Forever Wild(29)

Roy eyes my Jeep, then his truck, then the winch, and then finally his gaze lands on my mother, who chose to wear her lighter shopping jacket instead of her parka and is shuddering uncontrollably. “You should go on and sit in my truck where it’s warm.”

She rushes for the passenger side, uttering a breezy thank-you.

“You, too, if you want,” he adds to Mabel.

“Nah, I’m good. My friend’s on her way here to get me. I think that’s her.” She points to a small approaching light in the distance.

Roy slips on his gloves and, stooping in front of his truck, unfastens a heavy-duty orange hook. “What were you guys doin’ out in this, anyway?” If I didn’t know better, there’s a touch of scolding in his tone.

“Shopping.”

“Actually, we were out looking for a wedding dress for Calla. Did you hear the good news yet?” As usual, Agnes speaks to him as if he cares. “They’re getting married on New Year’s Eve!”

He merely grunts in response.

Kelly coasts in then on her dad’s yellow-and-black snowmachine.

“Excuse me.” Agnes leaves us to walk over and talk to Mabel before she takes off.

I perk my ears to try to catch the conversation over the idling engine. I’m sure I hear Agnes say five o’clock. I’m also sure that Mabel will come back later than that. More and more, she seems to be testing her mother’s patience, which is endless with Agnes—a flaw in this regard. Jonah and I have already discussed the need to step in and keep Mabel in line when they move here next summer. How Mabel will respond to that, I can’t guess.

“You find one?” Roy’s grating voice cuts into my thoughts.

“Huh?”

“A dress.”

“Oh. Yeah. But I have to get it basically cut in half to fit me. Hopefully it still looks like a dress after it’s dissected.”

“I’m sure it’ll look fine.” He yanks on the cord to unfurl the wire.

And I quietly watch him.

Does he ever wonder what Delyla looked like on her wedding day? Does he regret not being there to walk her down the aisle? Does it burn deep, knowing that his replacement, this man who Nicole spent thirty happy years with, likely did?

How often does Roy think about his daughter, especially now that she’s no longer just a distant memory, a cherub-cheeked toddler in a thirty-odd-year-old department store portrait?

Now that he knows she has thought about him, at least enough to sit down and write that letter?

These are all questions I wish I could ask. If Roy were anyone else, I would.

“So, I guess you decided to pull a weddin’ out of your ass, then?”

“I did. We’re having a reception at the Ale House for family and close friends. Muriel promised to take all the dead animals and tacky signs down and my mom is a florist, so she can make pretty much anything look nice.”

With mention of my mom, Roy steals a glance into his truck’s cab, where she sits huddled. “You look like her.”

I smile. “Yeah, I’ve heard that once or twice.”

His jaw works as if he’s going to say something else, but he must decide against it, choosing silence instead.

“So, you’re going to come, right?”

“To what? Your wedding? Why on earth would you want me there?”

I was expecting some lame excuse, but his response catches me off guard. Or rather, it’s the genuine shock in his voice that surprises me. “Because I do?” I can’t come up with a better response at the moment. His name is on our guest list, below our family, but ahead of Marie, and George and Bobbie. He’s in that in-between category, along with Agnes, Mabel, and the McGivneys—people who may not be in the blood-related “family” bucket but don’t fit into the “friends” bucket. They’re those important people who are woven into the fabric of our daily lives, and their absence would surely leave holes should they disappear.

It’s a long time before he answers. “I got nothin’ to wear to a wedding.”

There’s the lame excuse. “I’m sure you could figure something out. Does that mean you’ll come?”

He peers down the road behind me. “That must be help.”

He didn’t answer my question, I note.

The headlights are coming from the direction of our house and they’re closing in fast. I know even before I spot the bearded driver that it’s Jonah behind the wheel of the BMW. Simon isn’t in the passenger seat.

He executes a perfect three-point turn in the snow with speed I wouldn’t hazard even on a sunny summer day. He then hops out and marches toward us with his boots unfastened and his coat unzipped, as if he dressed while running out the door. “What happened?” He has that urgent, almost menacing tone that he gets when he’s panicked.

“I slid into the ditch.”

“No shit. Are you okay?”

“We’re fine.” I heard my mom tell Simon as much, but of course Jonah needed to witness that with his own two eyes. He’s always been a “see it to believe it” kind of person.

He shakes his head. “I told you the roads were getting bad. You should’ve come back hours ago—”

“I found a dress!” I exclaim, trying to distract him from his rant.