Out of the Shadows

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Patrice lurched and let out a tiny squeal. “Dad,” she said, one hand pressed to her chest, “honestly!”

“Sorry,” Gus said. “But you’ll thank me later.”

Grinning, she sat up. “Thank you? For scaring me out of the last ten years of my life?”

“Sure,” he said emphatically. “Those are the years you’d spend in an overpriced nursing home, anyway.”

Rolling her eyes, Patrice groaned. “Maybe this weekend I’ll drive you down to Water Street, so you can audition at the Comedy Club.”

He chuckled. “There’s something else you have to thank me for—”

She waited for his punch line.

“—that rip-roarin’ sense of humor of yours.”

“Wow,” came her dry reply. “And here I thought being thankful that I got your eyes was enough.” She regarded him carefully. “You feeling okay?”

“Never better.”

“Then, what’re you doing up so late?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“And we could go back and forth like this till dawn….”

“Good point,” Gus said. And winking, he added, “Couldn’t sleep, that’s all. Happens to the best of us, sometimes.”

Patrice sipped her tea. “How ’bout I fix you a cup of—”

“No, thanks. I mostly just came in ’cause I thought I’d forgotten to turn out the lights.” It was his turn to look suspicious. “You okay?”

The question surprised her. She could only hope it didn’t show on her face. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well,” he said, pointing with his chin, “there you sit, family Bible in hand, Timmy’s picture poking out….”

Another sigh. “Well,” she answered, forefinger following the contours of the Bible’s gilded letters, “maybe I am feeling a bit wistful.”

He rolled closer to the couch. “You’re a good kid, Treecie. Have I told you that lately?”

Gus said it a dozen times a day. Oh, he substituted a number of words for good—terrific, fantastic, super, wonderful—but the meaning was always the same.

“So, how’d it go?” he repeated.

She flopped back against the couch cushions. “My date with Wade, you mean?”

Gus nodded, grabbed her mug and took a sip of the tea.

“I’d be happy to make you a cup, Dad.”

“Nah. Not thirsty,” he said, returning the mug to its coaster. Then he added, “You gonna keep me in suspense all night, or what?”

She met his dark, teasing gaze. Smiling, Patrice said, “It went well.”

“Where’d he take you?”

“Mi Casa.”

He scratched his chin. “Mi Casa, Mi Casa. Doesn’t sound familiar.” He squinted. “Is it new?”

“Couple of years old.” She sipped the tea. “It’s at the corner of Route 40 and St. Johns Lane.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding. “That new building behind the bank.”

They’d already discussed this, briefly, before Wade arrived. “Enough small talk, Dad. Out with it.”

Palms upturned and brows raised, he feigned innocence. “Out with what?”

“May as well tell me what’s on your mind, save us both a lot of hemming and hawing.”

Gus opened his mouth to respond, then snapped it shut again. For a long, silent moment, he only stared at her, a pensive, faraway expression on his rugged face. “Do you have any idea how much you remind me of your mom sometimes?”

She’d never understood whether that was a good thing…or a bad thing. Patrice looked down, at the grain of the Bible’s leather cover. If she thought for a minute opening it would provide him with comfort and peace, if it would give him the healing he so richly deserved—

“All I can say is, he’d better treat you with kid gloves,” Gus said roughly. “You remember what I said when the last bum broke your heart….”

A sad smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “That you’d mow him down with your wheelchair, then back up and roll over him again.”

“I would-a, too, if you hadn’t begged me not to.”

He didn’t have it in him to squash an ant, let alone harm another human being. Still, he seemed to enjoy his little threat. Quiet laughter simmered in them, bubbled up and spilled softly out—proof of what they both knew.

For a minute or two, father and daughter sat in companionable silence. Then Gus reached out and patted her hand. “Better get to bed, Treecie. Didn’t you say there’s some kind of multiward party at Child Services tomorrow?”

She nodded. “Yep. Child Health Week starts this weekend.”

“And let’s not forget what tomorrow night is….”

Merriment twinkled in his eyes. She got up and crouched beside him. “What’re you dressing up as this year?”

“Molly helped me build a box for this baby.” He slapped the armrests. “It’s the spittin’ image of an Indy 500 car!”