Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [78]
Noah started to rise, but Paul lifted a staying hand. His tone, like his expression, was weary. “No, let him stay. I’m tired of keeping secrets.”
Paul’s face suddenly looked older than it had when he arrived; his eyes were puffy and his skin sagged. He looked again at his glass, but did not drink. And then he looked at each of them in turn—Noah, Lori, Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay—for a moment before he spoke. “Derrick didn’t want you to know, didn’t want anyone to know. Some stupid, ridiculous Superman fantasy of his.” He took a breath. “Last winter ... he had a heart attack.”
The chorus of gasps and soft “Oh, my God!”s was punctuated by a single flat “Crap” from Noah. Derrick had been a long-distance mentor to Noah, had encouraged his art career, had written a letter of recommendation to John Adams Academy. Even as feminine hands flew to their throats, their eyes went to Noah.
“He’s okay,” Paul said quickly. “At least physically. As okay as he can be, at any rate. It was a mild heart attack. They sent him home after three days on a regimen of diet, exercise, and statins—and no stress, of course.”
Lindsay Cici, and Bridget released a breath, and Lori said, “God, Uncle Paul, you scared us to death.” Noah relaxed marginally, but his eyes stayed fixed on Paul. His life experience so far had taught him to be skeptical of happy endings.
“Yeah, I was pretty scared, too,” Paul said. He took another sip of his tea, and grimaced. “But Derrick wanted to pretend that nothing had happened. He was back at the gallery the next day. I’m talking the very next day after he got home from the hospital. I couldn’t believe it. Here I had made arrangements to take the whole week off, and he’s acting as though he’s just taken some time away for a brow lift or something. What is that? At first I thought it was vanity, but now I’m thinking Messiah complex.”
“Death denial,” Lori said sagely, and when everyone looked at her she explained, “We studied it in social psychology. It’s a thing with Western culture, especially Americans, where you think you’re going to live forever—as long as you use the right mouthwash, go to the right gym, eat the latest fad diet, stop smoking, color your hair ... Seriously” she insisted. “It’s a whole thing.”
Paul tasted his tea again, held the glass out, and stared at it. “Okay” he said. “Does anyone but me think this tea tastes funny?”
Bridget reached for his glass. “Let me taste it.” Bridget sipped the tea, frowned, and then looked into the glass. She plucked out the decorative green sprig and declared, “Oregano.”
Paul lifted an eyebrow. “Interesting.”
“We’ve been having some problems with Ida Mae,” Lindsay confided in a half whisper as Bridget got up and tossed the contents of Paul’s glass over the railing.
Bridget refilled Paul’s glass from the pitcher on the table. “We understand what you’ve been going through,” she told him sympathetically as she handed him the glass.
Paul gave a small shake of his head, even as he smiled his thanks to Bridget. “Bottom line, things haven’t been exactly loaded with spalike serenity at home. He won’t take time off, he won’t take care of himself, he won’t take his medicine half the time, and he won’t listen to me. I’ve done everything I know to do, but I just couldn’t stand by and watch him destroy himself any longer. So .. He smiled bleakly and lifted his glass to them. ”Here I am.”
“Oh, Paul,” Cici said sincerely. “I’m so sorry.”
Lindsay’s expression was one of abject sorrow. “You’ve been together longer than most married people I know. I don’t know how to think of you apart.”
“You should have stayed,” Noah said shortly, abruptly. “You don’t just run out on people when they’re in trouble.”
Bridget said gently, “Noah, it’s more complicated than that.”
But Paul lifted a finger to Bridget and met Noah’s eyes. “You’re right. But sometimes people need some time apart to figure things out.”
Noah pushed to his feet, scowling. “I’ve got stuff to do.”
Lindsay opened her mouth to say something, but Cici stopped her with a small shake