A Convenient Proposal - By Lynnette Kent Page 0,71
and sitting in the den, but not for the reason Griff expected.
“Poor Arden,” his mother said, wiping tears and her makeup onto the tissues her husband offered. “No wonder she’s been so unhappy these last few weeks.”
When Jake snorted, she fixed him with a fiery stare. “Don’t be so harsh. Arden has never had a family or people to love her. I can only imagine how hard it must be for her to give that up.”
“She didn’t have to go,” Griff pointed out. “All she had to do was tell the truth. I would have accepted anything she’d done to keep her.”
“Evidently not,” Kathy said. “You couldn’t accept that she hadn’t told you everything.” When he frowned, she only shrugged. “That’s just logic.”
“She hasn’t had much experience with forgiveness,” Jim pointed out. “Maybe she didn’t know how to ask.”
“And you didn’t offer.” Dana’s icy stare rivaled Jake’s for its paralyzing effect. “Did you?”
The discussion proceeded with a thorough dissection of Arden’s emotions, motivations and needs, a comparable analysis of Griff’s psyche and enough tears to drown a dinghy.
But he removed himself mentally and emotionally from the process. They were his family, and they’d forgive him eventually. Whatever punishment they inflicted in the meantime would be no less than he deserved.
Finally, with various gestures of sympathy or displays of disappointment, his sisters and their husbands went to their own homes. His parents went to bed without saying much at all, which meant more deliberation to come.
Griff sat on alone, staring at the fire. His thoughts had dwindled to a mix of sadness, longing and, yes, some anger.
Mostly, though, he simply missed her. She couldn’t be more than a hundred miles away, but it might as well be a thousand. What could he do to bridge the distance?
Arden’s last words came back to him. “If there’s anything else you want to know, send me a letter. I’ll answer whatever you ask.”
He was at the secretary desk before he realized he’d moved, with a sheet of thick note paper in front of him and a black pen poised and ready.
“Dear Arden…”
A MARCH VISIT WITH her audiologist documented the continued decline in Arden’s hearing.
At the front desk, a woman who reminded her of Rosalie Campbell wanted to set up the next appointment.
“I’ll call,” Arden told her. “When I’m ready.”
“But—but…” Distress wrinkled the secretary’s forehead and widened her eyes. “You should maintain a regular schedule of examinations. The doctor says so.”
Arden smiled. “I don’t need the numbers to know my deafness is getting worse. I’ll come back if I have doubts. Thank you.” Waving away the continued protests, she left the office and stepped out into bright Miami sunshine.
Her mother waited nearby on a bench under a palm tree. She looked up from her newspaper crossword puzzle as Arden sat down. “How did it go?”
“As expected.” Arden shrugged, hardly bothered by the news. Compared to losing Griff, losing her hearing didn’t matter much. “My acuity is down to about fifty percent. I’ve lost most of the high frequency tones.” She paused as a thought struck her. “Maybe I should play the cello.”
“Or the tuba.” With the puzzle folded into her purse, Lorraine Burke lifted her pale face to the breeze. Her bright blond hair, barely an inch long, didn’t stir. “Contrabassoon? I always enjoyed the bassoon.”
“Bass drum.” Arden pantomimed the sideways strokes. “Boom, boom, boom.” As her arms dropped, she caught sight of her watch. “We have fifteen minutes to reach the clinic.”
Lorraine sighed. “My favorite part of the day.”
“At least you get to sit in a comfortable chair.”
Arden’s mother laughed. “Now, there’s a bright side. Five hours in a recliner.”
Rosalie Campbell would probably have offered a hug with the laugh, but Arden’s reconciliation with her mother hadn’t progressed quite so far. Still, they were living in the condo together until this round of treatments ended, and managed to communicate without arguing most of the time. If Arden had taken the first step—a phone call made one stormy night in late February, when she thought the loneliness might kill her—Lorraine had responded with grace and gratitude.
The daily visits to the chemotherapy clinic, where Arden occupied a folding chair while her mother mostly dozed in the big recliner, had allowed them time together without confronting the past. Knitting had become a new pastime for them both, inspired by posters at the hospital requesting blankets for children and newborns. Arden had already donated the box items from her now-empty closet. So far, she’d knitted and unraveled at