Mom In The Middle. Mae NunnЧитать онлайн книгу.
since you’ve decided I’m an invalid, and you’ve already got my money, you might as well haul them all the way back to the laundry room yourself.”
Guy winced. He hadn’t meant for the comment to come across as an insult, especially since he was normally so conscientious. Life with a houseful of women had taught him to choose his words carefully. That was even more important with customers.
“Lord, keep me mindful of my words,” he muttered.
“Say what?” Shorty snapped.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Well, stop talkin’ to yourself and come on.” He spun the chair, offering a good look at the back of his mostly bald head fringed with wisps of silver.
“And for pity’s sake try to keep up, Roy Rogers,” he grumbled over his shoulder as he set his chair in motion.
Thinking Abby’s sweet disposition deserved high marks after growing up with a stern mother and grouchy dad, Guy hefted the carton and stepped across the threshold. He hurried to follow the man who was quickly disappearing down the long hallway. When Shorty stopped abruptly at the door of what appeared to be a utility room, Guy slipped inside the small, musty-smelling space. A washer-and-dryer pair were positioned to the left, and to his right a deep utility sink was installed in the countertop. Open cabinet doors beneath the sink exposed a bucket that caught the puddle created by a dripping faucet.
“Just sit it down there,” Shorty gestured toward the floor. “Maybe Abby and I can get around to it tomorrow after we visit Sarah.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, how is Mrs. Reagan?”
“Doc put a pin in her hip yesterday morning.”
“Oh, I thought that wasn’t going to be necessary.”
“It was a last-minute decision,” he explained. “Surgeon says it’ll get her back on her feet sooner.”
“Is she in much pain?”
“She’s holding up. Won’t complain. Never does. But it’s driving her crazy that she’s not here to tell me what to do.” A trace of a smile glimmered for the first time. His gray eyes lit with mischief and Guy caught the resemblance between Dillon and his grandpa. Hadn’t Abby said her parents had rarely been separated in forty-some-odd years of marriage? The old guy was probably missing his wife like crazy. No wonder he was out of sorts.
Guy deposited the box filled with brass pipes and silicon gaskets for replacing the trap and waste elbow of a sink, and then glanced toward the plumbing repair efforts.
“Okay if I take a look?” Guy asked permission.
“Knock yourself out.”
He squatted to get a better view of the work in progress. Actually, not much work had been done at all. Beyond dismantling the old pipes and stuffing a bucket under the open drain, nothing more had been accomplished.
“You do much plumbing, sir?”
“Back in the day. My legs are mostly useless now so it’s impossible to get up and down like I once did. My baby girl helps me.”
“Abby?” Guy couldn’t quite envision the head covered with soft golden curls studying the workings of a rusted drain.
“Don’t sound so surprised. She’s pretty handy with a wrench as long as her old man is giving the instructions.”
As intriguing as the image of Abby Cramer wielding a tool was, Guy realized home repairs were just one more area where she probably had to take charge for her parents.
“I have a little experience with plumbing. How about if I finish this up for you?”
Shorty opened his mouth to speak, most likely to object. But then he snapped it shut and glanced at the clock on the laundry-room wall.
“Won’t your boss be expecting you back at the store?”
“No, sir. The company encourages employees to assist customers anytime we can, and I happen to be free for the rest of the afternoon.”
Shorty squinted, seemed reluctant to accept the offer.
“You gonna charge me by the hour?”
“There wouldn’t be any cost involved, sir, as long as you don’t mind helping me out with some pointers,” Guy added. “It’s been a while since I tackled anything this complicated.”
“Complicated? Ha!” The old man snorted. “This is so easy a Girl Scout could handle it.” He scooted his chair close to the carton of parts, leaned forward and began poking through the hardware.
Guy felt a smile curve his lips as he enjoyed the sight of Shorty Reagan checking the inventory of the box against the list scrawled on a white index card.
“Well, don’t just stand there grinnin’ like some cowpoke on payday while those fancy boots of yours gouge Sarah’s linoleum,” Shorty snapped. “Grab that adjustable pipe wrench and let’s get to work.”
As Abby pulled to a stop against the curb in front of her family home, she glanced toward the Hearth and Home truck that blocked her driveway. She wrestled Dillon from his car seat, both of their stomachs grumbling the loud need for dinner. She’d make grilled-cheese sandwiches for herself and her dad while Dillon mauled a bowl of beanie weenie, and then they’d all load back up and head for another evening at the hospital. It had only been a couple of days and already she was drained from the long hours of work and worry. Her parents’ life together had been a continuous string of crises and they were taking this latest one in stride.
But Abby knew how hard it was on them to be apart. Their love for one another and their faith in God had gotten them through three miscarriages, her father’s battle with multiple sclerosis, financial disaster, the tragic loss of their son-in-law, and now this. Six weeks of in-patient rehab stretched in front of them, then only God knew how long before they could return to a normal life.
Not that life would ever be normal again without Phillip, the best friend of her childhood, her husband for less than a year and the father of a son he would never know.
With Dillon on her hip, Abby trudged up the porch steps and jostled her key against the dead bolt. The door opened easily, not locked, not even closed securely. She frowned, knowing her mother would not approve of such carelessness.
“Dad?” she called.
Instead of the usual squeaking of rubber wheels on the oak planks, she was greeted by the rumble of masculine voices from the end of the hall. Actually, it wasn’t a greeting at all. Her father hadn’t even acknowledged her. If not for the conversational sound of the men, she’d fear something was terribly wrong.
“Daddy?” she called for him again as she walked the dark hallway.
His wheelchair sat in the laundry room doorway.
Empty.
She gasped and tightened her arm around Dillon, who yelped his discontent.
“In here, baby girl.”
Then she spotted him. Seated cross-legged on the floor was her seventy-six-year-old father. Beside him stretched a pair of legs in blue jeans, with an orange H&H apron draped over the waistband. The man wore a white polo shirt stretched tight across his abdomen. She could see very little of his arms and nothing of his head since the top quarter of his body was crammed beneath her mother’s utility sink.
But there was no mistaking the identity of the Hearth and Home employee. The fancy cowboy boots gave Guy Hardy away.
“Daddy, what are you doing on the floor?”
“Giving this man a badly needed lesson in drain replacement.”
“Hi, Abby,” Guy’s muffled voice greeted her from inside the cabinet. “Was that Dillon I heard?”
“Weet, weet!”