Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [128]
“What night?” I interrupted. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. The doctor did say there was going to be some memory loss—” I brought his hand to my cheek. “All I remember is that I love you, Friday, and that your wonderful Catholic guilt is the reason I’m still alive.”
“What?” he said, confused.
“I’ll explain later.”
“How’s your head?” he asked.
“It only hurts if I turn it too fast.”
“They’re going to be waking you every hour for the next twelve hours, but while you’re sleeping you can relax. I’m going to be right here.”
“That sure brings back old memories. A hospital bed was the first time we technically slept together. Remember?”
“Believe me, I remember.” He gave me a lingering kiss, slipping a hand underneath the covers and caressing me through my thin hospital gown. “Well, woman, now that we’re finally going to be living alone again, I will actually get to make love to you without my hand over your mouth.”
“Like you’re so quiet.” Laughing, I wiggled away from his hand. “Watch it, Chief. I still have a concussion.”
“My hand isn’t anywhere near your head,” he murmured, bending to kiss me again. We were interrupted by the loud sound of a clearing throat. Gabe’s hand flew out from under the covers.
“Sorry to disturb your rest,” Sam said, grinning at his father’s red face. His hair and clothes were dark with water.
“Is it raining?” I asked.
“Yeah, just started,” he said. “I wanted to give you these before driving out to the ranch.” He unzipped his damp sweatshirt and pulled out a white bundle and a long envelope. He handed me the envelope. “It’s only half what I owe you. I’ll pay the rest back on my next payday.” He glanced at Gabe, who had walked over to the window, his back to us.
“Sam,” I said, “I told you that money was a gift.”
“Thanks, but I’m paying it back.” His voice held a familiar trace of Ortiz stubbornness I knew better than to argue with. At least when I was feeling this weak, anyway.
“Hey, Dad, this is for you.” Gabe turned around, and Sam tossed the white bundle at him. “Saw it a couple of days ago and thought you might get a kick out of it.” His light tone contradicted the tense set of his shoulders.
Gabe unfolded the white T-shirt and held it up. Sam and I watched his face as he read the shirt’s message. Slowly, like the sun peeking out from behind black storm clouds, he smiled. Sam let out a relieved breath.
“What does it say?” I asked.
Gabe turned the shirt around for me to read.
In jagged bright letters, underneath a bearded old man leaning against a long surfboard, the No Fear brand T-shirt said, THE OLDER I GET, THE BETTER I WAS.”
I laughed. “Boy, he sure has your number.”
Gabe smiled at Sam. “He always did.”
Sam zipped up his sweatshirt and said, “Dad, about what I said the other night—”
“Forget it,” Gabe said, looking first at me, then back at Sam. “We all do things we regret sometimes. Believe me, it wasn’t any worse than some of the things I said to my dad.”
“Then you must have been a real jerk,” Sam said.
Gabe gave a low chuckle. “Yes, I guess I was.”
“I’ll leave you two old folks alone now. I gotta get out to the ranch.”
“One more thing, son,” Gabe said.
Sam’s face grew instantly wary. “What?”
Gabe cleared his throat. “Since you’re going to be staying around San Celina, I was thinking . . . well, maybe sometime I could buy you dinner. When you’re not working. If you have time.” He watched his son with unblinking eyes, the muscle in his jaw fluttering like a captured moth.
Sam fiddled with his gold stud earring. “That sounds great. I’ll call you when I get settled, but the first dinner’s on me, okay?”
Gabe nodded, his face solemn. “I’ll make sure and skip lunch that day so I’ll be good and hungry.”
Sam looked over at me, jerking his thumb at Gabe. “A joke. The man actually made a joke. You’d better take care of yourself, madrastra. Otherwise, I’m going to be stuck with the old fart here. And