Like Father Like Son Read online

She’s still in shock when I pull into the drive of the house Scott and Holland shared together. It may be military housing, but I can see in detail the effort Scott had taken to make his home stand out among the other units. The concrete carport is immaculate, not one ounce of clutter compared to the other houses in the cul-de-sac. The gutters are not overflowing with leaves and shit like their neighbors, although the grass has turned a little brown due to the weather, it’s trimmed neatly. Even the windowsills and shutters look tidily painted compared to the chipped paint on their neighbors’ houses.

  He didn’t get this little bit of work ethic from Christine. Oh, fuck no. Every six months, when I’d rent a cabin for Scott and me to bond, she’d talk me into a day’s worth of chores. It was our little silent agreement. I’d complete her honey-do list, and she’d leave us alone for the entire time I was with him. “Let Scott help you, might as well show him how to do some of this shit, it’s not like he’s learning it from you on the other side of the country.” Though he had because he worked in my factory for the summers in California.

  The truth was, Christine thought I should pack up my life and follow them. And I would have done it, but she became more demanding with child support each year. I couldn’t afford to start over and Parrish & Landon Custom Furniture had been picking up. Every year, I thought I could start up a factory in Virginia and I’d come back from a month of being inundated by all things Christine and I never took the leap. Scott had been the one who suffered because of it.

  I know Chris is hurting and part of me still loves the woman who gave me Scott for twenty-two years but hell, I can’t help but hate her, too.

  I rummage for the keys to the house as Holland sits next to me in the truck Scott and I refurbished together, in almost a catatonic state. “Hold on, darlin’.” Opening the door for her and pulling her out, she’s as light as a feather. I’m able to turn the knob to the door and kick it lightly open at the same time with Holland in my arms.

  Walking over the threshold of their house, I’m assaulted by everything Scott. It’s overwhelming—everything that was him. There’s a North Carolina Tarheels blanket strewn across the couch. A picture of some of his buddies from my factory is hung up on the adjacent wall from the door. His leather bomber jacket I’d bought for him a couple Christmases ago is on the coat rack. This all feels too surreal—like an out of body experience.

  I follow the hallway back to where I believe the bedrooms are and deposit Holland on her bed. On one of the end tables is their wedding picture, the same one that’s on my desk at home. They got married at the justice of the peace, but it doesn’t mean the smile on Scott’s face isn’t anything but happiness. And next to the picture is a small cast iron trinket of a John Deere tractor. Every time I saw him or sent him a present, I’d drive down to this little custom toy store and pick up the newest item. When he’d turned thirteen, I’d stopped with the tractors, thinking he was too old for them. When I called him to wish him a happy birthday, I had asked if he liked the new skateboard he’d talked about for months.

  “Yeah, Dad, it’s perfect.” But something in his voice warns the dad in me that there’s more.

  “Son, did I order the wrong one?” It’s possible. After all, I had relied on Christine to give me the right information.

  “Oh, no, Dad, sorry! It’s great. It’s what I wanted.” But still he’s quiet, and I need to get to the heart of the issue.

  “Scott, it’s okay. Can you tell me what’s bothering you, please?” I hate I’m not there for him, to really see the hurt in his eyes that radiates in his voice through the phone.

  “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” Scott hems and haws with me and I lose my patience.

  My tone is a little stronger this time, and he has to know I’m not playing around. “Scott Jameson Parrish, just tell me. I can’t help you if you don’t get it off your chest.”

  “Man, Dad, I’ll sound selfish complaining about it.” When I don’t say a word, he continues, “I love the tractors you get me. Every time I see them, it makes me think of you and me. It’s our thing, and when I didn’t get one, I thought this part was over for us.”

  It’s then, I understand our bond is stronger than the many fucking states that separate us. And he still longs for it—the connection we share, in the form of small five-dollar tractors. Age be damned, he’d get them.

  A small laugh falls from my mouth and I let out a sigh of relief. “Son, this is something I can fix. Truth be told, I was a little sad, not going in our shop to buy one for you. I assumed you were getting too old for them and shit, I’m glad you’re not.”

