Beautiful Graves(76)

Dad makes his way up the three stairs to the patio. I lean the broomstick against the wall, dusting my hands off. “Don’t tell me Renn is keeping this garden alive?”

“Renn?” He lets out a high-pitched, nervous laugh. “I wouldn’t put him in charge of dishwashing duties.”

“Did you get a new gardener?” I frown, confused.

He shakes his head. “It felt wrong to let a stranger touch all the things Barbie had created.”

“So who’s in charge of it now?”

“Ever . . .” He puts his hands on my shoulder. “The thing I’ve been trying to tell you . . . the reason why I wanted you to come here for Thanksgiving last year, is because I’m seeing someone.”

Silence engulfs us. I have no idea how I feel about what he’s just told me. A part of me is angry. How dare he get over Mom? How dare he date? Is he having actual sex with another woman? What in the hell? This is wrong. This is Mom’s house, with Mom’s things. It feels deeply unjust that someone else is taking care of her garden. Of her family.

But then I also can’t help but feel an acute sense of relief. Because he wasn’t alone all this time. Because he did have a shoulder to cry on, even if it wasn’t mine. Because it takes a lot of courage to move on from losing the love of your life. And because ultimately, I want him to be happy. Mom would want him to be happy.

It’s also difficult for me to pass judgment on other people in my situation. I slept with Joe while still wearing Dom’s engagement ring.

“Please say something.” Dad actually cringes, taking a step back. “Anything.”

“I . . . I don’t know how I feel about this,” I admit. “Does she sleep in Mom’s bed?”

His face says it all. She does. She sleeps in Mom’s bed. Okay. Okay. I take a deep breath. Count to ten in my head. Remind myself that perfect doesn’t exist. That I, myself, slept with Joe and then bailed on him. That humans are deeply flawed creatures. That maybe what matters is that we are not malicious. That we don’t want to hurt others. I know Dad did not move on because he wanted to hurt me.

“Are you happy with her?” I ask quietly.

He looks down at his shoes, thinking about it.

“I’m less unhappy when I’m with her,” he says, finally. And this, of course, is exactly how I felt about Dom. The soothing notion that there was someone to take the pain away. Is Dad’s girlfriend like Dom? Is his love for her guarded, comfortable, never coloring out of the lines? I don’t dare ask him.

“Is she . . .” I’m trying to think of what I want to ask—pretty? Nice? Funny? Artistic? Eccentric? Mom-ish? Is she an entire bursting world? Complete with a northern English accent and a collection of Oasis and Smiths CDs?

Dad continues to stare like I’m holding the secrets of the universe in my palm and he really, really needs them to save the world right now.

“Complete the sentence,” he asks firmly.

“I guess what I’m trying to ask is . . . will I like her?” I gulp.

A slow smile spreads across his face. “I think so. I think it is impossible not to like her. Renn loves her.”

I’m sure he means this in a reassuring way, but all I feel is quiet rage that my brother has accepted someone else into our family without putting up a fight. Was she that forgettable?

“I’m happy,” I say, finally. And then, in a louder voice: “I am. Very. Yes. Definitely.”

It might not be the entire truth, but I will get there. I will rid myself of the weirdness and accept this. I must.

“Really? You don’t think it’s too soon?” His eyes light up.

“Well, that depends on when you met her,” I answer truthfully.

“Eight months ago.” He actually blushes. My dad, who is the least emotional person on planet earth.

“Yeah, I’m okay with that.” I pick up the broomstick again and sweep, just to do something with my hands. “Tell me about her.”

He tells me that her name is Donna. That she is his age. Widowed, with two kids, my age and a little older. That she actually used to be a professional tennis player before she became an instructor. And that Renn gets along really well both with her and with her sons, Dylan and Ashton.

I promise to meet her soon. He nods, looking sheepish.

“What?” I ask. But then it all clicks together. Dread falls over me. Oh, no. I really have been away for an eternity and a half.

“She is living here now, isn’t she? That’s why the house looks so pretty. Why there are fresh flowers on the kitchen counter and the garden is lush.”

Dad looks apologetic. He wrings his fingers in his lap like a punished schoolgirl. “Things escalated quickly. She moved in this December. This was why I wanted to talk to you so urgently in November. I didn’t want you to feel blindsided.”

I deserve this. This feeling of being a guest in someone else’s life, even though this someone is my dad.

“Just tell me one thing,” I say.

He stares at me expectantly.

“Who makes better pancakes—Mom or her?”

“Oh, Donna does not make pancakes under this roof. That’s the rule. We both decided it was better this way early on. Too many memories.” He waves a hand in the air. “If we want pancakes, we go out.”