his own age. But how could she attend Lewis family gatherings when she and Darcy weren’t together? And Darcy was unlikely to take Billy on his own.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t leave Roy hanging. “I promise.”
A flurry of activity at the door made her turn around.
“Good afternoon.” Dr. Avery Pritchard swept into the room, his white coat flapping. “How is our patient today?”
Emma handed the doctor Roy’s chart on which she’d written her observations. “He’s doing well, Doctor.”
“Excellent.” He turned to Roy. “I’m Dr. Pritchard. I’ll be doing your hip replacement tomorrow morning. It’s a straightforward procedure....”
Emma wheeled out her trolley with the meds and blood pressure equipment, leaving Roy with Dr. Pritchard.
She wished Darcy wanted to be a part of his son’s life as much as Marge did. He was keeping himself at arm’s length with offers of money. She got that he was devastated by Holly’s death, but that was in the past. Billy was here and now. She didn’t care for herself, but for Billy’s sake she wished Darcy would let Billy into his life. How awful to think of her son growing up aware that his father lived nearby but didn’t want to know him. Besides everything that had gone wrong between them over Holly, she couldn’t ever forgive Darcy for that.
* * *
WHAT THE HELL was wrong with Emma? Darcy turned his truck out of the hospital parking lot and headed to Summerside. She was in trouble, forced back to work early. Why wouldn’t she let him help her by contributing financially? What was so wrong with him easing his conscience in that way? It was almost as if she was punishing him for not wanting to be a father to Billy.
She was really punishing herself. And the baby.
So be it. It wasn’t like he had a ton of spare cash to throw around. He’d done his monthly bookkeeping last night and business had fallen off since the wine bar opened.
He parked in front of the pub and got out in time to see two of his regular customers coming down the street—Greta, a hairdresser, and her boyfriend, Larry, a gangly apprentice baker. If it weren’t for people like Greta and Larry, who came in a couple of times a week, he would really be hurting. They didn’t drink a lot—they nursed a couple of beers and socialized—but he could count on them.
He lounged in the doorway, enjoying the first mild evening in months—spring was definitely here at last—and waited to greet them with some of that personal service he hoped would be the salvation of his pub.
Greta paused to peer into a boutique window. Larry tugged her away, waving a piece of paper in her face. Instead of coming straight to the pub, they crossed the street. Darcy’s stomach fell as he watched them walk into the wine bar.
He swore quietly. If even these two abandoned him, he was in trouble. Surely they couldn’t afford the wine bar prices. In about thirty seconds they’d be out the door again, over to his pub.
Hands on hips, he waited. Three minutes ticked by. Greta and Larry didn’t come out of the wine bar—but four more people went in. Wayne must be giving out more discounted drinks. It was almost as if he was trying to put himself out of business. Except that his strategy was drawing huge crowds. Customers were flocking to his joint and not to Darcy’s pub. Greta and Larry weren’t his only customers to defect in recent months. Oh, people still came to the pub, too, just not as often.
Thoroughly disgruntled, Darcy went back inside. He stood in the doorway and surveyed the room, much as Wayne had a few months ago. In contrast to the wine bar’s colorful furniture and paintings the wood-paneled pub looked dark and, to Darcy’s now-jaundiced eye, less than inviting.
Light. He needed more light in here. More windows and modern light fixtures. Maybe he ought to get a draftsman or a builder to look over those architect’s drawings for a garden room. Alternatively, if he didn’t want to go the whole hog he could paint, put in new carpets, buy those tall tables and stools....
“What’s the matter, boss?” Kirsty said, going past with a tray of drinks. “Is your dad all right? His friends came in and then left again. Complained they couldn’t play a proper game of darts without Roy.”
“He’s doing okay.” At least the wine bar had yet to put in a dartboard or shuffleboard.