Her phone didn’t ring, thank God.
The corner grocery was small but had the essentials. She filled her cart and did her best to haul it all up the stairs in one go. But it took two.
No sooner had she closed the door behind her than she heard a knock.
By the time she opened it, the person who had knocked was gone, and a bag sat on her doorstep with a note stapled to it.
Brooke could tell without looking inside that it was something from the kitchen downstairs.
She nudged the door closed with her hip and took the bag to the small kitchen table while reading the note.
In case you’re hungry.
Welcome home.
L
The note stared at her . . . or was she staring at the note? Either way, Brooke stood there for what felt like an hour.
Luca must have been watching for her. Considering his initial welcome, or inquisition, this gesture gave her a sense that maybe he wasn’t completely against her being there.
Smiling, Brooke quickly put away her groceries before washing her hands and removing a proper plate and utensils to eat her meal.
Two bites in of the cheesy shelled pasta delight with some kind of crumbly beef mixture and Brooke retrieved the unopened bottle of wine the D’Angelos had brought up the first night.
A simple pull of the cork and a pour and she felt as if she’d taken a slice of Italy and placed it in her living room.
The noise from the restaurant and the streets below drifted in through the open sliding door that led to the roof terrace. She closed her eyes at the simple pleasure of eating a meal she didn’t have to cook herself while sitting in her own chosen space.
Two breaths later and she forced her eyes to open and acknowledged just how bone tired she was.
The pace was killing her. Like right after her father’s stroke, she had a hard time finding any balance in her life, she was right back on the hamster wheel, and every opportunity to jump off the damn thing was met with an obstacle that only moved the momentum higher.
She just needed escrow to close.
Then the back-and-forth could stop and she could get on with her life.
Even if that meant arguing with her dad.
She moaned, thinking of the conversation she’d had with him. How much trouble was he going to be now?
Brooke pushed the food around her plate, losing interest, and sipped on the wine.
A couple of days of working and getting used to her own space and she’d feel better.
And a good night’s sleep.
Or a week.
A week’s worth of sleep.
As she leaned into the thought . . . her phone rang, and her dad’s image popped up on the screen.
Her first stop was Walmart, where she acquired the smallest microwave oven she’d ever seen, one that would fit on the tiny kitchen counter in her father’s space. Then she drove to Autumn Senior Living, and showed up at the front door.
The attendant was pleasant. “Good morning.”
“Hi. I’m Joe Turner’s daughter, Brooke.”
“Yes, I remember. Were we expecting you today?”
Brooke shook her head as they stood on opposite sides of the door talking through the gap. “No. No. I got a call from my dad last night. He asked me to bring this. I was hoping I could take it up to him.”
The girl shook her head but opened the door wider. “You can leave it at the desk, and we can get it to his room. He can’t have visits while he is in quarantine or it sets back the time frame and involves another test.”
Brooke followed her inside just far enough to set the microwave down. “Yeah, about that. Today is day four, they said three days. I know it’s likely today something will happen, but my dad is going a bit crazy up there by himself. I need him to acclimate here.”
“We’re aware of that. The sample wasn’t taken until yesterday. The results won’t be in for two more days.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. The nurse . . . there was a scheduling issue. These things happen.”
Much as Brooke wanted to bitch, standing in the lobby where a few residents milled around, two lumbering with walkers, one in a wheelchair, another walking at a slow but steady pace, she didn’t want to make a scene. “Can you make sure my dad gets this right away? He complained that the food being delivered wasn’t warm enough.”
The girl nodded, assured her he’d get the microwave, and Brooke left the building.
When her phone rang as she pulled off the freeway and made her way home, she knew who was calling without looking at the number. “Hello, Dad.”
“I got the m-microwave.”
No “Hello” . . . no “How are you.” Just right to the point.
“Good.”
“They . . . you, didn’t come up.”
“I couldn’t. The rules—”
“Fuck them.”
Brooke gripped the steering wheel. “They’re temporary.”
“Brooke . . .”
She cut him off before he could start complaining. “Dad, why didn’t you tell me that they didn’t even swab you for the virus test until after you’d been there for a couple of days?”
“It doesn’t . . . don’t matter.”
“It does matter, Dad. You came from one home to another, and they have to take extra precautions. The test takes three days for the results. You’ve been told that. Getting angry because the results aren’t back right away and then yelling at me to do something isn’t fair.”
“Well.” Her dad sighed. “I th-thought they got the results fast.”
“Did they tell you that?”
“No.”
Brooke pulled into her parking space, killed the engine. “Then you assumed.” She removed her phone from her purse, switched the call from the car to her phone, and stepped out of the car. “I know this is hard, but I’m doing all I can.”
“I don’t like it.”
She marched to the back door, her peripheral vision all but cut off. “What exactly do you think your options are?”
“Go back to the condo.”
“It’s sold,” she lied.
“Live with you.”
She stopped, sucked in a deep breath, and yanked the door open. “We’ve been over this.” Brooke hit the stairs like a determined athlete. Anger fueling each step. “I don’t have it in me to be your nurse.”
“I don’t . . . I’m better.”
She paused on the second floor, moved the phone to her other ear, and kept climbing. “Are you still in the diaper?” Brooke almost never used the term diaper. She normally softened the reference to save her father the embarrassment.
“I don’t need it.”
“But you’re still in it. And it’s perfectly fine that you are, Dad. Give your body time to heal.”
Her father was silent by the time she reached her door.
“Are you running?” he asked.
She unlocked the door and pushed her way inside. “My apartment is on the fourth floor and there isn’t an elevator. You couldn’t navigate the stairs even before you got sick. Living with me isn’t going to happen.”
Brooke pushed the door shut and walked right to the slider, opened it, and stepped onto the terrace.
“You did th-that on purpose.”
“I did. I rented a place for one person, not two.” Her head was pounding, and she wanted to cry. “I’m trying to make this all work. You have to do your part.”