Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(14)

“You were approved for the second round of interviews,” Ms. Gromwell said stiffly, as though she herself couldn’t imagine why. “There are only three remaining contenders for the apartment, and you’re among them.”

“Oh, well . . .” Naomi tried to sort this out in her head, but it didn’t make sense. The only person to interview her in the first round had been Oliver Cunningham, and there was no way he’d have put her through to the final round, except . . . apparently, he had.

Naomi opened her mouth to explain the misunderstanding, that she already had a place to live.

But Audrey’s words came back to her.

You’re moving forward.

She was trying. She wanted to. But if her reaction to Oliver Cunningham this week had taught her anything, it was that maybe one couldn’t fully move on until they’d faced the past.

For her mom’s sake. And her own.

“I can make any time next week work,” Naomi said without bothering to check her calendar. Whatever meetings she had could be rescheduled.

Because Naomi was on the cusp of achieving something her mom had spent her entire life wishing for:

An apology from Walter Cunningham—Oliver’s womanizing, heartless father who made even Brayden Hayes look like one of the good ones.





WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 3

Oliver opened the door to his father’s apartment and immediately ducked as an egg went flying over his head and into the hallway.

He winced and looked at Janice Reid, his father’s caretaker. Janice gave him a reassuring smile. “Hard-boiled.”

“Ah.” Oliver had figured. His father had been on a kick with the hard-boiled egg requests lately. That, and celery and peanut butter. It was as though the sixty-one-year-old Walter was channeling his grade school self.

Oliver supposed that made sense. The nature of Alzheimer’s meant that his father’s memories were scattered, his place in time sometimes in the right decade, sometimes not. Why not go back to childhood? Lord knew Oliver wished he could these days.

Oliver retrieved the egg from the hall. The shell had cracked but luckily, having landed on the plush red carpet, hadn’t made a mess. He reentered the apartment, setting his briefcase by the door, and dropped the egg into the garbage can. Oliver looked over to the table where Janice sat with his father, plucking an egg from his hand before that, too, was hurled against the door.

“Walter,” she said in a calm, no-nonsense voice. “You said you wanted hard-boiled eggs. Have you changed your mind?”

Walter scooted down in his chair and crossed his arms, looking six years old instead of six decades.

From the first days of Walter’s diagnosis, the doctors had warned Oliver that the disease affected everyone differently and that dramatic personality changes were not uncommon. Oliver thought he’d been prepared. Experiencing those changes, however, had turned out to be vastly different from hearing about them.

Oliver’s father had been under the grips of Alzheimer’s for nearly three years, and Oliver still struggled to reconcile the often surly, tantrum-inclined old man with the strong, rigid role model of his youth.

“Walter,” Janice asked again, her voice patient. “Will you please take a bite of the egg you asked for?”

Walter reached out and picked up an already-peeled egg and ate half of it in a single bite. “I like to peel it myself.”

“You asked me to peel this one for you, but I’ll be sure to leave it for you next time.”

She didn’t add, Don’t you remember? Both Janice and Oliver knew Walter didn’t remember.

Walter glanced over, finally seeming to register Oliver’s presence. “Son.”

“Hey, Dad,” Oliver said, pleased that despite egg-gate, it was one of those increasingly rare moments when his father recognized him. “How’s it going?”

“She peeled my egg,” Walter said, pointing accusingly at Janice.

“I know. Nice of her, wasn’t it?” Oliver loosened his tie and shrugged out of his suit jacket. “You ready to watch the Yankees game with me?”

Not too long ago, they’d have added a jigsaw puzzle to the evening routine, maybe collaborated on a crossword puzzle. In the early stages, the doctors had encouraged anything to keep his brain focused on the task at hand, but as the disease had progressed, the puzzles had gone by the wayside. Jigsaw pieces inevitably were pushed to the ground in a fit of irritation, crossword puzzles a thing of the past.

Walter was already scraping back his chair. “They’d better do better than last night. Jeter’s been in a slump.”

Oliver nodded agreeably, despite the fact that Derek Jeter hadn’t played in several seasons, much less last night. If Oliver had learned anything over the past couple of years, it was to pick his battles, and that correcting his father was pointless and frustrating for everyone.

“Rough day?” Oliver asked Janice quietly after his father had ambled over to the TV and settled into his easy chair. It was the type of leather recliner that Oliver’s mother would never have allowed in her perfectly decorated home. But Margaret Cunningham had passed away four years earlier. Just in time to miss her husband’s descent into dementia and the addition of the dreaded recliner.

“Not so bad,” Janice said, clearing away Walter’s plate and taking it to the sink. “The egg throwing was the first bad moment. We had a good walk. He’s been into dogs lately, so we killed a good hour at the dog park, just watching.”