Before We Were Yours(118)

I wait at the gate. When the limo pulls up, my mother exits on her side without even waiting for Oz to get out and open the door. Honeybee is hopping mad. “Avery Judith Stafford, what on earth is going on here? I thought for certain the driver was lost or we’d been kidnapped.” It’s evident in her red, slightly shiny face that she’s been working up to a dither for miles, probably complaining to my father and harassing poor Oz, who’s only been drafted into this operation because he knows the route. “I’ve called your cellphone at least fifteen times. Why didn’t you answer?”

“I don’t think there’s any reception down here.” I have no idea if that’s true. I’ve had my phone turned off all morning. If Honeybee couldn’t get in touch with me to cancel or alter the plans we’d agreed upon, she would have no choice but to come. Honeybee never falters on a commitment.

“Now, girls.” My father is in a much more accommodating mood. Unlike Mama, he enjoys the rugged outdoors. Now that the intestinal bleeding has been stopped by the laparoscopic surgery, his blood counts are better, and his strength is returning. Functioning at almost full capacity, he’s a match for his attackers on the nursing home issue. He’s begun to systematically put it to rest. He’s also building support for legislation that will prevent care facility owners from using shell corporations to avoid lawsuit payouts.

He gives the river an interested look. “It was a lovely Sunday drive. We haven’t been over toward Augusta in a while. I wish I’d brought along a fishing pole and some tackle.” He smiles at me, and instantly our life together flashes through my mind, from little-girl visits to his office, to ill-fated fishing trips, to proms and cotillions and graduations…and more recently briefings and strategy sessions and public events. “It’s not often that she asks anything of us, Honeybee.” He adds an indulgent wink that’s just for me. “Not this one.”

He means to reassure me that, whatever I have planned today, he’s up for it, but it only reminds me of how much I have to lose here—my father’s favor being chief among those things. I’m his favorite. I’ve always been his golden girl.

How will he handle the fact that, for weeks, I’ve been sneaking around, digging up information that my grandmother had kept hidden to protect the Stafford legacy?

What will happen later, when I tell him how this journey has changed me? I don’t want to live the life my grandmother lived. I want to be who I am at the core. That may or may not mean that the Stafford political dynasty ends with my father. Chances are, he’ll be well enough to continue in office for some time. In full health, he’ll master this nursing home controversy, and some good will come of it; I’m convinced of that.

I’ll be here to help him in whatever way I can, but the truth is that I’m not ready for a political run. I’m not experienced enough. I haven’t paid my dues. The office shouldn’t be handed to me just because of who I am. I want to earn it the old-fashioned way. I want to gain an understanding of the issues—all of them, not just a limited few—and decide where I stand. If it is ever my turn, I will run the race on my own merits, not as my father’s little girl. In the meantime, Andrew Moore mentioned that his seniors’ rights PAC needs a good lawyer. The pay is undoubtedly low, but that isn’t the point. If I want to dip my toe in the murky world of politics, that is the sort of place an average person wades in, and I am a good lawyer.

Will my father understand?

Will he still love me?

Of course. Of course he will. He’s always been a dad first. I know it’s true. Yes, there will be disappointment when I inform my parents of my plans. Yes, there will be some fallout, but we’ll make it through. We always do.

“Avery, I am not letting your grandmother out of the car here.” Honeybee surveys the little cottage, the river down the hill, the overgrown trees hanging low over the porch roof. She hugs herself and rubs her hands up and down her arms.

“Honeybee,” Dad attempts to placate my mother, smiling at me indulgently. “Avery wouldn’t have brought us all this way without a good reason.” He leans close, slips an arm around Honeybee’s waist, and squeezes the ticklish spot only he knows. It’s his secret weapon.

She struggles against a smile. “Stop that.” The look she turns my way isn’t nearly as cheerful. “Avery, for goodness’ sake, was all of this really necessary? Why so cloak and dagger? Why are we coming here in a limousine, of all things? And why in the world did we need to drag your grandmother along? Taking her out of Magnolia Manor is so confusing for her. It’s hard to settle her into the routines again afterward.”

“I wanted to see if she’d remember something,” I say.

Honeybee’s lips smack apart. “I doubt she’d remember this.”

“Someone, actually.”

“She wouldn’t know anyone who lives here, Avery. I think it’s best that—”

“Just come inside with me, Mama. Grandma Judy has been here before. I have a feeling she might realize that.”

“Is anyone going to get me out?” My grandmother beckons from the car.

Oz looks to us for approval. My father nods. He’s afraid that if he lets go of Honeybee right now, she’ll bolt.

I take charge of my grandmother at the gate, and we move along the path together. Despite her mental decline, Grandma Judy is only seventy-eight and still gets around quite well. That makes the dementia all the more unfair.