The Last Goodbye (5 page)

“A lot. Can’t have too much of a good thing.”

A very vivid, very earthy image popped into her mind. She concentrated on pouring the sauce over his chicken and vegetables but she could feel heat climbing into her cheeks again.

Two blushes in twenty minutes. Apparently she was turning into a born-again virgin in her old age.

Get a grip, Bishop. Anyone would think you’d never had a meal with a man before.

“We can eat outside or in here.”

“It’ll be cooler outside,” he said.

“Outside it is, then.”

She led the way through the French doors and
onto the deck. They settled on opposite sides of the table. He twisted the top off a beer and placed it in front of her, then did the same for himself while she distributed the cutlery.

“Well,” she said. “Enjoy.”

She sliced off some chicken and potato and took a bite. He did the same and there was a short silence as they both chewed.

“You’re a pretty good cook for a feminist.”

She choked on her mouthful.

He gave her an innocent look. “Sorry. Was that politically incorrect?”

She reached for her beer and took a big swallow. Then she pointed the neck of her bottle at him.

“You’re lucky I’m not one of those gun-toting members of the sisterhood or you’d be in big trouble right now.”

“Would I?” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked at her.

Apparently Tyler found her amusing. Which was a little disconcerting, since she’d just made a rather startling discovery—he was a very attractive man. Somehow she’d managed to overlook that fact until now. With his dark hair and unusual silver-gray eyes, that bump in his nose and the decisive shape of his jaw and forehead, he was easily the best-looking man she’d shared a meal with in a long time.

Then there was his body.

Broad, hard, lean, with the kind of muscles that
came from doing things in the real world rather than pumping iron in the gym.

She dragged her gaze from him and concentrated on her meal, suddenly very aware of the fact that she’d pulled on her cowboy-and-Indian pajama pants when she came home from the supermarket and that she wasn’t wearing a scrap of makeup.

Not exactly femme-fatale material.

Not that she was in the market to slay any man with her charms, such as they were, but a woman had her pride.

“So, how does a person become an advice columnist?” he asked.

“By accident. I was doing a column on travel destinations and they needed someone to fill in for Dear Gertrude when the writer who’d been doing it for years got sick. I did it for a couple of weeks, she decided to retire and they offered me the gig.”

“You said your column’s in the
Herald,
right?” he asked.

“Yup.” It was also syndicated to a bunch of other papers, but he didn’t need to know that.

“So people write in and tell you about all their problems and you solve them?”

“People write in with
a
problem and I attempt to offer them my objective opinion. Sometimes an outsider’s point of view gives people a new perspective.”

“I suppose you tell all your women readers to change their own tires and tote their own luggage?”

“You know, I do. I happen to be a big believer in personal responsibility. How about you?”

A slow grin spread across his face and she realized she’d risen to his bait without blinking. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked.

He made a show of stopping to think about it. “The chicken is good.”

“Thank you.”

“The beer is cold.”

“Kudos to Bob.”

“And you do rise to the bait pretty quickly.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re one of those people who think practical jokes are funny, aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged, Your Honor.”

She couldn’t hide her smile. No way would she have ever guessed that the man she’d confronted yesterday and run into this morning was capable of lighthearted teasing.

“So how does a person become a furniture designer?”

He shrugged and took a mouthful of his beer. “He’s crap at math and English and science and he wants to leave school as quickly as possible.”

She blinked at the harshness of his self-assessment. “Well, you clearly did something right.”

“I know how to work hard. And I was lucky enough to have a great boss when I finally scored an apprenticeship. Taught me everything I know.”

She studied the man sitting across from her. He was modest almost to the point of self-denigration,
yet he was clearly a driven person. She’d seen his workshop in Melbourne—no one could build a business the size of T.A. Furniture Design without having a fire in their belly and the smarts to harness it. She was confused by the apparent contradiction. All the self-made, driven men she’d met had been egomaniacs, more than happy to shove their achievements down the throat of anyone who was stupid enough to inquire.

It made her wonder, which in turn made her think about Bob and all she knew, and didn’t know, about her neighbor and his son.

None of your business, Bishop. Remember?

“Do you want another beer?” she asked, noticing his bottle was empty.

“No, thanks.”

She went to collect a second bottle for herself, bringing him a glass of water.

“Thanks.”

She racked her brain for a safe topic of conversation. Obviously, Bob was out. Too many pitfalls and unknowns there.

“There’s ice cream for dessert,” she said after a short silence.

