Family Tree (18 page)

Dropping the handle of her suitcase, she leaped up, hugging him, clinging with her arms and legs. “Oh my gosh,” she said, her voice muffled by the collar of his jacket. “I missed you so much.”

He set her down gently and held her close for a few seconds. And somehow, in those few seconds, she knew. She just knew. This was nothing like the blissful reunion that had played out in her head during the journey home. They did not meld together seamlessly, their hearts beating in tandem, their conversation effortless, the way things had been last summer.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled back and gripped his arms, taking a moment to study him. He was different in ways she hadn't anticipated. He looked thinner and harder, the handsome angles and planes of his face
honed by worry and work. He even smelled different, wearing the sweet oily scent of the garage on his skin and hair. He seemed distracted, when all she wanted was for him to swing her up into his arms. He didn't, though.

“Thanks for picking me up,” she said.

“Sure. Of course.” He leaned down and pulled the suitcase through the lobby to the parking lot.

Her mother had wanted to pick her up, but Annie had dug in her heels. She wanted all the alone time with Fletcher she could get. Even a forty-five-minute drive up to Switchback counted as alone time.

As he put her suitcase in the trunk and drove away from the station, she wondered if it was going to be forty-five minutes of awkward silence. She tried not to let it happen. First things first.

“Catch me up on your dad,” she said. “How's he doing now that he's back at home?”

“Better, now that he's out of rehab. That rehab place was grim. Now he gets around on crutches, and we have a wheelchair for the longer hauls.”

“Will he . . . is he going to get an artificial leg?”

“Sure—a prosthesis. But that'll take time. He has to do tons more rehab—physical and occupational therapy. Then he'll get a temporary leg while a custom one is being made.”

“I feel so bad for him.” She turned sideways on the seat and studied his profile. He kept his eyes on the road, the wipers batting away the blowing snow. “How are you doing, Fletcher?”

“Okay. Busy. I know more about stump care than you want to hear.”

“I do want to hear. Tell me all about your typical day.” She hoped there wasn't a note of desperation in her voice.

“Seriously?”

“I want to know what this is like for you.”

“No, you don't.” He turned up the volume on the radio. Usher was singing “U Don't Have to Call.”

She spun the radio knob to off. “I said I did.”

He shot her a glance. “Every morning, I help him get up and take a piss. Sometimes he makes a mess, so I put him in the shower on a stool. Sometimes he falls and cusses me out. Then I haul him onto the bed so he can dress himself. While he's doing that, I make breakfast and hope like hell I can convince him to eat.”

Annie winced, picturing the two of them struggling over everyday matters. “Is something wrong with his appetite?” She was aghast. People who didn't love to eat were a mystery to her.

“Something's wrong with his attitude,” Fletcher said. “I can't blame the guy,” he quickly added. “Anybody who's been through that is bound to have problems.” Fletcher's hands flexed on the steering wheel. The headlamps of an oncoming car briefly lit his face, which looked as if it had been carved in marble. “He doesn't want to eat, doesn't want to shower, doesn't want to exercise, doesn't want to do anything but drink beer and watch TV.”

That didn't sound one bit like the Mr. Wyndham she'd gotten to know over the summer. The guy she knew was positive and easygoing, more like a buddy than a dad. “Poor guy,” she said softly. “It must be really hard for him. And for you.”

“I don't mind that it's hard. I'd do anything for my dad. But it sucks when nothing changes. Every day I have to nag him constantly, and sometimes it works, but sometimes I just throw in the towel and go to work. And after work, I nag him some more to eat, and eventually help him get to bed. And then I get busy on the lawsuit.”

“I don't understand. Isn't that lawyer you found taking charge of the lawsuit?”

“Sure, but there's a lot more to it than that. Dad and I have to do research and attend depositions, write statements, submit tons of paperwork. It's a big, stupid mess, and it's taking forever.”

