Again she wondered about the distance between father and son.
“Did things get better between you?” she asked. “After the strokes? I know it’s a terrible thing to ask, but I’ve seen—”
He nodded slowly. “I know what you mean. Yes and no. We spent more time together, sure. I think both of us wanted to try to make it work. Every Friday, I’d knock off work early and drive down to help out on the ranch. I took over the business operations without a problem. But outside the office, I could never do things to his specifications. I milked the cows crooked, or I put the wrong herbicide on his marionberries. After his third stroke, we had to make a change. Di arranged it all.”
“Was he comfortable at Bayshore Oaks?” She had to ask.
“He liked you, if that’s what you mean. Said you were the only one there with a good head on your shoulders. It was hard for him to be away from the ranch. But it seemed like he was doing better at Bayshore Oaks. At least, I thought he was.”
Beth was surprised to hear it. The Hal Rhoads she knew had been strong, but suffering. She’d watched him grow dimmer, eat less, cough more, every day until the end. She wondered if Martin had avoided seeing his father’s pain. Or if Hal had kept it hidden, maintaining a proud distance even when his son came home to him. Either way, Beth didn’t know Martin well enough to challenge the way he’d seen it.
“Your father struck me as so grounded,” Beth said. “Like an oak tree.” She could almost see him, standing sentinel behind his walker in the long hallway of Bayshore Oaks amid the daily churn of wheelchairs and IV carts.
A smear of diabla sauce had stained Martin’s bottom lip bright red. “It’s funny, you know? We were both entrepreneurs. We both had big ideas. He dreamed of mite-resistant lettuce. I dreamed of microscopic robots. But he never got interested in my work. I’d invite him to check out the lab, or come to a presentation. He never did. For Dad, everything had to revolve around the ranch. He gave a loan or an acre for ‘experimental purposes’ to every wild-eyed huckster in the region. He even leased a slice of marsh to that loser who owns the Kayak Shack. He took one of his boats as a down payment. Meanwhile, I’ve funded every one of my tech start-ups on my own.”
She could see it was eating at him. “I’m sorry, Martin. He may not have had an easy time showing it. But I know he loved you.”
Martin winced. “That last visit. We argued. It was stupid. I got stuck in the city late on Friday at this investor pitch event. I couldn’t get down to Bayshore Oaks to see him until Saturday. I wish . . .”
Beth touched his forearm. “Every family has its rough moments.”
“I know.” His eyes were wet, shining. “I just hate that it was our last one.”
She told Martin what she remembered, how Mr. Rhoads told her about his boy who came home after many years away. Maybe he’d been too proud to say it directly to Martin’s face.
“He called me that? His boy?”
“He did.”
As a geriatric nurse, Beth had often been in the delicate position of watching a man battle with the question of whether to cry in front of a woman he hardly knew. She looked away, took a swallow of beer, and gave him room to compose himself while she figured out how to change the subject. She considered what he’d said about Paul Hanley and his lease, and her ridiculous promise to help with the investigation.
“So you’ve had dealings with Paul Hanley?”
Martin looked at her quizzically. Then he nodded.
“My daughter works at his Kayak Shack,” Beth said. “As a tour guide. She saw one of his kayaks in the barn at your father’s wake.”
“You don’t seem old enough to have a daughter who is employed.”
“She’s fifteen. Mature for her age.” Beth started picking at the empty foil wrapper in front of her, rolling it into a ball. “What’s your impression of Paul?”
“He seems like the kind of guy who always has a hustle going.”
“What’s he doing on the land he leases from you?”
“He says he’s growing strawberries.” It was clear from Martin’s tone that he didn’t entirely believe this.
Neither did Beth. The Paul Hanley she knew definitely wasn’t a berry farmer. “I’m surprised to hear he has another business besides the Kayak Shack. It must be quite the juggling act, especially now, with everything going on.”
“What do you mean?”
“The slough . . . it was shut down by the sheriffs last week. Two tourists on a kayak tour found a dead body. My daughter, Jack, was the one guiding them.”