Not exactly a sparkling conversational gambit, but a nice neutral topic nonetheless.

“Yeah?” There was an arrested look in Tyler’s eyes. “What flavor?”

“Honey macadamia and New York Cheesecake.”

“That’s got to be Charmaine’s,” he said, naming
one of Melbourne’s smaller boutique ice cream manufacturers.

She was impressed. “You know your ice creams.”

The reason she knew this was because she, too, knew her ice creams. In fact, she had what her friends commonly referred to as a substance-abuse problem where the stuff was concerned.

“Have you tried their chili chocolate?” he asked.

“Yes. Have you tried the Peanut Nutter at Trampoline?” she asked, naming another ice cream parlor.

“Of course. But it’s not as good as the cookies-and-cream gelati at this little place—”

“Near the corner of Rathdowne and Lygon streets in Carlton,” she finished for him.

He sat back in his chair. “You know about Rafael’s.”

“I do.”

“So if I say the words
almond biscotti…
”

“I’d know you were talking about Antica Gelateria del Corso, flagship store on Collins Street in the city.”

They eyed each other for a speculative beat, then spoke simultaneously.

“Favorite flavor ever?”

They both laughed. Ally felt a little pinch low in her belly as she looked into his smiling face. Brooding and taciturn, this man was attractive. Laughing, he about took her breath away.

“You first,” he said.

“Hmm…” She propped an elbow on the table while she pondered, very aware of her pulse tripping away at a faster than normal rate. “I’m going to go small and exclusive and homemade. My friend Craig made chocolate-and-lavender ice cream for my birthday last year. I swear, it was a religious experience.”

“Full cream?”

“Double cream. Couverture chocolate. French lavender. I ate so much I was sick. The kicker is that he didn’t write down the recipe, just threw stuff into the ice cream maker.”

“It was a one-off?”

“For one night only.” She sat back and crossed her legs. “Your turn.”

His gaze drifted beyond her shoulder as he thought it over. She took a mouthful of beer. A warm breeze tickled the back of her neck and the cicadas sang to each other, their music a constant in the background.

“There’s this place in Florence,” he said after a short silence.

“Italy? You’re pulling out the big guns. Going international on me.”

His mouth quirked at the corner. “I am. This place is down a little cobbled street, hard to find. They only use fresh ingredients, so their sorbets are seasonal.”

“I love a good sorbet.”

“The sorbets are good, but they make this amazing
orange cake gelati… It’s like eating a piece of orange poppy seed cake. Only better.”

“Because it’s ice cream.”

“Yes.”

There was a moment of contemplative, reverential silence. Then Ally laughed and fanned herself with her hand.

“Wow. I almost need a cigarette after that.”

A slow grin curled his mouth. For a moment she forgot how and why they’d met, forgot that he’d spent the day clearing out his father’s house, and that she’d held his father’s hand at the hospital this morning. It was a warm, balmy night and she had alcohol warming the pit of her stomach and the world seemed ripe with possibilities.

It was just her, and him.

The sound of a phone ringing cut through the loaded silence. She blinked, and Tyler reached for his hip pock et.

“Sorry. It’s probably work.”

He flipped his phone open and took the call.

“Tyler speaking.”

It was impossible to miss the way his face and body tensed as he listened to his caller.

“But he’s okay now?”

She stilled. It had to be the hospital.

“I understand. Do you need me to come down there?”

She gripped the edge of the table. Surely Bob hadn’t…?

“So he’ll probably sleep through the night now?”

She relaxed a notch. Bob was alive, then. But clearly something was going on.

Tyler half turned away from her and she stacked their plates, then took them inside to give him some privacy.

She fussed in the kitchen, banging dishes and roasting pans to let him know she wasn’t eavesdrop ping. She was taking the lids off the ice cream tubs when Tyler entered. His gaze took in the bowls on the counter as he slid his phone into his hip pocket.

“I might take a pass on dessert, if you don’t mind. There are some things I need to take care of. Thanks for the meal, I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem. And it was a barter, not a favor, re member?”

He didn’t so much as twitch his lips at her small joke.

“Is everything okay?” she asked quietly. “Is Bob okay?”

“He’s fine. He got a little wound up about some thing, and they had to give him a sedative.”

She bit her tongue before she could ask more. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it. And she’d already over stepped.

“I can make your ice cream to go if you’d like.”

“Thanks, but I don’t want to cut into your stash.”

