Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(29)

“A few years ago.”

“I’m sure it was a shock.”

Oliver lifted a shoulder. “There’d been some warning signs, so a part of me was braced for it, but . . . yeah. It still came as a shock, especially so soon after my mom’s death.”

“I’m sorry,” she said genuinely, if a bit stiffly. “That must have been difficult.”

He exhaled. “Up until then, I thought cancer was the worst diagnosis one could get. It was in the case of my mom. She was gone eleven months after the doctor told us the news. But this . . .” Oliver tilted his head toward his father. “It’s a whole other level of hard. It’s slow, it’s inconsistent. Some days it’s almost like I have my dad back, other days he’s lost to me completely.”

Naomi glanced back at the back of Walter’s head, rolling her mug between her small hands. “Who watches him while you work?”

“A full-time caretaker. She’s great, but Alzheimer’s patients are unpredictable. One second they’re watching TV and you think you’re fine to take a quick bathroom break, the next moment . . .”

“Does it happen a lot?”

“No. Thankfully. But if it increases, I’ll have to consider a home for him. I’m just grateful he’s not violent.”

Her eyes went wide. “Was he . . . before . . .”

“No,” Oliver said quickly. “I mean, he could be a cold son of a bitch before the disease, but he never lifted a hand to me or my mother. Mostly he was just . . . indifferent. But Alzheimer’s patients can get frustrated easily and lash out. Not as big a deal when it’s a frail five-two woman, but a sixty-something male with a lifetime of regular squash games behind him . . .”

Oliver exhaled and loosened his tie. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. But again, thank you.”

“Anyone would have done the same.”

He shook his head. “Invited a strange man into the home of a single woman? I don’t think so.”

Her dark red eyebrows winged up. “Not sure the single differentiator was necessary there.”

“A woman living alone,” he amended.

“Better, I guess,” she said begrudgingly. “Though why do you keep assuming I’m single? Brayden passed a few months ago, and I didn’t date him for that long. Time enough to move on.”

For some reason the thought of her being not single made his bad mood even worse. “Sorry to be presumptuous. Who’s the lucky man?”

He put just the slightest sarcastic emphasis on lucky to needle her.

She dodged the question. “What about you? Any little lady dying for the role of Mrs. Cunningham?”

Was there a note of interest beneath her snide tone? Or just wishful thinking on his part? And then, appalled at what he was about to do, even as he hoped his father would keep his mouth shut, Oliver nodded. “There’s someone.”

“Oh yeah? What’s her name? No, let me guess—”

“Lilah,” he blurted out. It was the first name he thought of, courtesy of his receptionist always trying to set him up with her cousin of the same name.

“Mmm. And what do you and Lilah do for fun? Opera? Caviar tastings?”

“Naturally. When we’re not at our thrice-weekly Met visit or discussing Tolstoy over tea. Unless it’s our Friday-night glass of sherry and poetry.”

Her lips twitched in a giveaway smile that she pulled back just in time. “Nice.”

“And you and . . . Bob?” he said, supplying the first name that popped into his head.

“Not your kinda guy. Lots of NASCAR. PBR. Spitting contests.”

“Spitting contests.”

“When he’s not adding to his ink.”

“How do you know I don’t have a tattoo?”

He meant the question teasingly, but the way her gaze quickly roamed over him felt teasing in an entirely different way.

Her blue eyes came back to his. “Skull?”

“Clown.”

“Of the crazy Stephen King variety?”

“Naturally. Is there any other?”

For a split second, they smiled at each other, amusement replacing animosity. But before it could blossom into something more, Walter decided he’d had enough History Channel, coming into the kitchen and making a beeline for the Scotch bottle.

Oliver swiped it out of reach, and his father gave him an exasperated look. “Give me that.”

“It’s not ours, Dad. It’s Ms. Powell’s.”

She opened her mouth, likely about to offer more to be hospitable, but she shut it before saying anything. He was grateful that she saw his comment for what it was: less manners, more limiting his father’s alcohol consumption.

Oliver let his dad drink sometimes. The doctors frowned on it, but the man had already lost so much. Oliver couldn’t bear to take away this one simple pleasure as well.

But he was careful about it. And he wanted to see how the drink Walter had already had would mingle with his current mood.

Walter glared at Naomi. “Who’s she?”

“I’m Naomi, Mr. Cunningham,” she said, probably not for the first time that day.

He gave her a hard look, up and down in a degrading way that was very much Walter before his illness, but there was no relief at this glimpse of the old Walter. The old Walter, plainly put, had been a womanizing ass.