  He returns the sentiment right away, “Thanks, Dad, for understanding.”

  I’m standing at the foot of the bed, taking in the little toy that meant so much to him and fuck, until now, I had no idea how much they meant to me, too.

  I’m in bed, not even sure how I got here. All I know is I wake to the worst nightmare. The lamp light is on and I smell eggs. Scott must be cooking for me. I’m assuming it’s ham and cheese omelets in the skillet. I know it’s this because Scott can’t cook anything else if his life depends on it. Not that I’m a great cook either. But none of this registers when I fling myself out of bed, I undress, ready to surprise my husband. After the humdinger of the dream, I’m going to blow his mind and do it very well.

  “Hey, babe.” My seductive low vibrato rings through. Scott knows what I sound like when I’m ready to be taken in any part of the house. “You won’t believe the awful freakin’ dream I had.”

  Turning the corner, it’s not Scott standing in the kitchen ready to flip the omelets, it’s his dad. As he twists around, seeing me in nothing but my birthday suit, it all comes back to me. It’s not a blip on the radar that I’m without clothes and I pool to the floor.

  “Oh, hell, it’s true. It’s true. It isn’t a nightmare.”

  From my vantage point, Maguire leaves the kitchen quickly. In a split second, his feet rush for me, and something covers my body. The warmth of the blanket reminds me that Scott is this man’s son, and he’s lost as much as I have, if not more. Clinging to the blanket, I try to stand, only to stumble. But I find my way back to my room, mine and Scott’s. Through my tears and cries, I can just hear it between my own sobs. But if I stop enough to listen, down the hallway, I can hear the accompanying cries of Scott’s dad for the man we both loved and miss.

  The funeral came and went and my parents never showed up. They weren’t there for me as a child, why did I expect different as an adult? Though my mom texted me, asking me to come home. She probably googled that the SGLI is a couple hundred thousand dollars. Where it sounds like a lot, it’s not. It’ll be just enough to get by with my immediate life.

  As much as I don’t want to, Christine’s offer is the best. Even with her manipulation, she won’t have any intention of getting her hands on Scott’s life insurance. She has enough love and respect for her son than to try anything along these lines. Living with her until I can make arrangements will be its own little hell.

  Still a week after the funeral, Maguire is in town, coming to check on me daily. Today is no different. He’s a good man, the one reason Scott didn’t turn into his mom. But being around him is too hard, because this man, my father-in-law, is the spitting image of my husband.

  He’s made himself comfortable in my house, making coffee, cooking dinners, and doing any upkeep that Scott typically did when he was home.

  “Mr. Parrish,” I say when he appears in the carport, shirtless, after working on Scott’s truck, “I appreciate your help.” This man shows me the goods I’m going to miss in my own man. “Hey, could we talk for a second?” He plans to stay another week in the motel up the road to help me pack.

  “Oh, yeah, darlin’, I needed to chat with you, too. I got grease on my shirt; do you mind if I grab one of Scott’s?”

  I can’t help but laugh. Where Scott was big, I’m almost positive, he was still filling out. Both men are long, a runner
s body, but Maguire is certainly a full-size man. Like Scott, he towers over me at about 6’ 3”. As he turns from me, I notice a small tattoo on his chest right over his heart, but I can’t make it out.

  “Something funny?” he asks.

  It’s one of the few times I’ve seen him smile. It’s handsomely hot.

  How do I put this delicately? “Well, you’re welcome to them. But I don’t think they’ll fit you comfortably.”

  Stretching his hands over his head, his smile never falters. “You calling this old man fat?”

  I would never call Maguire Parrish fat in his forty-year-old body. No, it makes me ache to know what Scott could have matured into if he’d lived. “I’m not saying that. It’s just Scott was not as big as you, but his clothes are kept in the spare room to the right, in the closet. Help yourself.”

  I start coffee for him. The man loves that sludge. The shower starts, and I wonder how much Scott indeed looks like his father, deep down. I flush at this idea and giggle because I miss my husband so much.