Let it go, Bishop. The man clearly wants to get out of here.

She followed him to the door. They faced each other across the threshold.

He looked tired all of a sudden, the lines around his mouth and eyes more deeply etched. A small frown wrinkled the skin between his eyebrows.

“Thanks for helping with the fuse.”

“It was no big deal.”

“Those of us who are once again experiencing the joys of electricity beg to differ.”

He mustered a small, distracted smile. “I’ll see you around.”

She stood in the doorway until he’d disappeared next door. Then she went back to the kitchen. The ice cream had gone soft around the edges. She put the lids on and returned both tubs to the freezer.

She went out to the deck and collected their empty bottles, pulling the French doors shut behind herself when she entered the house. She put the dishes in the dishwasher, packed away the leftovers.

And still she felt restless and edgy and itchy and scratchy.

Relax. You’ll probably never see him again, Bishop.

Which was a good thing, because instinct told her that Tyler Adamson wasn’t the easy-come-easy-go kind of lover she’d been limiting herself to the past few years. In fact, instinct told her that there was nothing easy or forgettable about the man at all.

She considered that moment toward the end of their dinner when she’d made the joke about needing
a cigarette and he’d looked into her eyes and she’d known, absolutely, that they were both thinking about things a lot hotter than ice cream.

Definitely it would be a good thing if she never saw him again.

Crossing to the French doors, she called Mr. Whiskers in from the garden. Then she took herself to bed.

T
YLER THREW THE PILLOW
on the couch and sat to untie the laces on his work boots. Despite the fact that the windows had been open all day and he’d cleared out all the moldering newspapers, the room still smelled faintly of must and dust.

Awesome.

By rights, he should be halfway to Melbourne by now. Halfway to his own place and his own bed and his own life. Instead, he was preparing to spend the night on the couch in his parents’ house.

He could have bunked in his old room, of course. He’d pushed open the door this afternoon and seen that his single bed was still shoved up against the wall in the corner, even though every other trace of his presence had been eradicated, down to the initials he’d carved in the window ledge.

His father would have had to fill and sand and paint the ledge to remove those initials. Several hours work, no small thing.

The house was still warm after the heat of the day and he stripped down to his boxer-briefs and stretched out on the couch. His feet hung over the arm and something hard pressed into his back.

He rolled onto his side. The couch might be uncomfortable, but it was better than being in that little closet of a room, fighting off too many bad memories.

About a million times better.

He closed his eyes, but his mind was full of the phone conversation he’d just had with the nurse on his father’s ward.

“Your father has expressed himself quite vehemently, Mr. Adamson,” Sister Kemp said. “He wants to go home to die.”

Apparently they’d sicced the social worker on his father this afternoon to talk about his plans for the future and at the first mention of a hospice his father had started raising hell and hadn’t stopped until they’d fed something into his I.V. to calm him down.

“We’ll be having a meeting to discuss his situation tomorrow morning and it would be helpful if a member of the family could be present,” Sister Kemp had explained.

It wasn’t as though Tyler had had any option except to agree to be there, hence the necessity to stay the night. Like it or not, Robert Adamson was his father. His responsibility. Even if they were as distant as strangers.

The phone call had destroyed the small oasis of pleasure he’d found in the evening. Talking with Ally Bishop, laughing with her, had been the highlight of his day. Hands down.

He thought about the way she’d bristled when he stepped in to fix her fuse box and despite everything—the shitty couch, the knowledge that staying overnight would put him even further behind at work, the fact that he could feel himself getting sucked into a situation he wanted nothing to do with—he smiled. She was a feisty piece of work, that was for sure. Pretty funny, since she barely came up to his armpit and looked about as fierce as a puppy.

She was a smart lady. Straight-up, too. He appreciated the way she’d seized the bull by the horns and apologized to him this afternoon. She’d looked him in the eye and humbled herself with no excuses.

Hard not to admire that.

Or the way she’d diplomatically steered clear of the subject of his father all evening. He didn’t know what his father had told her about their relationship—didn’t want to know, either—but he appreciated the way she’d given him some breathing room.

Why don’t you go ahead and admit how much you appreciated the way she filled out her tank top, too?

It was true. He’d noticed that his father’s next-door neighbor had nice breasts. Full, but not too big. A good, firm handful, if he was any judge. He’d also noticed that she had the sort of mouth that was used to smiling and a round, curvy little behind that bounced ever so slightly when she walked.

