All They Need (9 page)

He turned his head, eyebrows raised in question.

“Sweep it in more of an arc,” she yelled over the noise of the engine. “And it spits stuff out to the left, so if you keep stepping right, you should avoid walking into anything.”

He gave her a thumbs-up. She retreated again and watched as he followed her advice. After a few sec
onds he glanced at her for feedback and she gave him an okay signal.

He let the brush-cutter slow to an idle and pushed the safety mask high on his head.

“Thanks for this. You're a lifesaver.”

“Hang on to it as long as you need it. And it's four-stroke, so if it runs out of fuel it takes plain unleaded.”

“Noted, thanks.” He hesitated a moment, then took a step toward her. “Listen, Mel—”

The sharp ring of a cell phone filled the clearing. Flynn looked rueful. “You ever wonder what we did before these things?” he asked as he slid a sleek handset from his back pocket.

“We waited till Monday.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah, we did, didn't we?”

He glanced briefly at the display and the smile faded from his mouth, his gaze sharpening as he took the call.

“Mom,” he said into the phone.

Mel turned away, not wanting him to think she was eavesdropping.

“How long has he been gone?”

His tone was unexpectedly curt and she glanced back at him. His expression was stony, his body tense as he directed all his energy to the phone call.

“Have you called the police?”

She frowned. It sounded as though there had been a break-in. Or maybe someone was lost.

“Don't worry about that. Call them. I'll be there as soon as I can. And Mom, don't worry. We'll find him, I promise.” He ended the call.

“I have to go. Sorry.” He started shrugging out of the harness. His face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin, straight line. Clearly, whatever was going on was an emergency.

She stepped forward, hand extended. “Here, give it to me. I'll pack all this up and leave it in the garage so you can tackle the job another time.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it, Mel.” He handed the brush-cutter over, but hesitated before heading off.

“Go. Seriously,” she said, shooing him off with her free hand.

“I owe you.”

She shooed him off again and he smiled briefly before turning on his heel and heading for the house, his stride long and urgent. Within seconds he'd disappeared around the bend in the path.

She collected his gloves and hedge clippers, stowed the safety gear back in the bag and hoisted the brush-cutter over her shoulder. She walked toward the house, wondering all the way what could possibly have happened to make him so tense and worried so quickly.

Whatever it was, it was obviously a private matter. Otherwise he would have said something.

She was approaching the house when she heard a high-pitched mechanical whine. Both her father and brother were mechanics and she'd absorbed more than her fair share of know-how from them over the years. The whine sounded exactly like an old-style starter motor failing to catch. Again and again the motor protested, but the engine didn't fire. She dumped the equipment by the front steps and hurried around the side of the house.

Flynn was propping up the hood of the Aston as she approached, his movements tight with frustration and urgency as he leaned over the engine. “Flynn.”

His head came up and she tossed him her car keys.
He caught them automatically, his hand closing around them in a tight fist.

“It's not what you're used to, but it's got a full tank. Get it back to me when you can.”

The relief in his face said more than any words ever could. “How will you get home?”

“It's five minutes away, and I have these things called legs. Go,” she said, shooing him off for the second time that day.

He surprised her by taking a sudden step toward her and dropping a quick kiss onto her cheek. “Thank you.”

He was gone before she could respond. She could still feel the warmth of his mouth against her skin as she shut the hood. She checked the ignition and wasn't surprised to see his keys were still dangling there.

She locked the car, then took the brush-cutter around to the garage and propped it in the nearest corner, along with the safety gear. Then she walked home, his keys heavy in her pocket.

F
LYNN PUSHED THE SPEED LIMIT
all the way to the city. Every few minutes he checked his phone to make sure it was still working. It was, which meant that the reason it hadn't rung was because his father was still missing.

According to the short conversation he'd had with his mother, his father could have been gone from anywhere between five minutes to over an hour. She'd been in the garden, and it wasn't until she'd gone inside to use the bathroom that she'd realized he was gone.

Flynn's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He reminded himself that his parents lived in a leafy, highly affluent neighborhood, so the risk of his father walking into harm's way was minimal. The odds were good that he hadn't gone far. It would simply be a matter of combing the nearby streets.

They would find him. Of course they would.

Then they would have to deal with the implications of this incident and what it meant for the future.

His parents had downsized from the family home to their current, more modest house twelve months ago after his father's initial diagnosis, and his mother had reduced some of her social and charitable activities, but essentially they were still living a normal life together. Obviously, that would have to change if his father could no longer be trusted with an unlocked door.

Flynn sighed. It was inevitable that at some point in
the progression of his father's illness tough decisions would have to be made, but he'd hoped that they'd have a few more years before they had to start curtailing his father's freedoms.

He was only minutes from his parents' place when his phone rang. He snatched it up, driving one-handed even though he was probably breaking half a dozen laws.