  I’m standing at the window overlooking our cul-de-sac when Maguire’s unexpected words startle me. “Yeah, darlin’.” He’s towel drying his hair, appearing in the kitchen as I pour his coffee and steep my tea. “I guess you’re right, this man is fat,” he says.

  Turning toward him, every muscle is revealed through Scott’s simple blue shirt. I get more of a bird’s-eye view of his body now than I did when he was shirtless and nothing is left to the imagination.

  “Ah, you read my mind, darlin’.” Even the way he says darlin’ has me seeing my father-in-law in a different light. I need him to stop, but it’s part of his personality. “Let’s enjoy our drinks in the sun.”

  I follow him to the covered patio and it’s then a tear escapes my eye. I’m going to miss this place. It had been ours together—mine and Scott’s—and when I say goodbye to this little home, it’s one of the last pieces I’ll have of him. Of us.

  “I’m going to head to the motel after this to get a shirt that doesn’t look like it is part of my skin,” he begins. “Then scrounge up some boxes so we can pack. Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do?”

  “Um, my only option until Scott’s SGLI comes in, is to move in with Christine.” My own body shudders in pain at this idea when Maguire places his coffee on the table between us, his elbows on his knees.

  “I wanted to wait until we got through the funeral, but you know that letter you gave me from Scott?” he asks and I’d almost forgotten. I nod my head in anticipation of Scott’s last words to his father. “He wanted me to take you home. I have an apartment over my garage that I use as my workspace. We could incorporate your design ideas, especially in our décor branch of the company. I’ve spoken with Ned and Diane, who runs the design division. We can work around your school hours. And quite honestly, Holland, it’s the last thing my son asked of me, so I want to honor his wishes.”

  The words don’t permeate my mind. First, they only float around me. Of course, Scott would come up with a backup plan, someone to watch over me. I’m not sure why I’m surprised.

  Chapter 5

  “This is a fucking mistake.” Christine, in her Christine way, is causing a scene while the women’s shelter and local Red Cross chapter are taking items Holland can’t keep—along with all of Scott’s clothes.

  Holland’s head whips back to the loud melodrama of her mother-in-law.

  “Keep your voice down, Chris!” I shout, bringing me into her commotion. “It’s the last thing our son asked of me, of course, I’m going to honor his wishes.”

  “Let me do it. Let me help Holland. It’s not appropriate for you to care for her—anyway with me, she’s near her parents.”

  I laugh but not in the ha-ha kind of way. “You mean the parents that are six hours away and couldn’t come to their son-in-law’s funeral?” She shrugs her reply, but I’m not done. “Plus, Chris, you aren’t the easiest person to get along with. You don’t even like her.” My voice becomes almost a whisper, Holland’s eyes catching my own every so often. “Anyway, her skill set is suited for a great job I can provide. And I built that apartment above my workspace. It was meant for Scott when he was old enough to live his life as an adult.” I never have blamed her for being her—the needy bitch she is—and this is the closest I’ve ever come to actually accusing her of pushing our son into the service when he wanted to move Holland and himself to California. “And furthermore, he always planned to move back to Cali, so he wants this for his wife.” I walk away, leaving her speechless. I’m unable to console her or offer anything else. She’s taken so much from me—I’m finished.

  “The only things I want besides the sewing machine he’d bought for me to replace the one my parents gave me years ago, is the table and chairs you two made for my wedding gift and his truck.” And with that, I knew we’d be taking the cross-country trip in his old 1951 Chevrolet pickup truck we worked on every time I visited.

  It’s a beauty, an almost yellow gold. Scott had loved the year and model of this truck. “I can’t part with it. I know it would be more logical to keep my car, but I need to hold onto this. It’s a part of him. I’ll feel as if he’s with me in the passenger seat, grabbing my knee.” A smile forms on her face and in it, I imagine her envisioning this scene in her mind. “He’ll be criticizing my driving as he always does.” It’s not a dig but a fond fact she finds amusing when her lips turn upward. “Fiddlesticks, he hated riding with me. And what always surprised me was he was a scary driver in his own right.”