So, not so much a righteous elf, then. More a sexy,
cute one. With feminist leanings and a love of ice cream.

His smile faded as his thoughts circled to his father again. He’d committed himself to tomorrow’s meeting, and he could distract himself all he wanted but it wasn’t going to make any difference to the decision that lay ahead.

He rolled onto his back and folded his arms behind his head. It was going to be a long night.

T
EN HOURS LATER,
T
YLER
exited the Kyneton District Hospital family meeting room and glanced around to get his bearings. He had a pocketful of paperwork and business cards and what felt like the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Spotting a sign indicating reception was to his right, he started walking. A few minutes later, he stopped outside his father’s room.

He’d just listened to two nurses, a doctor and the social worker explain the likely progression of his father’s disease. They’d talked about palliative care and the facilities available locally, and they’d talked about the kind of support his father would need if he was to go home to die, as he’d requested.

The reality was, while the government could provide some support for at-home care, they couldn’t cover it all. If his father was to go home, Tyler would need to get involved. He’d need to hire a private nurse, sort out his father’s cooking-and-cleaning requirements, manage his medical treatment. And if
that was a task he wasn’t prepared to take on, Robert Adamson would be forced into a hospice against his will.

It would be the ultimate revenge. Walking away and letting his father reap what he had sown—a faceless, nameless death in a state institution, the ideal punishment for a man who had withheld affection and compassion and understanding from his own children. If ever Tyler had wanted to pay back his father for the beatings, the denigration, the lack of interest, the small-mindedness, this was his moment.

Tyler took the final step through his father’s doorway. Robert was sleeping and Tyler walked quietly to his side. His father’s complexion was pale and his breathing seemed labored. His eyelids flickered as he slept.

Tyler wondered what his father dreamed about, if he dreamed at all. Tyler preferred not to dream, although usually it wasn’t a matter of choice. His least-favorite recurring nightmare was the one where his father tortured his and Jon’s dog, Astro, to teach Tyler a lesson.

Tyler had been late getting home for dinner, an offense that usually led to a dressing down and a cuff over the ear or a few hits with the belt. But this time his father had simply given him a long, hard look before resuming eating his meal. At first Tyler had been relieved that his father had said nothing. Then he’d been scared.

The next day, his father waited until Tyler was
about to head off to school before backing the car very deliberately over Astro’s tail as the dog lay sleeping in a sunny spot beside the driveway.

The dog had yelped with pain, its cries high-pitched and disturbing. His father only rolled the car forward after Tyler had tearfully begged for forgiveness and promised never to be late again.

As usual, there had been precious little sympathy from his mother. “Every action has a consequence,” she’d said. “Perhaps now you won’t be so quick to be inconsiderate of others.”

Tyler had waited a week, then he’d smuggled the dog out of the yard and given him to one of his friends from school. He’d told his parents that he’d left the gate open. He’d been punished for being careless, and Jon had hated him for taking away the one source of love and comfort in their lives, but it was the only way he’d seen to protect his beloved pet.

He’d been eight years old.

Familiar anger and outrage burned in Tyler’s gut. As an adult, he could appreciate how masterful his father’s choice of punishment had been. What he couldn’t understand was the cold calculation that had been be hind the act. What kind of man invested time and energy in devising ways to torture his children?

Tyler’s hands fisted.

Tell me why I should do this for you, old man. Give me one good reason why I should turn my life upside down so that you can have some peace.

His father stirred in his sleep. The heart monitor kept up its steady rhythm.

Tyler tried to dredge up one good memory. One moment that wasn’t infused with fear or disappointment or anger.

A Christmas came to him, hazy, tinted in sepia tones. Wrapping paper everywhere, his mother smiling indulgently for once instead of worrying about keeping everything clean and tidy. There’d been a present, a big one, a combined gift for him and Jon. They’d torn the paper off to find a ride-on wooden train, complete with coal truck and two carriages. The engine had been a shiny cherry-red, the coal truck glossy black, the wheels tricked out in yellow. His father had watched, an expectant light in his eye, soaking up their delight as they ran their hands over their prize and started arguing over who would have the first ride.

“Your father’s been putting that together in the shed for the past month,” their mother had explained.

Tyler couldn’t remember what had happened next. Had they thanked their father? Had they been surprised by such generosity from a man they’d already learned to regard with caution?

He had no idea.

His father stirred again, shifting on the pillow. His face creased with pain and he murmured something beneath his breath. His eyes opened and Tyler met his cloudy gaze.