She sat quietly, digesting this. She knew Fletcher. He was the sort of person who didn't do things by half measures. He jumped in with both
feet. He probably went over every single step and every document with the lawyer. “You're both coming to Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, right?” she asked.

“Annie.” He stopped the car at the bottom of the driveway and put it in park. “It's really nice of you and your family to offer, but Dad and I aren't coming.”

Her heart sank. On the train, she had pictured everyone gathered around Gran's table, extended with the extra leaves, about to dig into the best meal of the year. There was nothing like a shared feast to bring people together.

She swallowed hard, finding her voice. “What, do you have something better to do?”

“Hell no. There is nothing better than eating at your place, are you kidding? It's just that my dad's in a lousy mood all the time, and it's a major chore just to get him out of the house. He'd be a real downer at your Thanksgiving feast.”

“He'd be welcome, and so would you be.” Right. Her mom had resisted when Annie had broached the topic, but ultimately, Mom had opened her heart to Fletcher and Sanford. No one in the Rush family could tolerate the idea of someone missing out on Thanksgiving dinner. “It's what families do, right?” she added. “Just because someone's in a rotten mood doesn't mean he should be shut out.”

“We're not family.” His voice was quiet and tight.

She could feel the discomfort emanating from him, and although she yearned to reach out and take his hand, she sensed her touch would not be welcome. “Yes, you are. Or, you will be, once you're sitting at the table with everyone else. Fletcher—”

“Listen, I realize you and I made plans,” he said.

Annie knew then that he wasn't talking about Thanksgiving dinner. “We did,” she said. “This is just a temporary setback. A bump in the road.”

“I can't go running off to New York. Not now. Not next month or
even next year. It's nuts to believe we have a future together. Our lives are too different now. I know you know that, Annie. Don't pretend you don't.”

The icy note in his voice chilled her to the bone. To the heart. “Don't give up on us. I can take a leave from school. I'll come back, help you with your dad.”

“You don't want to do that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then
I
don't want that. Jesus. Don't you get it? I don't want your help, I don't want you leaving school, and I don't want you coming home to Switchback.”

On Thanksgiving Day, Fletcher spent the morning rereading a lengthy motion to dismiss from the opposing team of lawyers. He now knew this was a delaying tactic. It was meant to mess with the plaintiff's head, characterizing the suit as a ploy to squeeze money from a big company. It was also designed to create more hours of work for Lance Haney, perhaps causing him to make a mistake, like a small technicality of some sort so the case would be thrown out.

He looked up the precedent cases cited in the motion, and a couple of them did exactly what the Acme lawyers intended—they made him worry that the case would be dismissed.

He sent Haney a detailed e-mail reminding him about the deadline to respond, and asked to see the response before it was filed. Fletcher knew all his micromanaging was annoying to Haney, because the lawyer told him so, often and loudly. Fletcher didn't care. He didn't want to make friends with the guy. He wanted justice for his dad.

Haney—and his dad, come to think of it—told him he was getting too wrapped up in the case. He should leave things to the lawyers and justice system. Fletcher ignored them both. Attorneys and judges
didn't care the way he cared. To them, it was just another day's work. To Fletcher, it was his father's future.

He felt shitty about the way he'd left things with Annie last night. She'd done nothing wrong.
He'd
done nothing wrong either. But since the accident, things had shifted and he couldn't put them back the way they were. One moment, the best part of life had lain in front of him like a vast, undiscovered country. The next moment, his options had narrowed down to one—sticking by his father.

No matter how much he wanted to be with Annie, he knew it was best for both of them to move on. Well, best for her, anyway. As for Fletcher, he had to pretend he didn't care, when in reality, his chest ached as if he'd been shot. Yesterday when he'd seen her getting off the train, his heart had nearly exploded, and it had taken all his strength not to hold her close and never let go. He hadn't told her that part, though. There was no point, and it would only make both of them feel worse than they already did.

So when he heard a car door slam and saw Annie marching up the front walk with a wicker basket in her arms and a shopping bag over her shoulder, he was confused. What part of “good-bye” did she not understand?