  I nod, now with a grin at all the close calls we’d had over the years since he’d started driving. “Yeah, you’re sure as shit right about that.” Though she’s correct about having a reliable vehicle, if she hadn’t held on to his truck, I sure as hell would have. “We’ll ship the table with the rest of your stuff.” The military is taking care of this. “And I’ll go get some tarps for all the luggage. There’s not much room up front for your sewing machine, but I’ll make sure it’s safe.”

  She nods, and with my declaration, protecting the last thing my son bought for her, she believes me at face value.

  Looking around the rest of their house, the walls are bare, the furniture is mostly gone, and she’s given away more crap than she’ll care to admit.

  “I’ll put you up for the night. And we can head out tomorrow.”

  I’ve seen the way she reacted in the last couple of days as her friends came to say goodbye. Everyone loved Scott, this isn’t a surprise, not because I was his dad. He was a good guy and funny as hell. If I have to see her tear up one more time at any more of her farewells as she calls them, I think I very well may hit something. It’s all tearing me up inside.

  It’s a hard thing to grieve alongside someone you don’t know very well, yet with the love that we both share for Scott, it’s easy when it comes to Holland. Even with Christine, Holland is kind. The girl will give anyone the shirt off her back. And after she’s lost so much already, she’s now losing another part of her life—her friends who were, in essence, her family.

  “Um, Mr. Parrish, I can’t do that. I have the air mattress and…”

  Rubbing my forehead, I internally moan at the formality she shows me, after me asking her over and over again to call me Maguire. “Holland.” My tone is a little harsher coming out as a warning and she stiffens, but then she laughs. “Okay, I’ll bite, what’s so funny?” I ask.

  “Shitake mushrooms, I’m sorry. But you sound so much like Scott. When I pushed him, or he was irritated enough with me, his tone would lower, like yours. Sometimes he’d force a laugh. Even down to the emphasis with part of my name.” She’s now giggling hysterically and I’m not sure if it’s funny or it’s just the first time she’s not crying at the thought of Scott that has her showing this kind of emotion. “I’m sorry, Mr. Parrish, I couldn’t help it.” She offers no further explanation, but it’s nice to see her smile. It looks good on her.

  “Okay, glad
I could put a grin on your sweet face.” These words are delivered more seductively, the pitch of my voice is one I’d typically reserved for sweet talking a lady into my bed for the night. She has picked up on it. Hell, maybe Scott did the same thing with her and we both turn red.

  I skip over this awkward as fuck weirdness when I decide to ask, “Do you not swear? I mean, I don’t want to offend you.”

  She smirks, moving her eyes downward like I’ve embarrassed her. “Um, no, you won’t offend me. I mean, I do curse, when it’s warranted—believe me. I wait, especially with Scott, so he could really gauge my anger.”

  I don’t say this, but I know for some reason, hearing this beauty swear would seem unnatural.

  “About the hotel, we can get an earlier move on tomorrow. It’s no biggie, and if it makes you feel better, you can pay me back.” Though, I don’t have any intention of accepting her money.

  “Oh, poop on a stick,” she declares out of nowhere. There’s this light bulb moment on her face. “You bring up a good point. I’m strapped until the life insurance is released. So, please keep a record of the gas and hotels and meals. You’re not footing the bill due in part to me not letting go of Scott’s truck. So, I intend to pay you back, every penny.”

  I nod my head. No reason to piss off the girl who I’ll be sharing the next five days with over this subject. Again, she’s crazy if she thinks I’ll take one cent from Scott’s insurance.

  Her gaze falls to the floor. She can’t look at me and I wonder what all of this is about. I’m close to challenging her, to make her tell me when I stop. I give her the couple seconds she needs to voice an apparent concern. She finally begins, “Christine told me she thinks I’m using you as a meal ticket. Never mind the fact this had always been our plan, moving to California after he was released from the service.”