“I thought you went back to town,” his father said.

“The hospital called me last night.”

His father’s gaze slid over Tyler’s shoulder. He was embarrassed, Tyler realized.

“It’s my life. Should be my death, too. Anybody would have gotten upset.”

“You want to go home.”

“They said they wouldn’t let me. That they’d get in trouble if they sent me home alone. But I don’t need anybody. Been looking after myself for years. Anyway, it’s none of their business.”

Tyler could hear the desperation in his father’s voice. It made his gut tight. Funny, but he’d almost prefer his father yell at him. Seeing him scared like this, beaten… It messed with his vision of the world too much.

“I’ve got some stuff to sort out in Melbourne, but I’ll be back to make arrangements for you. Someone to come in to cook for you and look after the cleaning. And a nurse to manage your medical care. The hospital wants to assess the house, too. Make sure there’s good access and that the bathroom’s safe for you to use. But if we can cover off the other stuff, they say you’re good to go.”

“You mean, I can go home? They won’t make me stay here?” His father sounded as though he was afraid to hope.

“Yeah, Dad. You can go home.”

Tyler waited for him to say something—anything—but he didn’t. He simply stared at Tyler for a long moment. Then he blinked and a single tear slid from
the corner of his eye and down his cheek onto the pillow.

Tyler looked away.

“The nurses have my number. Call me if you need anything. I’ll be back on Monday.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, simply headed for the door.

There was nothing more to say, after all. He was doing the right thing. Being a dutiful son.

Three cheers for him.

“H
ERE HE IS.
S
TILL ALIVE
and purring. Still shedding on the couch and licking his privates at every opportunity,” Ally said.

The large tabby cat in her arms squirmed, trying to escape, but Ally kept him positioned in front of the built-in camera on her laptop. Wendy smiled and waved from inside the frame on the computer screen.

“There’s my baby. How you doin’, little guy? You missing your mommy? You missing me, buddy?”

Ally cleared her throat. “Um. Do you want me to leave you two alone for a minute…?”

“Shut up. Just because I love my pet.”

“You should go the whole hog and have a baby. Stop kidding yourself,” Ally said.

“A cat is not a baby substitute,” Wendy said.

“You’re right. A baby would be less trouble. And he wouldn’t leave fur everywhere.”

“Says the footloose and fancy-free Ms. Bishop.”

The doorbell rang, echoing down the hallway. Ally wheeled the chair back from the desk.

“There’s someone at the front door,” she said. “It might be the postman with that parcel you’re waiting on. Give me a tick to check…”

She left the study, her bare feet padding softly on the wide, worn floorboards. She pulled the door open, expecting to see a blue uniform and a clipboard for her to sign. Instead, she found herself staring at a broad, muscular chest covered in a black cotton T-shirt.

“You’re back,” she said as she lifted her gaze to Tyler’s face.

“It’s a long story.” He offered her a tight smile, his silver-gray eyes unreadable. “Do you have a minute?”

“I do. At least, I will have. I’m just finishing up a Skype call. But I won’t be a sec.” She gestured for him to come inside, then hustled down the hallway. She was aware of him shutting the door and following her before she ducked into the study.

“Wendy, gotta go. I’ll catch you later, okay?”

“All right, but don’t forget to give Mr. Whiskers his flea stuff. And he’s due for his worming tablet. You might have to hide it in his dinner to get him to eat it.”

“I can handle it, don’t worry,” Ally said. After three years of wrangling other people’s pets, she was an expert at stroking throats and hiding pills in food.

“Speak soon, okay?” she said.

She clicked the mouse to end the call and turned to find Tyler standing in the doorway, a slight frown on his face as he scanned the spines of the many accounting and finance manuals on her friend’s bookshelf.

“Sorry about that,” she said.

Tyler shifted his attention to her. “You’ve got a lot of business books for an advice columnist.”

She laughed. “They’re not mine. God, no. I can barely add two and two. They’re Wendy’s. I’m house-sitting for her while she’s away.”

“So this isn’t your place?”

“Nope.”

His frown deepened.

“Would you like a coffee?” she asked.

“That’d be great, thanks.”

She led him into the kitchen and filled the kettle at the sink. She hadn’t expected to see him again. Or at least not so soon. She told herself that was why she was feeling a little skittish and self-conscious.

“Did you see Bob this morning? How’s he doing?”

“He’s good. A little slow to shake off whatever they gave him last night, but otherwise he seemed okay.”