I fight the urge to check my rearview mirror until I lose.
Tyler is still standing in the middle of the road, watching me go.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“God, Earl sure loved those dogs.” Dad’s aged blue eyes are on the hang glider as he sails past us. “I was afraid Harry would start mucking things up around there. He’s just too much like Bonnie, if you ask me, and she doesn’t have Earl’s way with people.”
Harry’s father was much like mine—boisterous and easygoing, always one to share a joke or story. His mother, on the other hand, has always been the serious sort, fretting over things she can’t change and searching for problems in every situation so she can claim she saw them coming.
I step over a fallen rock on the worn trail that rounds Summit Lake, watching Bentley and Yukon as they explore, their snouts to the ground. We left Aurora at home. She gets agitated in public parks. “Harry’s not a bad guy. He’s just had everything handed to him, and now he’s having to work to keep it. And it doesn’t help that Bonnie has convinced him that he can do no wrong.” She has always been one of those parents who can find fault in those around her child but never her child. Harry struggled in school? It’s because the teachers were inadequate in their jobs. Harry didn’t make a sports team? The coach couldn’t see real talent if it slapped them in the face. A girl doesn’t want to date Harry? Clearly, she’s a dimwit.
He can’t afford to pay his bills?
It must be because his veterinarian is gouging him.
Bonnie didn’t do Harry any favors with her brand of parental cheerleading. He’s grown up in a cloud of entitlement, his ability to blame others for his failures almost an art form. And that failure hits him hard. I’ve had to give more than one pep talk over the years, including one after this year’s race.
“She always did call him God’s miracle. Remember, they had a hard time having him. It took years. She was in her early forties when he came along. They’d all but given up on the possibility by that point.” Dad whistles and the dogs turn from their exploratory wanders to rush back. They’re not supposed to be off leash anywhere within the park, but Dad’s never been good at following rules, and walking dogs born and bred to pull as soon as they’re tethered is as easy as herding a pack of feral cats. It’s quiet in Hatcher Pass this early in the morning, so we’re not likely to offend anyone.
“Earl would be rolling in his grave if he knew about this.” Dad shakes his head. “Has Harry paid his latest bill?”
“Cory hasn’t sent it yet. I wanted to talk to you first. See what your gut says.” I’ve been sitting on it for three days.
“Oh yeah?” Dad cocks his head. “What does your gut tell you to do?”
I expected as much from him. “My annoyed gut tells me to send him the invoice and tack on a home visit fee. My sensible gut says I might want to look at what he spends in a year and then charge him a monthly average rate with a modest discount, so he feels like he’s getting something from me.”
Dad makes a sound. “Two stomachs, Marie. You should get that looked at.”
I snort at his lackluster joke. “Really helpful.”
“You want my advice? Well, if we’re talking in digestive systems …” Dad watches as a marmot darts from a boulder and Bentley gives chase. It slides under another crop of rocks to safety. “The first one might make you feel good in the short run, but you’re gonna suffer down the road. The latter one sometimes makes things harder to digest in the short term, but in the long run, it usually works out better.”
“So, sensible is the way to go.” Honestly, it’s what I would have chosen in the end. That’s me— pragmatic Marie. Except when it relates to men and love, apparently.
“As tempting as it is to tell that twerp where to stuff it, because he would deserve that, he won’t go anywhere. He has an overqualified veterinarian catering to him. He’d have to be a damn fool to not see that.” Dad pauses, studying the expanse of bush-dotted knolls that make up Hatcher Pass. We’ve hiked this treeless area together for years—at first, with my younger sisters in tow, and then, when their love of the outdoors took a back seat to other things, just Dad and me.
I won’t lie—I prefer this. Secretly, I think he does, too.
In summers, we’d climb up to April Bowl, a shallow, turquoise-colored tarn, and beyond, traverse the ridge to Hatch Peak; in winters, we’d navigate the trails with snowshoes and avalanche transceivers strapped to our bodies. My mother was never keen on those excursions.