SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 18
Turn that off,” Walter groused at her from his bed.
“All right,” Naomi said easily, even though he’d asked her to turn on the television just a few moments before.
“What would you like to do?”
“Where the hell is Margaret? Probably off shopping again.” He tugged at his sweatshirt, then looked down as though surprised to see it.
“I’m not hungry,” he barked, even though she hadn’t said a word.
“Okay, no problem,” she said.
He gave her a suspicious look for a long moment, then he reached for the book on his nightstand and held it out to her.
His eyes met hers in a silent request, and she smiled. “Sure. Let’s read.”
She sat in the chair beside him, opening the enormous biography on Benjamin Franklin to the bookmarked spot. She hadn’t been reading this to him, so it must have been Oliver.
Her stomach twisted a little at the thought. She hadn’t spoken to him since that day in the hospital. She hadn’t even seen him, which was no easy task, considering they were still neighbors, as far as she knew.
Not that they would be for long. The first thing Naomi had done after getting out of the hospital was to make arrangements to move into the place in Tribeca. And fabulous though she knew the condo was, at this point, she’d have been just as happy to be back in one of the various gross Belmont motel rooms of her childhood. Anywhere but at 517 Park.
She’d moved in for all the wrong reasons, and it was as she’d known all those years ago—she didn’t belong there. Not then and not now, though the reasons were different.
Then, because people like Margaret and Walter Cunningham were unlikely to ever think of people like Danica and Naomi Fields as anything but beneath them.
Now, because Naomi knew people weren’t above other people. In character, maybe, but not in status. And her character the past few weeks had been sorely lacking.
Still, even though Oliver had ignored her texts, calls, and the letter she’d slipped under his door, she was holding on to the slight hope that he didn’t hate her entirely.
Last weekend she’d shown up at the only Alzheimer’s care home in Westchester with the large outdoor space he’d mentioned and asked to see Walter Cunningham. Only stupidly, she hadn’t thought it through to realize that of course they wouldn’t allow a random, unplanned visitor access to their patients.
After much sweet-talking and stubbornness, she’d managed to convince them to call Walter’s next of kin and request permission for her to see him.
Even as she knew full well Oliver would be the point of contact. And that her chances of him giving her the go-ahead were slim.
But he’d surprised her. He’d given Naomi permission to visit whenever she wanted, so long as the visits were supervised by a staff member. That had stung, but she got it. And it was better than nothing.
She’d meant to just come the one time. To make peace or whatever, but this was her third time out to see him, and she found she enjoyed her time here. Sure, the man was the reason she had a small bald patch on her head where they’d had to shave her hair to stitch up the head wound, but a tiny part of her thought maybe she deserved that for keeping the truth from Oliver and Walter.
Like maybe they were even now in some weird, warped way. Or maybe perhaps it wasn’t about being even at all.
It was about forgiveness. And understanding. Maybe it was about choosing kindness, regardless of what had come before.
“Not that one,” he snapped as she began to read. “Your book.”
“My book?”
“The one you read before.”
Naomi smiled at the fact that he remembered her last visit, though she was a little surprised. She wasn’t much of a reader save for her Stephen King fetish, and since she could practically feel the observation caretaker’s judgment when she’d suggested It, she’d pulled up the only other book on the Kindle app of her phone—a childhood favorite that she never got sick of.
“You like Anne of Green Gables, huh?” she asked, finding the chapter they’d ended on last time.
He shrugged and looked out the window, but he didn’t ask her to stop when she began to read.
Naomi lost track of how long she read, consumed with the story of a redheaded orphan and her coming of age on Prince Edward Island.
Eventually she glanced up and saw that Walter had fallen asleep, looking peaceful and content as a ray of sunshine fell across his face.
Naomi set her phone aside, pulled a blanket off the foot of the bed, and draped it over his knees.
“I’ll see you next week, okay, Walter?” she said quietly to the sleeping man.
Without realizing she was doing it, she smoothed an errant flyaway on his gray hair and waited for the instant self-loathing, the guilt that she was betraying her mother.
It never came.
She swallowed, a lump in her throat at the bittersweet realization that she finally had her peace.
And at how much it had cost her.
Naomi picked up her purse, turning to tell the facility’s employee that she was off babysitting duty.
She froze. It wasn’t the petite blond woman who’d escorted her to Walter’s room standing in the doorway.
It was Oliver.
He was wearing a blue shirt that made his eyes look even lighter than usual, and his feet were crossed at the ankles as he leaned with one shoulder against the doorjamb.
“Hi,” she said nervously. “I didn’t—how long have you been here?”
He shrugged. “A while.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cut in on your time with him. You could have kicked me out.”
“And missed story time?” he said with a slight smile.
She looked down, feeling embarrassed. “Ah, yeah. It’s an old favorite. He seems to like it. Well, at least until he fell asleep.”
Oliver nodded but said nothing else.
She forced a smile. “Well. It’s good to see you. And thank you, truly, for letting me see him. I would have understood if you’d said no.”
Still, he said nothing, his expression watchful.
Naomi forced yet another smile and walked toward the door. He straightened, making way for her to pass, careful not to touch her.
“Take care, Oliver,” she said, keeping her voice light.
“You, too.”
He let her get halfway down the hall before calling her back. “Hey, Naomi?”
She turned back.
He jerked his chin at her purse. “That book you were reading. The girl—Anne. Her nickname was Carrots. Sounds familiar.”
She laughed. “You were listening quite a while. And yeah, it was only her nickname in the mind of Gilbert, who was sort of her tormentor.”
“Ah. Whatever happened to them?”
“To who?”
“Anne and Gilbert.”
“They eventually became friends,” she said, choosing her words carefully. She was a little at a loss as to why they were discussing the fictional characters of Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe when they had major unresolved issues between them.
Oliver studied her a moment, then nodded and stepped into his father’s room without another word.
“Um, okay,” Naomi muttered to herself.
Still, she was a little proud of herself as she left the building. At least she hadn’t broken down and told him how much she missed him.
Her heart might belong to Oliver. But her pride was still her own.