time. Somehow this very morning, when she first opened her eyes, John had
seemed closer than he had in years.
“This is all a part of the maturing process,” Mama would say, were she still there to say it.
“How I wish I could smooth your path, dear Anne. Make all things easy for you,” Papa would say, and he was still there.
As soon as she’d given John Couper one final hug at the Hopeton dock, she would head straight for her father’s room as he’d asked at the end of the dinner party last night. Papa was too frail to join the family at breakfast these days, but he was still here and he’d never failed to find a way to help.
Chapter 7
Unashamed of the tears still wet on her cheeks from her last sight of John Couper at the Hopeton dock, Anne hurried to her father’s room. She found him alone, waiting—bathed, dressed, shaved—in his favorite old Cannon’s Point rocker by the high front window from which he’d obviously been watching the family tell John Couper good-bye.
His arms were out. She rushed into them.
“Papa, oh Papa, what would I do 131 without you? How do I manage to live for such long periods at my beloved Lawrence with you all the way over here on the mainland? I miss you! I miss John Couper. I—I even miss his father more when the boy’s at work in Savannah.”
“I know, Daughter. I know.”
“You do, don’t you? You always know everything. Papa, it’s so good to be with you again. Even my blessed Lawrence cottage seems lonely sometimes now that the Cannon’s Point house is empty.” She freed herself from his arms enough to look straight at his face. “Do you ever think how dear and generous you were to give Lawrence to John and me? Do you have any idea how—how rescued I feel living there even now?”
He grabbed her again, his frail arms trembling. “Oh, Anne, don’t say that!”
She tried a little laugh. “And why not, sir? If you only knew how much more Lawrence means to me than Hamilton ever did, you’d never doubt how completely at home I am there. Even with the whole end of the roof over the porch rattling every time we get a good blow off the water.” She smoothed his red hair, marveling at how little gray there was
for a man who had just turned ninety. “Do you ever get one of our old urges to march around James Hamilton’s veranda when it’s storming? The way you and I always marched the Cannon’a Point porches?” She laughed again. “I should probably ask if my pompous brother allows you even the urge to march!”
His arms tightened around her and Papa buried his face in her breast as she leaned above his chair. “Anne,” he said in a voice so thin and cracked, he sounded like a stranger. “Anne darling, this old goat can’t even respond to your— joke about James Hamilton this time.”
“Papa! Papa, is something wrong?”
“Have you ever known me not to be ready for a good joke? A playful poke at your fine, stiff brother James? Can you ever forgive me for being such a—dud? Tr-ruly, I’m sor-ry, Annie.”
He was weeping. Papa weeping! And she couldn’t think of one thing to say. Not one single word of comfort. She was too puzzled, too confused, so ended up with only a helpless plea. “Papa, try to—try to explain to me! What did I say to make you cry?”
Wiping hard at his eyes, he 133 struggled with even a crooked half smile. “It’s not what you said, lass. It’s—it’s what I find I don’t have cour-rather-age enough to say to you. I tell you, Daughter, your papa’s a a useless old mon. A very useless, very old mon. Sometimes I can almost hear my bones rattle, but until now I took what cour-rage I own for granted. I—I’ve lost my cour-rather-age, Annie!”
He was clutching the sleeves of her morning dress, peering up into her eyes, pleading for her to help him. All she could think to say was feeble at best. Something that undoubtedly would make him feel even worse. “Don’t, Papa! Don’t —be old. Be—you. Be the same
seemed closer than he had in years.
“This is all a part of the maturing process,” Mama would say, were she still there to say it.
“How I wish I could smooth your path, dear Anne. Make all things easy for you,” Papa would say, and he was still there.
As soon as she’d given John Couper one final hug at the Hopeton dock, she would head straight for her father’s room as he’d asked at the end of the dinner party last night. Papa was too frail to join the family at breakfast these days, but he was still here and he’d never failed to find a way to help.
Chapter 7
Unashamed of the tears still wet on her cheeks from her last sight of John Couper at the Hopeton dock, Anne hurried to her father’s room. She found him alone, waiting—bathed, dressed, shaved—in his favorite old Cannon’s Point rocker by the high front window from which he’d obviously been watching the family tell John Couper good-bye.
His arms were out. She rushed into them.
“Papa, oh Papa, what would I do 131 without you? How do I manage to live for such long periods at my beloved Lawrence with you all the way over here on the mainland? I miss you! I miss John Couper. I—I even miss his father more when the boy’s at work in Savannah.”
“I know, Daughter. I know.”
“You do, don’t you? You always know everything. Papa, it’s so good to be with you again. Even my blessed Lawrence cottage seems lonely sometimes now that the Cannon’s Point house is empty.” She freed herself from his arms enough to look straight at his face. “Do you ever think how dear and generous you were to give Lawrence to John and me? Do you have any idea how—how rescued I feel living there even now?”
He grabbed her again, his frail arms trembling. “Oh, Anne, don’t say that!”
She tried a little laugh. “And why not, sir? If you only knew how much more Lawrence means to me than Hamilton ever did, you’d never doubt how completely at home I am there. Even with the whole end of the roof over the porch rattling every time we get a good blow off the water.” She smoothed his red hair, marveling at how little gray there was
for a man who had just turned ninety. “Do you ever get one of our old urges to march around James Hamilton’s veranda when it’s storming? The way you and I always marched the Cannon’a Point porches?” She laughed again. “I should probably ask if my pompous brother allows you even the urge to march!”
His arms tightened around her and Papa buried his face in her breast as she leaned above his chair. “Anne,” he said in a voice so thin and cracked, he sounded like a stranger. “Anne darling, this old goat can’t even respond to your— joke about James Hamilton this time.”
“Papa! Papa, is something wrong?”
“Have you ever known me not to be ready for a good joke? A playful poke at your fine, stiff brother James? Can you ever forgive me for being such a—dud? Tr-ruly, I’m sor-ry, Annie.”
He was weeping. Papa weeping! And she couldn’t think of one thing to say. Not one single word of comfort. She was too puzzled, too confused, so ended up with only a helpless plea. “Papa, try to—try to explain to me! What did I say to make you cry?”
Wiping hard at his eyes, he 133 struggled with even a crooked half smile. “It’s not what you said, lass. It’s—it’s what I find I don’t have cour-rather-age enough to say to you. I tell you, Daughter, your papa’s a a useless old mon. A very useless, very old mon. Sometimes I can almost hear my bones rattle, but until now I took what cour-rage I own for granted. I—I’ve lost my cour-rather-age, Annie!”
He was clutching the sleeves of her morning dress, peering up into her eyes, pleading for her to help him. All she could think to say was feeble at best. Something that undoubtedly would make him feel even worse. “Don’t, Papa! Don’t —be old. Be—you. Be the same
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