Winter Solstice (Winter #4)(8)
“Does Mrs. Quinn keep something as toxic as that in the house?” Lara asks.
“She does,” Kelley says. “We keep it on hand for the guests. There are packets of Domino in the breakfront. Might you grab me one… or two?”
Lara disappears into the guest dining room and emerges shortly thereafter shaking two sugar packets like castanets. Lara is a stickler about her name, but she is wonderfully lenient about other things, Kelley is happy to see.
The next day Kelley is in bed. He can no longer read or watch TV—it puts too much strain on his good eye—and so he listens to books on tape. He considered choosing some classics that he’d always wanted to read, but it turned out there were no classics he’d always wanted to read. He will go rebelliously to his grave never having slogged through Moby-Dick. Instead Kelley becomes addicted to the novels of Danielle Steel. Now, there’s a woman who knows about life: dying billionaires who cut their obnoxious children out of the will, unappreciated housewives who fall into the arms of the children’s sailing instructor. And Ms. Steel writes one heck of a sex scene. Today Kelley is listening to The Mistress. It’s his fourth Danielle Steel book in a row, and he fears he might be falling a little in love with her. But becoming attached to someone new at this stage of the game is probably not a good idea.
Lara comes into the room to do her hospice duties, and Kelley holds up a finger to let her know she should wait until the narrator reaches a break before she takes his lunch order, plumps his pillows, refills his meds, and rubs ointment on his feet.
He pauses his book and says, “Hello, Lara.”
She smiles. “Hello, Kelley. Are you ready for lunch?”
Kelley grimaces. He fears lunch is spinach soup made without any butter, cream, or salt. Basically, Mitzi boils raw spinach, purées it with some vegetable broth, heats it up, and calls it soup. She serves it with hard little seeded crackers that taste like something she stole from the bird feeder.
“I want a ham and pickle sandwich from the Nantucket Pharmacy,” Kelley says. “On rye bread. With a bag of regular Lay’s potato chips and a chocolate frappe.”
“That sounds ambitious,” Lara says.
It is ambitious. Kelley feels hungry in his mind, but when food is in front of him, he can normally manage only a few bites. But it occurs to him that this might be because he isn’t tempted by any of the offerings. If there were something he actually wanted to eat, he would devour it. Or eat more than usual. He has lost twenty-nine pounds since he stopped chemo in June.
“Please?” he says.
“I can run out and get it for you now,” Lara says.
Kelley’s functioning eye widens, and he tries to sit up a little straighter, although doing so hurts. He now has tumors on three of his vertebrae. “You can?”
“I’d like to see you eat,” Lara says. “And I’d like to see you happy. It’s amazing how indulging a little bit can boost the morale.”
“You know,” Kelley says. “I used to think Jocelyn was the nice hospice worker and you were the tough one. But you are rapidly gaining ground, Lara. Before you leave, may I inquire: Where is Mrs. Quinn?”
“She left a few minutes ago to meet with the caterers for Bart’s birthday party,” Lara says.
Yes! Kelley thinks. They have a window! Let the caper begin!
“Go,” he says. “Quickly, go!”
The learning curve is steep once you discover you are terminal. Kelley understands so much more about life now than he ever did when he was well. On the one hand, it’s frustrating—what good will his newfound knowledge do him once he’s six feet under? On the other hand, he’s grateful. That’s actually the first and last lesson: gratitude for every experience. Gratitude for two packets of sugar in his well-steeped black pekoe tea. How many times in his life did he take something this simple for granted? He feels enormous, tearful gratitude for the first bite of his contraband sandwich: lightly toasted, buttered slices of rye containing luscious ham and pickle salad and crunchy, crisp iceberg lettuce. How many times did Kelley wolf down a similar sandwich while sitting at his desk on Wall Street? He barely tasted those sandwiches, much less reveled in their nuances. If only someone had been there to remind him that his life, someday, would be over and he should pay attention and enjoy while he could.
His next adventure is two Lay’s potato chips, one flat, one folded over. Folded-over chips are preferable to flat chips—why is that? It’s one of life’s ten million mysteries. That has been another lesson. So many things can’t be explained; they just are. Love, for example. And illness. Why should Kelley be struck with brain cancer at the youthful age of sixty-four? He had expected to live until ninety. Okay, maybe not ninety, but long enough to make certain all of his kids turned out okay.
And he has done that, hasn’t he? Patrick is out of jail and he has some kind of new investment concern going. Jennifer is decorating houses for every Mayflower descendant in Beacon Hill, and the three boys are busy with fall lacrosse and fantasy football. (Kelley still doesn’t understand fantasy football, and now, he supposes, he never will, a small regret.)
Kevin and Isabelle just ended a wildly successful season at Quinns’ on the Beach—the liquor license more than doubled their income, Kevin confided—and Isabelle worked alongside Kevin until three days before she gave birth to Kelley’s fourth grandson, Kelley Jacques Quinn, known as KJ. Kelley is honored to have a member of the new generation named after him; however, he’s also glad they decided to use the nickname KJ, because Kelley can’t count the number of times in his life that someone saw his name and thought he was a girl. Woman. Whatever the proper terminology. (Terminology no longer matters to Kelley, if it ever did, but pronouncing Lara’s name correctly very much matters.)