Cupid's Christmas (Serendipity #3)(5)

Lindsay nodded, although she was clueless as to how one could identify principles.

“Phillip was a no-good,” Walker continued, “I knew it right off. I would’ve said something, but it ain’t my place to be sticking my nose into other people’s business.”

“Oh Walker,” Lindsay sighed, “I wish you had.”

“Yeah,” he said, “…and I wish somebody would’ve told Emily too.”

Knowing Lindsay’s state of mind, you might think she’d be pulled into a deeper depression by this news of Phillip’s behavior, but for the first time in many months she began to think a bit more like her mother. She could suddenly see that maybe, just maybe, Phillip had been one of a kind. A single bad apple. One bad apple didn’t make the whole barrel bad, she reasoned. Maybe there was a chance that someone… somewhere…

She and Walker continued talking for nearly an hour and when she got to her apartment, she set the books aside and turned on her computer.

Lindsay had thirty-seven unanswered e-mails, nine of them from her father. She opened the most recent one and read it. He expressed concern that he hadn’t heard from her, he’d been hoping she’d come home for a visit, they needed to talk.

She reread the e-mail and added thoughts that were nowhere on the page. The words miss you made her picture her father a lonely old man, someone reaching out for love and companionship. Come home was a plea of desperation. Needed to talk most likely meant he was ready to give up on life. The image of her father’s sorrow outweighed her own, so Lindsay clicked reply.

____________________________________



Hi Dad,



Sorry I’ve been so bad about writing, I’ve been kind of down because of what happened with Phillip, but I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you’re going through. Tonight I had a long talk with Walker, our doorman, and I’m beginning to think I did the right thing after all.





I understand how lonely you are and how much you miss Mom. I miss her too, more than you can imagine. But at least we’ve still got each other and I promise to spend more time with you so try to cheer up. I’m going to take the first week of September off and come home for a visit. It will be such fun, just you and me, like the good old days. How about having a Labor Day Cookout? Do you have a recipe for those baked beans Mom used to make?



_____________________________________



Lindsay clicked send then opened the notice of a Lord and Taylor sale that ended a week ago, responded to an Amazon survey and half-heartedly replied to Amanda’s note that went on at length about her new boyfriend. Before she finished going through the remainder of unanswered mail, the answer from her dad popped up.

_____________________________________



Great. Love to have you home for a while. Sorry, I don’t have the recipe for your mom’s beans, but I have a friend who can help us figure it out.



Lindsay, your mom is someone neither of us will ever forget, but time has a way of healing the hurt of such a loss. I’ve learned to move on and make the most of life. I hope you have also. We’ll talk when I see you. Looking forward to your visit.



Glad to hear you’ve become friends with Walker. Trust what he says, he’s a good man. I’ve spoken with him many times.



Love, Dad



_____________________________________



Lindsay reread the last line. Dad’s spoken to Walker? Had Phillip? She buzzed the lobby desk on the intercom.

“Front desk,” he answered.

“Hi Walker, this is Lindsay again. Did Phillip ever stop and talk to you?”

“No. Never.”

“But my Dad did, right?”

“Indeed he did. Every time he came to visit, Mister Gray would stop and ask how I’m doing. He’s a fine gentleman, the type who does right by people.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Thanks, Walker.”

I knew precisely what she was thinking, I couldn’t stop the thought, but I knew it was coming. Lindsay is one of those humans who see true love the way others see a heat mirage—always in the distance, flickering, wavering and changing shape. After her conversation with Walker, this was inevitable.

Lindsay pictured the men she’d been dating. They were handsome, broad-shouldered, muscular, skin tight shirts, leather jackets, slouched stance, most of them a height close to her own and every single one of them with a sexy glint in his eyes. How, she wondered, could she have been so blind as to not notice this?

She lifted a picture from the desk. It was taken nine years ago, when Bethany was alive. In the picture her father was looking down at the woman by his side with a look of adoration, one Lindsay had never seen on the faces of men she’d dated.

Lindsay closed her eyes and again pictured the men she’d dated but, little by little, their faces disappeared into the heat mirage that shifted and changed shapes. Pictures flickered and danced until all of the men had coalesced into a singular image. Dark hair was changed to a lighter brown, the muscle shirt and jeans replaced by a suit. And when the suit seemed a bit too stiff, it wavered and became a sport jacket and slacks. Little by little, the image came together until Lindsay could see exactly who she was looking for—it was a younger version of her father.