“Don't look at me like that,” she said as he opened the door. “I didn't come here to beg and grovel.” She walked past him and moved into the living room. The basket exuded a savory aroma so delicious that Fletcher nearly fainted. “I'm here to see your father.”

“He's not—” Shit. Fletcher glanced around the house, self-conscious about the way it looked. He kept everything picked up—but not in a neat, good-housekeeping way. The floors were bare and most of the furniture had been shoved against the walls to give his dad plenty of room to maneuver.

Dad was dressed—sort of. He wore his usual getup of track pants that zipped up the side, an old gray sweatshirt, one tennis shoe, and two days' worth of whiskers. At least he hadn't started drinking yet.

He was stretched out on the sofa, staring glassy-eyed at the TV. The pregame chatter was just getting started, an announcer predicting a big upset in some football rivalry or other.

“Hiya, Mr. Wyndham,” Annie said in a friendly voice. She set her things on the kitchen counter. Delicious smells filled the room. Fletcher had an urge to fall face-first into the basket.

“Hey, Annie girl. Good to see you.” Dad attempted a smile. “I'd get up to give you a proper greeting, but as you can see, I'm indisposed.”

She went over to the couch and perched on the seat next to him, like a tentative little bird. She was so pretty, with her shiny hair and bright eyes, her face open and eager. Fletcher had heard that people all have their dark places, but he'd never observed that in Annie. She was as bright as the sun, all the time.

“I'm sorry about your accident,” she said to his dad. “And about all the hard times you've been having.”

Dad muted the TV, then folded his hands behind his head. “Yeah, it's been a laugh a minute.”

She leaned down and picked up last night's beer bottles—four of them. “Looks like you had a party and I wasn't invited.”

“That's what I do. I party. I might take up smoking again, like I did when I was in high school.”

“Oh, that would be just swell,” she said, completely deadpan. “Then you would be a one-legged, alcoholic cancer victim. That's like a trifecta of woe.”

Fletcher pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to laugh at the expression on Dad's face.

“You're cheeky,” Dad said with a scowl. “You've always been that way.”

“Nobody says cheeky anymore. I don't even know what it means. But if it means I'm bringing you a Thanksgiving feast and the pleasure of my company, then yeah. I'm cheeky.”

“You brought dinner.”

“I brought dinner. Fletcher said you weren't coming to the farm, so I decided to bring it here.”

Dad scowled at the TV, which showed a montage of thick-necked football players in training. They were running rapidly through a course of tires, their thick legs pumping like pistons. “Your heart's in the right place, but I'm not hungry.”

“Yes, you are.” She carried the bottles to the kitchen and put them in the recycling bin. Then she regarded the stacks of files and banker's boxes on the dining table. It was all stuff to do with the lawsuit. Statements and motions and documentation. Mr. Haney called it “work product.”

“This has to be cleared away,” Annie declared. “Give me a hand, will you?”

Fletcher had everything organized. “But—”

“Fine, I'll move it myself,” she said.

He decided not to resist.
She
was impossible to resist, and he knew the meal she'd brought would be epic. She and her grandmother cooked like pros. He and Dad hadn't had a normal meal together since before the accident. “I'll take care of it,” he said to Annie. He moved everything to the mud room while she wiped off the table.

“Paperwork has no business on the dining table. Gran always says you shouldn't work where you eat.”

“Who says we eat at the table?”

“Today,
I
say. We need plates and glasses and cutlery. I brought everything else.” She turned into a whirlwind, bringing out colorful place mats and cloth napkins, candles in holders, and covered dishes of food. She finished setting the table, lit the candles, then went over to his dad and picked up the crutches leaning against the armrest of the sofa. “Dinner is served. And if you dare say you're not hungry, I'm taking it all away.”

Fletcher felt mesmerized by the incredible aromas wafting from the table. “He's hungry,” he told Annie. “We're both starving.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Dad. “I don't feel like eating.”