Harper carried her small bag upstairs to her bedroom, dropped it on the bed, and hurried back down in search of Red.
She found him in the wide backyard, standing in front of a rose bush, deadheading flowers.
She hurried out to meet him. “What are you doing?”
“Those gardeners don’t know how to take care of Bebe’s flowers.” He snipped off an old bloom, dropped it in a plastic bag dangling from his wrist, and reached for another.
“What if you’d fallen?” Harper could imagine him struggling to stand back up on the uneven lawn.
He looked up, holding onto his fedora so it wouldn’t fall, and surveyed the sky. “Sunny day. I’d have gotten a nice tan.” He chuckled and continued with the roses.
“You’re a stubborn old man, you know that?”
“I’m not old.” He winked. “How was the beach? You got a whopper of a storm yesterday. I thought you might stay later today to soak up the sunshine.”
“We were ready to get back.”
Red dropped another spent rose in the plastic bag and peered at her with those sharp blue eyes. “Something happen?”
“No.”
His lips closed while he studied her. “My grandson treat you well?”
She didn’t want to lie to him but wasn’t prepared to tell him the truth. “He spent a lot of time trying to drum up new accounts.”
“Hmph.” He inched around the bush.
She resisted the urge to suggest Red let the gardeners do it, or worse, assist him herself. He was in one of his I-don’t-need-your-help moods, and offering would only irritate him.
Red cut another bloom and dropped it in the bag. “I love that boy, but sometimes I don’t like him very much.”
She’d gotten that impression before, but she’d never heard him say it. “Why is that?”
“He makes all the money he needs and more, but he spends it as fast as it comes in. Never has an extra dime.”
“Maybe he’ll learn to be wiser with it.”
Another “hmph” told her what Red thought of that.
“His dad never did,” Red said. “Died in serious debt. Mortgaged to the hilt. Used to gamble, that one.” The words were delivered casually, but Red peered at her from beneath the rim of his hat and held her gaze.
“Oh… Well.” It wasn’t her place to tell Red about Derrick’s gambling. She wasn’t going to lie to the man, either. “That must have been hard for you.”
“I like a risk.” He turned his gaze back to the bright red blooms and continued snipping. “But I risked wisely. Risked in real estate. Only made safe bets. You buy a house, it’s going to be worth something. It has intrinsic value. You work hard, keep it in good shape, do your best to keep renters in it while you make the payments, and the house goes up in value. If the market turns”—he shrugged—“you did your part. Maybe you lose a little here and there. But you don’t lose everything. Gambling, though… That’s not earning. That’s trying to get something for nothing, and it never works.”
She’d learned that lesson the hard way. She’d been sent to prison because her boyfriend and his friend had tried to take the easy way out, and they’d used her to help. She’d been ignorant of their schemes, but the judge hadn’t believed her claim of innocence. All because Emmitt and Barry were too lazy to work and had already spent all the money she’d earned.
The memories didn’t sit well. The comparison between Emmitt and Derrick turned in her stomach like a Tilt-A-Whirl.
“What happened to your son?”
Red maneuvered another foot around the bush until he was practically against the fence. “He and his wife were killed in a car accident. On their way home from Atlantic City. George had had too much to drink and swerved to miss a deer. Ended up driving into a tree.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Long time ago.” Red focused on the roses. “Derrick never told you?”
“Just that they passed away when he was eighteen. But he never told me how, and I never asked.”
“Hard time for both of us.” He pointed to a fading bloom out of his reach. “Get that one for me, would you?”
She took the pruners and cut off the bloom, then got a couple more she didn’t think he could see from where he stood. While she worked, she thought of Derrick. She couldn’t imagine the pain of burying both his parents at such a young age. Legally an adult, but not really. An age when he’d needed his father and mother. At least he’d had Red, who’d taken him in, sent him to college, and supported him all those years.
She handed Red the pruners.
“You don’t have to stay out here with me, girl. I got this.”
“I’m staying. Not because you need me”—not that he’d admit, anyway—“but because I missed you.”
She had missed Red. He was kind and gentle and honest. And today he seemed as healthy as she’d ever seen him. His face was pink from the heat, but not frighteningly so. Another hour and he’d need to go inside, get out of the sun. But this morning, she figured the vitamin D was doing him good. His legs seemed strong. His smile was bright as he accomplished his task.
He probably didn’t need her at all. But she stayed anyway, just in case. And because his peace, his kindness, were a balm to her raw nerves.
If she had any hope Derrick would turn out to be like Red, she’d stick it out with him through all the stuff—the gambling addiction, the debt. But Derrick wasn’t like his grandfather. He was like his father. And look what a mess that man had left behind.