The Homecoming
Page 59

“What about Troy?”
“I guess he went skiing. When I told him I just couldn’t make it he said it was my loss and I’d be lucky if he asked me again. But he said it nicely.”
“Well, if you get another chance, let me know. I have stuff you can borrow.” Then a thought struck her. “You know, you and Troy look good together.”
“Iris,” Grace said. “If I want your help, I’ll ask for it.”
“Well, do you want help with the shop decorations?”
“I could do with some help on that.”
Sixteen
“You’re a good sport,” Seth told Iris as they were climbing into the car at five in the morning to head for Seattle. “It’ll probably be seven hours. You can sleep. I like this drive.”
“You do it often?” she asked.
“Every month or two. I use the drive for all those deep thoughts I have to mull and never have time for. I find it relaxing.”
“This must be some friend,” she said.
“Let me get us out of town and on the freeway and I’ll tell you about him.”
Once they were underway, Seth told her the story. “Oscar was the other driver in that accident when I was twenty. That accident changed both our lives, his more dramatically than mine. He’s been in a wheelchair ever since. When I first went to see him, he was not happy to see me. There’s no logical explanation for why I went back. A real glutton for punishment, I guess. Over time, we found we had more in common than you would think possible. More than our injuries. Of course, I didn’t head for his house until I was up and walking. I still used a cane and wore the big shoe with the built-up sole. When we plowed into each other, he was forty-five years old and had a couple of kids. And we were both a little angry.” He chuckled. “He was angrier, and understandably so—he was worse off. I might’ve lost a football career but he lost much more than that. And it turned out, over time, that we had things to talk about.”
“The accident? Your injuries and disabilities?”
“Not so much,” Seth said. “We talked more about life, philosophy, faith, death. Chess.”
“Chess?”
“Well, once we started to communicate, we could only talk if we had something else going on. First it was checkers, but we graduated to chess. I don’t know how it is with women, but men don’t sit in two chairs and stare at each other and just...converse.”
“Women can do that,” she said. “Most women quilt or knit or drink coffee or wine, though. But women who have someone they trust can just go to them to talk. Just to talk. If they need to.”
“Who is that person to you?”
“Grace,” she said. “I’ve known her since she bought the flower shop, but it’s been the past year that we’ve gotten close.”
“Did you tell Grace about me?” he asked.
“Uh-huh. In pieces. First I told her about the prom, then I told her about the prom and teenage sex, then I told her I couldn’t get over you, then I told her those calla lilies did the trick.”
He grinned. “I’m going to fill your bedroom with calla lilies.”
“You don’t have to do that. Now, about Oscar—you went to see him because he was injured?”
“We were both injured. He was worse. And he had a family to worry about. I felt so bad about that.”
“The accident was your fault?” she asked.
He shook his head. “The cause of the accident was his—technically he was impaired. He fell asleep at the wheel. But I was also cited—I’d been speeding. Not speeding a little bit. I spent my first contract money on a hot car and I was a rocket. If I hadn’t been going so fast I might’ve been able to avoid him. Or he might’ve cleared the intersection before I got there. Of course, no one knows what might’ve happened to him next. Maybe if I hadn’t been there and if he’d cleared the intersection, he could’ve hit a tree or another vehicle or any number of possibilities. Or, he might’ve been jolted awake by my horn! But the fact is, the speed of my car and the impact was probably responsible for the level of injuries. There was no criminal trial but his family sued me for speeding.”
“Oh, my gosh. And you’re friends?”
“It didn’t come fast,” he said. “Not only was Oscar pretty grumpy, but he had a wife and kids who blamed me.”
“And you went to him because you were sorry about the accident? The injuries?”
“I was definitely sorry,” he said. “I don’t know why I went. I wanted to see how he was getting along. I wanted someone to talk to about it even though I had a physical therapist and a counselor. I wanted to know how he was coping with his disabilities because I wasn’t coping that well with mine.” He shrugged. “I didn’t have an agenda. I kept going back and I’m not sure why. But first only Oscar accepted my visits. Then his wife did. Eventually his kids did. Just so you won’t be broadsided, Oscar is one of the people I talked to about you. About how it was important to have you in my life again. That was before I dared hope we’d be a couple.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but how much have you told him about us since we’ve become, you know—”
He chuckled. “I haven’t told him anything. But it will only take you five minutes with Oscar to understand there are a lot of things he doesn’t need to be told. A few years ago when I was struggling to finish my degree, trying to get into the Sheriff’s Department and failing time after time, having Oscar to talk to made a difference. We don’t call each other on the phone and even though he has a bunch of online friends he keeps up with, we don’t exchange many emails. I just like to spend a day at his house sometimes.”
“It’s a very long drive to do that,” she pointed out.
“It always feels like it’s worthwhile. I get the quiet and alone time of a long drive, a few hours with Oscar and Flora, time to think. I’d say it’s been one of the highlights of my life since I was twenty years old.”
For the rest of the drive, they talked about a hundred things, from careers to families to the town they were both so attached to. They stopped a couple of times for food and drinks but didn’t waste a lot of time. Seth promised he’d take her to a nice hotel for the night and they could sleep in on Sunday morning. They’d been on the road almost exactly seven hours when they pulled up to an ordinary small brick home. The ramp to the front door and the van with the handicap sticker were dead giveaways—this was Oscar Spellman’s house.