Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Joanne snorted a little, and the corners of her mouth turned up like she might have more to say on the subject. However, much to my disappointment, she just turned to face the blank computer screen on the cluttered old desk with a small nod.
“Joanne?” I prompted.
“I can only speak about the man that I knew,” she said, quietly. “Maybe your dad mellowed a little as he got older.”
I was pretty sure my dad had never mellowed—at least, not based on our stiff and infrequent conversations over the years—but then again, Joanne was the one who’d actually seen the guy every day.
Actually, worked with him.
Who’d actually known him.
My throat tightened as I thought of the possibility—no, the certainty—that this woman, this radiant, seemingly sweet, and perfectly honest stranger had known that other side of Henry, a side that I would’ve said had been buried for nearly twenty years.
Had Joanne’s smile brought it back out in the old man? Was it her open, friendly, welcoming personality that had made Henry feel close to her in a way that he’d forgotten how to feel with his own son?
I blinked hard, determined not to get choked up. Joanne didn’t have the answers I was looking for.
Nobody did, really.
And anyway, neither of us was likely to change our opinion on Henry anytime soon.
Regardless of the pull I felt toward Joanne, there was really only one thing left for me to do. I needed to get the hell out of there before I could find a way to fit more of my foot into my mouth. Before all these unwelcome emotions that had blindsided me got the best of me.
“I guess anything is possible,” I said brusquely, straightening up from where I’d been leaning against the doorjamb. “Look, I should probably get going. I don’t want to be in your way. I just thought I’d introduce myself before I went up to my dad’s apartment. I’ll probably be up there for most of the day if you need anything.”
“No worries,” Joanne said, nodding and giving me a look of sympathy that stirred up even more of those emotions I wasn’t equipped to handle. “I’ll be down here if you want any company. Whenever you’re ready, we can start going over the paperwork and day-to-day stuff with the shop.”
If she was holding a grudge over our awkward first meeting, at least she was being professional about it. We’d had our little misunderstanding, followed by a couple of minor disagreements, and now… hopefully we were good?
The warmth in Joanne’s gaze said yes, and I was just going to assume that was the case unless she told me otherwise.
I was going to hope that was the case.
I might not really know Joanne, but I liked the way she had made me feel—at least before I had opened my mouth and ruined it. Calm. Relaxed. Peaceful. They were new feelings for me, and I wanted more of them.
And honestly, I respected a woman who could speak her mind but still be open enough to other opinions that she didn’t get too worked up about it.
Maybe that was the kind of personality it took to work with Henry for so many years.
Or maybe Joanne was just a good actor.
Maybe she was a damn saint.
I couldn’t tell, and for a first meeting—despite the pull I felt to earn more of Joanne’s sunshine—I didn’t really need to know the depths of the woman’s soul. It wasn’t like we were going to be spending that much time together. Even if the thought came with a pang of disappointment, I had to remember that I was just there to figure out how to unload the flower shop as quickly as humanly possible so I could get on with the rest of my uncertain future.
Chapter Eight - Brady
I looked around the small living room of my dad’s old apartment. The beige recliner that I was pretty sure was at least fifteen years old. The plaid couch that even I—who had lived in hotels for years—could objectively say was hideous.
It was all very 1980s, and all very Henry Davis.
Everywhere I looked, every detail of the apartment reminded me that I was intruding on my dad’s space, that I wasn’t supposed to be there.
And I wasn’t, really.
My life was supposed to be in Atlanta, in the NFL. Henry was the one who was supposed to be here—in his shabby old apartment with the ugly, threadbare furniture.
I took a few steps to the kitchen table and picked up the stack of unopened mail my father’s accountant had been bringing in. Even without opening any of it, it was easy to recognize that most of the envelopes in my hand contained bills. I shuffled through the envelopes. Bills from the hospital, from the funeral home, from credit card companies.
Jesus.
With a heavy sigh, I tossed the stack of bills—still unopened—back where I’d found them. There was no way I was up to going through all of that at the moment.