“Wh-where will you live?”
“Let’s move to San Diego,” she said with a smile. “It’s close, but a compromise.”
He shook his head.
“Dad. I’m doing everything I can here. I packed up and moved to California. You have to wiggle a little. You can’t stay alone in the condo, and I cannot . . . I won’t live there.” Tears filled her eyes without invitation. “How fair is it for me to give up everything and you give up nothing?”
“I’m the one-one in the bed.”
“And I’m trying to keep you as comfortable as I can. My work is suffering. My personal life is gone.” She hated the emotion rolling down her cheeks.
“Assisted living.”
“It’s the best option. Please, Dad. I’ve crunched the numbers. Your savings will keep you there for a while, and the condo sale will make up the rest when it’s needed.”
He wasn’t shaking his head anymore.
He covered her hand with his own. “You’re not wiping my a-ass.”
The decision had been made.
Now it was all about how to pay for it.
She needed the money from the condo to make it work, and eventually she’d spend time with a financial planner. If in fact her father didn’t have any other issues and lived another twenty years, she needed a map on how she was going to provide for him.
His social security helped but didn’t cover even half of what his bill would be. But he would have food and care with people available all day and night should he need it. And that was huge.
The compromise was San Diego.
He was going to a town outside of the city, and once he was there and the condo was in escrow, she’d find a small place and make it work.
Carmen was right.
Moving to San Diego was the best possible solution to the crappiest hand delivered to both her and her father.
Only once had her dad said that he didn’t know anyone in San Diego.
Brooke looked him in the eye, not willing to cave. “Good friends will make the drive. Acquaintances won’t. And when you’re up for it, we can come back to visit. It’s not a prison. It’s senior living where you can come and go as you please, so long as your memory is intact.”
Her father had smiled. “I don’t r-remember my jokes.”
“And I’m thankful for it,” she teased. His jokes were awful. He thought they were hilarious.
At the end of the day, the hard decisions had been made, and now it was all about making it happen. She’d found her father’s forever home and a real estate agent that insisted she’d get multiple offers on day one and likely be able to close escrow within thirty.
All she was waiting for was a discharge date for her dad and she’d hit the green light.
Then she’d look for her own place. Though she had considered looking sooner. Swinging rent, and the mortgage, and the down payment for her dad’s place, and, and, and . . . It made her nauseous.
While the temperature rose, and the stragglers meandered in and out, Brooke sifted through the hordes of files her father hadn’t bothered with in forty years. Birthday and Christmas cards, letters from his long-gone mother back when he’d moved from the East Coast to California. While one or two were interesting to read, they all said the same thing.
And the Dear John letters.
Her father, in addition to his failed marriages, had racked up quite a few pissed-off women in his time.
Why keep the letters?
After two or three, Brooke determined that her father wasn’t a trusting man. Which she already knew. That lack of trust bred insecurity and jealousy, which was the downfall of every relationship.
And now he was alone. Yes, he had her, but it wasn’t the same and Brooke knew that.
For a brief moment, she thought of Marshall. Realized that her thoughts hadn’t traveled to him in over a week.
She missed the security of the relationship but didn’t find herself pining for the man.
He hadn’t reached out to her. Never truly tried to change her mind.
If he’d really loved her, wouldn’t he have tried?
Brooke shook off the impending melancholy and glanced around at the bits and pieces of yard-sale leftovers.
She opened the trunk of her father’s car, the one she’d decided to drive until everything was sold and they’d moved to San Diego. Then she’d stop payment on the damn thing and give it back to the dealership that sold it to her dad in the first place. She bagged up the clothing that didn’t sell, the miscellaneous household items collected by an old man, and tossed the yard-sale sign in the trash.
Three trips to the Goodwill later and she was ready for a shower, dinner, and bed.
Her phone rang while she was chopping vegetables for her salad.
“Miss Turner?”
“This is her.”
“This is Simone.” The social worker and Brooke had spoken many times.
“Do you have a discharge order yet?”
“Sure do. A week from Thursday. The wound should be good enough for a simple dressing, and the assisted living facility has agreed to accept.”
Brooke stopped cutting the food and rescheduled her week in her head. “Okay. Thank you. Let me know if something changes.”
She hung up the phone, growing tired just thinking about the work ahead of her. A quick call to her real estate agent put a deadline on when she needed to get the condo ready to show. She could use the garage for the piles of crap that would take a long time to get through while the place was on the market. Four days to pack and clean. Then a trip to San Diego to finalize her dad’s space at Autumn Senior Living. She’d drop off a few boxes on what would be several back-and-forth trips for the small things. After mapping out the new space for her father, she had decided it made no sense for her to rent a truck and lug any of his furniture into the new place. None of it would fit. He needed a twin bed and a tiny love seat. The condo furniture wouldn’t work, and sadly, it was trashed anyway. It was more cost effective to shop and have it delivered before her father arrived. She’d use familiar lamps and pictures to make the place feel like home the best she could.
It’s all she could do.
Brooke finished her dinner, cleaned the mess she’d made, and carried her second glass of wine to the living room.
It was strange to sit in a home she owned and yet feel like a stranger in it.
She and Marshall were always fluid, and home was wherever they landed. It worked, for a while. But she wasn’t happy with Marshall. There was no safety. No security.
Brooke needed something different. She wasn’t sure if San Diego was it, but it was the right place to start looking.
CHAPTER SIX
D’Angelo’s was a little quieter compared to the time she’d been there with Carmen. Understandable, considering it was between lunch and dinner. In Brooke’s experience, touristy places like Little Italy tended to stay busy most of the day, though.
Still, she had a seat in a booth with a couple of local rental magazines in front of her along with a newspaper.
She’d arrived in San Diego before noon, met with the director at the senior living facility, and wrote the big check to move her father in. Now she needed to concentrate on her move.
Her wish list was minimal. One bedroom would be ideal, but a loft or large studio would work. On-site parking . . . although once her dad’s car was gone, would she need a car? She could Uber to her dad. No. If he got sick again, and he would, she’d need to get him to and from doctor’s appointments. On-site parking was circled on her must-haves. Air conditioning?