a rebuke from his father, he played the old CDs over and over,
holding Amber’s hand in the car as they drove aimlessly around town.
But now he was
concentrating on his work in the kitchen, slicing rolls and setting out silver,
and his long frame was loose and at ease.
“Mac...”
“Mmm hmm?”
“Nothing. Just—”
Just what? How do you
say you’re sorry, when you can’t say what you’re sorry for? As determined as
Amber had been to tell Mac the truth when she arrived, once again she had lost
her resolve.
It’s because I’m not ready for
this night to end.
That was the real
truth, wasn’t it? Amber took a deep swallow from her glass, welcoming the dark
warmth that settled into her body as the wine did its work.
Exhaling slowly, Amber
struggled to find the words. Your
father...
That’s how the story
would have to begin. There was no other way around it. Amber scanned the stone
mantel, and sure enough, there was a large photo of his father staring down
from a polished wooden frame. He was wearing a suit, something Amber had never
seen him in years before, and his face was thinner and older. Oddly, the camera
had seemed to catch him in a moment of uncertainty; perhaps it was the
unfamiliar clothes that caused the usual scorn to be absent from his eyes,
replaced by a look that was almost vulnerable.
Amber flinched
involuntarily and turned away. It was only a memento of the man who had raised
Mac, who had driven him to become a man, and yet it suddenly seemed to fill the
room.
A little more wine. Perhaps
that would help. She rose and joined him at the counter, topping off her glass
from the bottle.
“Do you miss your
father a lot?” she asked without looking at him.
Mac paused, and slowly
set down a sharp knife on the counter.
“Do I miss my father. What
a question. Yes, I do. I think of him every day. When I put my foot in the door
of the shop, no matter how much I change the place, no matter how big the
letters spelling my name on the door, I still feel like I’m a kid again,
walking in to a long day’s work. And I half expect to see my father inside, in
his old green coverall, sitting on that stool of his and cussing a blue streak
at some poor fool.”
He turned and faced
her, so close she could feel his warm breath on her forehead. “All those
years...and I never got around to telling my father that I loved him. Of
course, I learned that from him. He wasn’t a man who was comfortable with any
kind of display of affection. Though living with my mother, who could blame
him?”
Amber said nothing,
afraid to speak, wanting Mac to continue. This was more than he had ever said
about his father before.
“Sorry,” he amended. “Dumb
joke. Still, I lived for a few words from that man. Do you know, the day I
turned sixteen, I waited all day long for my old man to say something about it.
I remember that day because Dad had me scrubbing boats that were set to store
for the winter. And I had to do it in the yard, and I was freezing, and I could
barely feel my hands any more as I lugged that bucket around. All day, and
finally I gave up. When we were closing up the shop, my Dad turned to me and
said ‘Reckon your mom’ll have a cake or something.’ That was it, his way of
wishing me a happy birthday.”
“Oh, Mac,” Amber said
softly. He didn’t dare look at her, couldn’t handle the tender release her
sympathy offered.
“I could tell he
wanted to say something more...but he just couldn’t. As hard as he tried, that
was the best he could come up with. He was right about the cake, too,” he added
with a short laugh. “She picked it up at the grocery store at the last minute. A
leftover no one else wanted. I knew because it had pink frosting.”
“I’m sorry,” Amber
said simply. She lifted her small hands to his face, cupped his jaw softly. “So
sorry,” she repeated.
And this time she held
on.
CHAPTER SIX
Pink frosting on a
forgotten boy’s birthday cake.
holding Amber’s hand in the car as they drove aimlessly around town.
But now he was
concentrating on his work in the kitchen, slicing rolls and setting out silver,
and his long frame was loose and at ease.
“Mac...”
“Mmm hmm?”
“Nothing. Just—”
Just what? How do you
say you’re sorry, when you can’t say what you’re sorry for? As determined as
Amber had been to tell Mac the truth when she arrived, once again she had lost
her resolve.
It’s because I’m not ready for
this night to end.
That was the real
truth, wasn’t it? Amber took a deep swallow from her glass, welcoming the dark
warmth that settled into her body as the wine did its work.
Exhaling slowly, Amber
struggled to find the words. Your
father...
That’s how the story
would have to begin. There was no other way around it. Amber scanned the stone
mantel, and sure enough, there was a large photo of his father staring down
from a polished wooden frame. He was wearing a suit, something Amber had never
seen him in years before, and his face was thinner and older. Oddly, the camera
had seemed to catch him in a moment of uncertainty; perhaps it was the
unfamiliar clothes that caused the usual scorn to be absent from his eyes,
replaced by a look that was almost vulnerable.
Amber flinched
involuntarily and turned away. It was only a memento of the man who had raised
Mac, who had driven him to become a man, and yet it suddenly seemed to fill the
room.
A little more wine. Perhaps
that would help. She rose and joined him at the counter, topping off her glass
from the bottle.
“Do you miss your
father a lot?” she asked without looking at him.
Mac paused, and slowly
set down a sharp knife on the counter.
“Do I miss my father. What
a question. Yes, I do. I think of him every day. When I put my foot in the door
of the shop, no matter how much I change the place, no matter how big the
letters spelling my name on the door, I still feel like I’m a kid again,
walking in to a long day’s work. And I half expect to see my father inside, in
his old green coverall, sitting on that stool of his and cussing a blue streak
at some poor fool.”
He turned and faced
her, so close she could feel his warm breath on her forehead. “All those
years...and I never got around to telling my father that I loved him. Of
course, I learned that from him. He wasn’t a man who was comfortable with any
kind of display of affection. Though living with my mother, who could blame
him?”
Amber said nothing,
afraid to speak, wanting Mac to continue. This was more than he had ever said
about his father before.
“Sorry,” he amended. “Dumb
joke. Still, I lived for a few words from that man. Do you know, the day I
turned sixteen, I waited all day long for my old man to say something about it.
I remember that day because Dad had me scrubbing boats that were set to store
for the winter. And I had to do it in the yard, and I was freezing, and I could
barely feel my hands any more as I lugged that bucket around. All day, and
finally I gave up. When we were closing up the shop, my Dad turned to me and
said ‘Reckon your mom’ll have a cake or something.’ That was it, his way of
wishing me a happy birthday.”
“Oh, Mac,” Amber said
softly. He didn’t dare look at her, couldn’t handle the tender release her
sympathy offered.
“I could tell he
wanted to say something more...but he just couldn’t. As hard as he tried, that
was the best he could come up with. He was right about the cake, too,” he added
with a short laugh. “She picked it up at the grocery store at the last minute. A
leftover no one else wanted. I knew because it had pink frosting.”
“I’m sorry,” Amber
said simply. She lifted her small hands to his face, cupped his jaw softly. “So
sorry,” she repeated.
And this time she held
on.
CHAPTER SIX
Pink frosting on a
forgotten boy’s birthday cake.
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