All They Need - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,48

from her marriage—witness what had happened when they’d run in to Owen in that hideous excuse for a restaurant.

She had literally flushed hot, then cold when she’d glanced across the dining room and found herself looking into her ex-husband’s eyes. The angry, outraged expression on his face had propelled her back in time, back to the days when that look had meant either a lecture or cold silence in the car on the way home, punishment for whatever transgression she’d committed. Laughing too loudly, telling a bawdy joke, drinking too much—she’d been raked over the coals for all of them at one time or another.

Then the insistent weight of Flynn’s warm hand on the small of her back had registered and she’d remembered that she was free and that Owen’s disapproval and anger meant nothing to her now.

Less than nothing.

Of course, she knew what he’d been unhappy about. He’d done backflips trying to become Flynn’s friend, trying to inveigle his way into the Randalls’ inner circle. To see Mel there so easily, so effortlessly… He’d be brooding over it for hours, no doubt. Wondering what had been said between her and Flynn, what had been done.

God, she was glad she was free of it. All of it. The pretentious restaurants, the constant low-level anxiety about looking the right way and saying the right thing… It had been exhausting. Six long years of trying to live up to her husband’s expectations.

If only she’d thought to ask him to live up to hers.

She’d expected him to love her. She’d expected him to be her friend. She’d expected him to be on her side, to support her. He’d failed to deliver on almost every score.

The train pulled into a station and Mel shook herself. She didn’t want to waste more time thinking about Owen. He’d consumed enough of her life.

As for Flynn…

She didn’t want to think about him, either, but for very different reasons.

It was too late, however. Her mouth was already curving into a smile as she remembered that stunt he’d tried to pull with the mayonnaise.

Flynn Randall was a goof. She never would have guessed in a million years, but he was. He was naughty and he was cheeky and he was fun.

I like you, Mel Porter.

She gazed out at the passing cityscape as the train left the station.

The feeling is mutual, Mr. Randall. Extremely mutual.

FLYNN SPENT A LONG TIME in the shower on Saturday morning. Head bowed, he let the water wash over him and tried to steel himself for the day ahead.

It didn’t matter that his father had agreed to this meeting. It didn’t matter that they were all going in with their eyes open, determined to listen and be patient. He didn’t want to sit at a table and discuss options for his father’s care once he was beyond caring for himself. Flynn didn’t want to be rational about something that made him want to bang his head against a brick wall with anguish.

But he would. As would his father and his mother, because the only other option was to bury their heads in the sand, which really wasn’t an option at all.

When the hot water finally ran out, he toweled off and dressed. He thought about breakfast but decided he couldn’t eat. Feeling heavier than lead, he drove to his parents’ place.

His father answered the door, his hair damp from the shower. His gaze was sharp, his demeanor familiar and affectionate.

“Dad.”

They exchanged hugs.

“Come in. Rosina’s making waffles. Anyone would think it was a special occasion.”

He gave Flynn a small, self-deprecating smile as Flynn walked past him and into the house. Then his gaze dropped to the folder in Flynn’s hands and his smile flattened. He didn’t ask, but Flynn knew he’d guessed what was in the folder: information on in-home nursing care and other support organizations for late-stage Alzheimer’s patients and their caregivers.

“I don’t suppose it’s too late to cancel and suggest a day trip somewhere instead?” his father said.

“Sure. If that’s what you want.”

“Oh, nice answer. Leaves me with bugger all room to maneuver.”

“I learned from the best,” Flynn said as they entered the dining room.

“What did you learn, and from whom?” his mother asked, looking up from arranging a large bunch of camellias in a vase on the cherry-wood sideboard against the wall.

“How to get his own way, and from me,” his father said.

“Oh. That. I’d like to think I had a hand in that, too. I’m no slouch at getting my own way, either,”