Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(26)

Returning to the living room, she laid out the pieces on the coffee table, and Walter scooted forward on the couch to take a look. He patted his right breast pocket where she imagined he often kept readers. “Damn,” he muttered. “Forgot my glasses.”

He made do by bringing the pieces extremely close to his face, studying each item with more interest than she’d have expected, given they were all “feminine trinkets.”

“Quality seems pretty good,” he admitted.

“Yes, I’m keeping an eye out for high-quality products that can easily be scaled, since we need thousands of each piece. It’s why I was so interested in your bracelet,” she said offhandedly. “It’s a bad habit of mine, studying just about any piece of jewelry I can get my hands on.”

He stared at his wrist for a moment, as though surprised to see the bracelet there. Then he shrugged. “It’s better than the last one they gave me. Nicer. Good metal, see?”

She closed her eyes in relief when she saw him reach for the clasp.

“You need any help?” she asked. “Bracelets are always hard to get on and off yourself with one hand.”

Wordlessly, he extended his wrist to her, and Naomi’s fingers quickly found the fastener and removed it before he could change his mind again.

In the blink of an eye, Walter’s attention had shifted away from her and the jewelry, and back to the TV, where the monotone narrator was describing the gruesome details of a World War I battle.

Naomi looked down at the bracelet.

Walter had been correct—the bracelet itself was nice. Lovely for a men’s piece, with thick metal and excellent craftsmanship on the links.

The placard though . . .

Even though she’d had a good sense of what she’d see there, the top two lines of inscription still caused a pang of sadness.

Walter Cunningham. Alzheimer’s.

She exhaled.

Below that was a name and phone number.

With a quick glance to see that Walter wouldn’t freak out on her, she stood and went to the counter where she’d plugged in her cell phone.

“You got any Scotch?” Walter asked again, without turning around.

“I’ll look in a minute,” she said as she punched in the phone number on Walter’s bracelet, and with one eye on the back of Walter’s gray head, she lifted the phone to her ear as it began to ring.





MONDAY, OCTOBER 8

It wasn’t the first time that Janice had called him to calmly and apologetically inform him that his father had gotten out of the house, but those bad-news phone calls never got any easier to hear.

Oliver bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting at the cab driver to go faster. It wasn’t the driver’s fault that Manhattan traffic generally sucked. It wasn’t the driver’s fault that his father had wandered out of the house.

It wasn’t even Janice’s fault. She’d apologized profusely, but he knew all too well it was a risk of having one person alone caring for this father. The woman had to use the restroom at some point, and she couldn’t very well lock his father up while she did so. And considering Walter often went from happily eating his hard-boiled eggs to deciding to take himself for a walk within five seconds . . .

Oliver only hoped his father hadn’t wandered far. Most often he went to one of the neighbors’ on their floor, or to Oliver’s apartment. Janice had checked all the usual places, and then went to look at the more alarming option: Central Park.

Ironically, his father had always refused Oliver’s childhood begging to go to the park to throw a ball around, but in his current state, he loved the park. Trouble was, Central Park was several hundred acres. Walter didn’t move very fast, but it was a hell of a lot of space when trying to locate one man.

Oliver was stopped at a traffic light two blocks from his apartment, debating whether it would be faster to get out and walk the remainder, when his cell rang.

It was an unfamiliar number, but Oliver answered without hesitation, even as he braced for bad news.

His tone was curt. “Oliver Cunningham.”

“Oliver, hi.”

He frowned. The voice was female and husky. Distinctly so. “Naomi?”

“Yeah. Hi. Um, well, okay, no non-awkward way to say this . . . I have your father here?”

His hand fell away from the door handle of the cab, his body slumping back in relief. “Here? As in, he’s at your apartment?”

“Yep. I found him wandering the hall outside your door. He’s okay,” she said softly, anticipating his next question. “He’s watching TV and demanding Scotch?”

Oliver smiled slightly. Counterintuitively, Scotch days were good days in Walter Cunningham’s world. A connection to his old self who had an affinity for Macallan.

“Don’t judge me for asking,” Naomi said slowly, “but can he?”

“Can he what?” Oliver asked, fishing a few bills out of his wallet and handing them to the cab driver. He exited the taxi without waiting for change.

“I have some Scotch . . .” She trailed off.

His relief at knowing his father was safe and warm instead of lost in the city was settling in now, and Oliver grinned as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Ms. Powell. Are you suggesting giving my sick father alcohol in the middle of the afternoon?”