“We found him,” his mother said. “He went to buy milk, but he thought we were still at the old house and he got confused. I've already called the police and told them.” His mother's voice was thin and worried.

“I'm five minutes away, Mom.”

“Okay. All right.”

He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and sent up a small prayer to the universe that his father was safe and sound. He pulled into the driveway not long after. His mother opened the door as he walked up the path. She looked pale but calm and he lay a hand on her shoulder.

“You okay?”

“I am now. If anything had happened to him…”

“I know.”

He hugged her, then she led him to the conservatory, where his father was ensconced on the window seat, one elbow resting on the sill. He was gazing out into the garden, his face slack, his gaze utterly vacant.

Something hard and painful twisted in Flynn's chest. His father looked so empty. So absent.

Then his father registered their presence and suddenly his eyes were alive with awareness and intelligence again as he turned toward them.

“Flynn. Your mother told me she called you. I wish she hadn't.”

“She was worried.”

“I know. But I would have found my way home eventually.”

Flynn didn't bother arguing with him. He sat next to him on the window seat and his mother drew up a chair at the table.

“When was the last time you saw the specialist?” Flynn asked.

His father made a vague gesture, looking to his mother to answer the question.

“Three months ago.”

“Maybe we should make another appointment,” Flynn suggested.

His father shifted beside him restlessly.

“What's wrong, Dad? You don't think so?”

“Whatever you think is best.”

Flynn exchanged glances with his mother. “You get a say, too, Dad.”

His father met his gaze, his own eyes bleak. “He's not going to tell us anything we don't already know.” He stood. “I've got a headache. I'm going to lie down.”

He left the room without a backward glance. The conservatory was profoundly silent after his exit.

“We need to talk. All of us,” Flynn finally said. “We need to sit down and hammer out what he wants while he can still tell us.”

“I know, but surely it's not necessary to subject him to that yet?” Her eyes pleaded with him.

“He's going to deteriorate, Mom. There's no get-out-of-jail-free card on this—it's going to happen. And if we don't take the opportunity to talk now, while he's still able to rationalize and make decisions, then we're doing him the biggest disservice of all.”

A single tear slid down her cheek. Flynn stood to go to her but she held up a hand.

“I'm okay.” She took a deep breath, then let it out. “I know you're right. Of course you're right. The sooner we hash this out, the better it will be. We'll all know how things are going to be and we can get on with living.”

She forced a smile. “Would you like a hot drink? Something to eat? You must have missed your lunch, rushing to us like this.”

“Something to eat would be good.” He stared at the floor after she'd left the room. He felt bone-tired. Utterly exhausted.

After a long moment he pushed himself to his feet and went to the kitchen to help his mother.

 

M
EL WAS IN THE
kitchen cleaning up after making lasagna for dinner when she heard the sound of a car engine in her driveway. She crossed to the sink and looked out the window as Flynn drove her car beneath the carport at the back of the house.

She glanced at the clock—it was a little after six o'clock—then dried her hands before crossing to the door and walking onto the rear porch.

Flynn was getting out of her car. She called to him, “I wasn't sure if I'd see you again today.”

“I wanted to get your car to you.”

“Hang on, I'll grab my shoes and come down,” she said, searching for her gardening clogs in the dim shadows beside the door.

“How about I come to you? It's the least I can do.” He walked to the bottom of the stairs and started to climb.

“I hope you didn't rush back. Like I said, I didn't need the car for anything.”

When he arrived at the top of the stairs she saw that he was holding a bottle of wine. He offered it to her, along with her car keys.

“I really appreciate the loan,” he said.

She reached for the car keys but didn't take the bottle from his hand.

“Mel…”

“If I'd wanted to rent my car to you for a bottle of wine, I would have said so at the outset. But I didn't.”

“Fine. I'll drink it, then. Have you got a bottle opener and a straw?” There was a dark undercurrent to his light words.

She searched his face and saw that he was tired and worried. “Come in,” she said, stepping to one side.

He shook his head. “I've already imposed on you enough for one day. But I appreciate the offer.”

She reached out and pulled the wine bottle from his grip. “Come in.”

He was silent for long enough she thought he was going to decline. Then he stepped past her, entering her house. She shut the door behind him and waved him toward the kitchen table.

“Grab a seat.”

She collected two wineglasses and the bottle opener while he pulled up a chair. She crossed to the table and slid the glasses and the bottle onto the table in front of him.

“Have you eaten?”

“You don't need to feed me, Mel.”

“Have you eaten?” she repeated.

“Not for a while.” She grabbed a bag of corn chips
from the cupboard, then she sat opposite him and reached for the bottle opener.

“Knock yourself out,” she said, indicating the bag.

He smiled faintly and reached for the bag, tearing it open and taking a handful of chips. She poured the wine and slid a glass his way.

He lifted his glass to his mouth, but after a second he set it down again without drinking.

“My father has early-stage Alzheimer's disease.”

It was the last thing she'd been expecting him to say and it took her a moment to process his words. “I'm so sorry. How long…?”

