of that television day in and day out. My mother and father tried to draw him out but Richard wasn't interested, and eventually he started resenting their help. When he stopped mowing the lawn my dad knew something wasn't right."

"It made him think of my mother," Josh whispered, hardly aware he spoke out loud.

"He used to make you work in the yard, too, remember?"

Josh chuckled. "I'm not likely to forget. You know what's funny?" Mich.e.l.le would probably laugh, but he didn't care. "I have a rental house in San Diego and my yard is the best-looking one on the block." He didn't realize he'd picked up his enjoyment of yard work from his stepfather as well as his mother. If Richard ever found out, he'd get a good laugh out of it for sure.

Their food arrived and for the moment they were distracted from conversation.

"My mother's death was hard on him, but losing Dylan, well, that must have been more than Richard could take," Josh said as he reached for a deep-fried shrimp. He dipped it in c.o.c.ktail sauce before plopping it in his mouth.

Mich.e.l.le's spoon hovered over her soup. "Dylan wasn't as wonderful as everyone thought."

"Oh?" Josh asked, looking up. He reached for another shrimp, waiting for her to elaborate.

She didn't.

Josh decided not to push her. If Mich.e.l.le had something to say, then she'd do it when the time was right; when she was ready.

"You were kind to me at a time when I needed kindness, and I want you to know I've never forgotten what you did," Mich.e.l.le said.

"You mean on the bus that time." The teasing incident remained vivid in his mind.

"No, what happened in the hallway at school."

Josh's mind was a complete blank. He didn't remember anything happening with her at school that involved him.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten?"

"Refresh my memory."

Smiling, she leaned back in her seat. "Does the name Vance Willey ring a bell?"

It did. Vance had been a bully. A loser who preyed upon anyone smaller and weaker than him.

"I remember Vance," Josh admitted.

"He thought I was too ugly to live and he decided to humiliate and embarra.s.s me in front of half the school."

That sounded like something Vance would have done. "What happened?"

She squared her shoulders. "You stood up to him and told him to cut it out."

"I did?" Josh still had no recollection of the incident.

"You said if anyone was ugly it was him, and that was sad because outwardly he was okay, but the ugly part was on the inside. You nailed him," she said, smiling with the memory. "You told him that the only way he felt powerful was by putting other people down."

"I said that?"

"Every word. You could have heard a pin drop in that hallway, too. And then you said you felt sorry for him. Everyone held their breath wondering what Vance would do."

"He walked away, didn't he?" Josh whispered as a vague memory wormed its way into his consciousness.

"He did, and I don't think anyone was more shocked than Vance. I saw him later and you know what?"

Josh couldn't venture a guess.

"Vance apologized to me."

Josh found that almost impossible to believe. "Now that's cool."

"I thought what you said was the wisest thing I've ever heard," Mich.e.l.le confessed. "You didn't leap to my defense; you didn't fight him. Instead you hit him with the truth and he backed down."

It took Josh a moment to connect all the dots. Mich.e.l.le had a specific reason for recalling the story. "You're more or less doing the same thing with me, aren't you?"

She set the spoon aside. "Josh, don't make the mistake of deserting Richard. If you do, you'll find yourself dealing with unresolved issues. Richard's being cruel because he doesn't want to need you and admitting that he does is far too difficult. Look beneath the surface of his behavior and be as patient with him as you can."

Josh knew she was right, although she was asking him to stay when every instinct told him it was best to turn his back on the old man and walk away. "I actually feel sorry for him," Josh admitted.

"You'll stay?" she asked.

After a moment he nodded. He didn't like it, but he knew she was right.

Mich.e.l.le reached across the table and grabbed hold of his hand, squeezing his fingers tightly. "Thank you."

She was the one who deserved his appreciation.

When they'd finished their meal, Josh paid and together they returned to Richard's house. Stepping inside, he called out, "We're back."

No response.

"Richard?"

Josh found his stepfather in the chair, struggling to breathe. "Richard?" he said again.

His stepfather gasped for breath; he looked like he was having some sort of attack.

"Call nine-one-one," Josh shouted.

A moment later, Mich.e.l.le a.s.sured him that an ambulance had been dispatched. They should arrive soon.

Josh just hoped they would get there before it was too late. He rushed into the master bathroom and thrust open the medicine cabinet. The shelves were lined with row upon row of medications. It took him a heart-stopping minute to find what he wanted.

Aspirin.

Shaking four mini-dose tablets into the palm of his hand, he hurried back into the family room and placed the tablets in Richard's mouth.

"Chew them, Richard," he demanded. "Chew and swallow. Get them down as quickly as possible."

The ambulance arrived and transported Richard to the Bremerton Hospital. Josh and Mich.e.l.le followed behind in his truck. After Josh filled out the necessary paperwork, Mich.e.l.le sat with him in the ER. He reached for her hand, needing an anchor. They waited for nearly an hour before a physician approached them. His badge identified him as Dr. Abraham Wilhelm.

Josh stood to meet the physician eye to eye. "How is he?" he asked.

The doctor's concerned look said far more than any words the man might have uttered. "Stable for now. The bottom line is that he doesn't have much longer in his weakened condition. I'd like to admit him, but he refuses."

"When you say he doesn't have much longer, what exactly does that mean?" Mich.e.l.le asked.

"I wish I could be more precise, but I can't. His heart is in bad shape."

"Did he have a heart attack?"

"Actually he's had several."

"What about surgery?" Josh asked.

Dr. Wilhelm shook his head. "His heart is far too weak to sustain surgery. I think it's time for hospice."

"Hospice," Josh echoed. "Richard agreed to that?"

The physician cracked what resembled a smile, although Josh couldn't be sure. "When I mentioned hospice to Mr. Lambert, he said he wanted out of the hospital. His words were, and I quote, 'Get me out of here. I don't care what you have to do but I want out. People die here.' "

Josh chuckled. "I see what you mean."

"Mr. Lambert prefers to die at home and so I urge you to take him there. I'll arrange for hospice to make a visit as soon as possible."

Josh nodded. "Thank you."

Dr. Wilhelm slapped him across the back. "He has a strong will."

"He's stubborn all right," Josh agreed.

"You're family?"

"His stepson, but I'm all the family he's got."

Dr. Wilhelm nodded. "In that case, I'd say he's fortunate to have you."

Chapter 11.

I'd just finished changing the towels in Abby Kincaid's room when the doorbell chimed. I bebopped down the stairs, thinking it might be someone looking for a room, which would be nice.

When I opened the door I discovered a rather tall, thin man standing on the other side of the threshold. He wore coveralls over a thick flannel shirt in an orange and brown plaid and was easily six-three or six-four, which was a good seven or so inches taller than me. His eyes were dark brown, and the instant he saw me, he frowned.

"Can I help you?" I asked, unwilling to let him into the house until I knew exactly who he was and why he was at my front door. I drew myself up to my full height-not that it did any good-and stared at him, unwilling to flinch under his glare.

"You called me."

I relaxed. "You're Mark Taylor?"

He nodded, and I stepped aside. He came into the foyer and stopped to sniff appreciatively. "You've been baking."