“He's been diagnosed for about a year now. But he's probably been deteriorating much longer.” He sighed. “He went missing this morning. Just wandered off without telling anyone. That's why I had to rush to the city.” He rubbed his forehead tiredly.

“But you found him, right?”

“Yeah. He's okay.”

“How old is he?”

“Fifty-nine.”

“That's young.”

Flynn nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

“It must be tough on your mom. On all of you.”

He nodded again. He looked so defeated. If he were anyone else—a friend, a family member—she wouldn't hesitate to pull him into her arms. Instead, she nudged his glass toward him.

“Drink your wine. You look like you need it.”

He swallowed a big mouthful. Then he looked at her, his eyes dark with unexpressed grief. “I don't want to be the one who takes away his freedom. I don't want to be his jailer.”

“To keep him safe, you mean?”

“I know someone has to do it. I know it has to happen. But I don't want to be the one who says no to him.”

She thought about it for a beat, trying to understand, trying to find a way through this for him.

“I guess it's a bit like parents with children,” she said slowly. “It's always a balancing act between what they want and what's good for them.”

Flynn blinked rapidly and brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. “Sorry. Usually I'm good with all this. I guess I'm just tired—”

“I'd be a basket case if this was happening to my family.”

“What makes you think I'm not?”

“I don't know. Your high level of competence and compassion, maybe?”

He smiled slightly. “Got you fooled, haven't I?”

She eyed him seriously. He had had her fooled. She'd thought he was living a blessed life. But he was as human and frail as the next person.

“Would you like some lasagna?” she asked.

It took him a second to switch gears. “That depends on whether I'm stealing your dinner or not.”

“Absolutely not—you're stealing tomorrow night's dinner. I always cook for two. Saves cleaning up. Plus it means I only have to come up with three meal ideas a week.”

He smiled. “In that case, lasagna sounds great.”

She crossed to the counter to collect cutlery and place mats.

“I'll do that,” he said when she returned to set the table.

“Thanks. Push all that junky stuff to the other end.” She'd been doodling with some ideas for the orchard
earlier and there was a stack of scrap paper and a fistful of pens and pencils cluttering the table.

She busied herself at the oven, using a knife to check that the pasta layers were tender before sliding the dish from the rack.

“You've been working on your orchard design.”

She saw that Flynn was studying one of the rough sketches she'd made that afternoon. “Butchering it, more like. Design is definitely not my forte.”

“What's the problem?”

“Apart from the fact that I really suck at thinking in three dimensions, you mean?”

“Apart from that.”

She cut the lasagna into two portions and slid one onto each plate.

“I want to include a vegetable garden into the design, but I can't work out how to integrate it with the orchard.”

“Right. That's what these boxy things are. Garden beds.”

She shot him a look. “Are you making fun of my stick drawings?”

“Only a complete boor would dis a woman's stick drawings when she was about to feed him lasagna.”

“Exactly.”

She ferried the dishes to the table. “You might want to give it a moment to cool.”

“So, do you want to use the whole clearing for the garden?” he asked.

She saw that he'd grabbed one of the scraps of paper and taken up a pencil.

“I don't see why not. It seems stupid not to use all the available space.”

“The thing with incorporating different design el
ements into the one space is about making sure they either complement or contrast with each other…?.”

He quickly blocked in the cottages and the surrounding pathways and trees, creating a site plan.

“Is that all from memory?” she asked, impressed.

“Sure. Obviously it's not to scale, but it's an idea.”

“It's bloody close to scale. It's amazing.”

She studied him and his sketch intently as he added the orange tree and shaded in a few other details. Bits and pieces of information came together in her mind. His gardening expertise, the way he'd spoken about “incorporating design elements,” the way he'd rendered her garden plot in a few easy pencil strokes…

“I thought gardening was a hobby for you. But you've had training, haven't you?”

He glanced at her and smiled briefly before returning his focus to the page. “Three years of horticulture and landscape design. I even had my own design firm for a while.”

“What happened to it?”

“I folded it.” He shifted in his chair, angling the piece of paper toward her a little more as he added ideas onto the page. “I think the key to making this work might be materials, and making a virtue of the demarcation between orchard and garden. How do you feel about using railway ties to create a series of interlinked garden beds? Keeping things really rough and rustic?”

He was playing it very cool, but there had been something in his eyes when he'd talked about his business.

“Why did you fold it?” she asked.

“Dad got sick. So, railway ties, yes or no? Thumbs up or thumbs down?”

She sat back in her chair. “You gave up your business for him?”

He shrugged. “It was always going to happen. Randall Developments is a third-generation business. You don't walk away from that kind of legacy. When Dad retired I would have stepped into his shoes. In that respect, Verdant Design was always a pipe dream.”

He said it so calmly, so rationally. As though he'd simply swapped one make of car for another instead of abandoning something he obviously loved and changing the whole course of his life.