Read Online Perfect Timing by Catherine Anderson - Free Book Online
Authors: Catherine Anderson
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me up. Didn’t eat dinner last night or any breakfast. My belly button is gnawing a hole through my backbone.”
Quincy went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water for himself and a cup of black coffee for his father. The two men settled at one end of the long oak table to eat. Before beginning, they crossed themselves and said a blessing. Nona appeared in the archway just as Quincy took a bite of his kale wrap.
“We’re breaking for lunch,” she said. With a glance at her watch, she added, “Thirty minutes each way and thirty to eat. We’ll be back at about two forty-five, give or take.”
Quincy managed to swallow. “Enjoy the break. See you in a bit.”
Nona left. Quincy turned back to his lunch. Mary, from the deli, had sent him a side of sugar peas and hummus dip. Frank had a bag of greasy potato chips and a fruit tart, one of those assembly-line things full of fat, white flour, and sugar, and with little nutrient value. “How can you eat shit like that?” Quincy asked.
“Just like this.” Frank took a huge bite of a double-decker sandwich and grinned with a bulging cheek. After chewing a moment, he swallowed and added, “I’m surprised your eyes ain’t green, son. You eat the strangest things. That kale, for instance. Why do you think it’s so great?”
“It’s a super vegetable.” Quincy knew that fell on deaf ears. “Full of iron and calcium. You should read about it, Dad.”
“Readin’ about it is all I’ll ever do. Dee Dee gets some spinach into me every now and then, and I’ll even force down asparagus and broccoli on occasion, but that’s about as healthy as I’m willin’ to eat. I’m a meat-and-potatoes man. I do have a salad every night, but only because she won’t serve my main courses until my bowl’s clean.”
“Meat and potatoes with lots of butter, gravy, and grease tossed in, not to mention heart-attack breakfasts.”
Frank chuckled. “I’ll die happy. You’ll die hungry for some real food.”
The argument was one of long standing, so both of them tucked back into their lunches without speaking again. When the sacks and napkins had been dispensed with, Quincy returned to the dining room. “Okay, what’s in the carton? I know you didn’t open the safety-deposit box at the bank and bring that stuff home just for the exercise.”
Frank moved to the end of the table and opened the cardboard flaps. “Old family heirlooms, son. I doubt you’ve ever clapped eyes on ’em. After your mama passed away, I pretty much couldn’t bring myself to look at any of these things. Not because my family history no longer mattered to me, but because your mama got so excited about every little thing. Every couple of months, she’d insist on a trip to the bank, just so she could read this or that. She used to swear that someday, after you boys was grown, she’d track my family clear back to Ireland. I just couldn’t face all them sweet memories, you know?”
Quincy’s memories of his mother were dim. He’d been young when she died, and when he tried to picture her face, all he saw was the photograph of her that his father had kept on his nightstand until he finally remarried. “I wish I’d known her better.”
Frank’s eyes grew misty. “Yep, me, too. But it wasn’t meant to be, I don’t guess, and life goes on. There was a time when I didn’t think it would, but now . . .” His voice trailed off as he lowered a hand inside the box. “Well, now I have Dee Dee and a lot of wonderful memories of your mama. In many ways, I’m luckier than most men ever thought of bein’.”
Quincy inched closer to the box. “So what have you got there?”
“Harrigan history,” Frank said softly. “Some of it to be proud of, and some of it skeletons in our closet.”
“Skeletons?”
Frank trailed his fingertips over the leather binding of what looked like an ancient journal about to fall apart with age. “Not all my ancestors was what I’d call normal, let’s just
Quincy went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water for himself and a cup of black coffee for his father. The two men settled at one end of the long oak table to eat. Before beginning, they crossed themselves and said a blessing. Nona appeared in the archway just as Quincy took a bite of his kale wrap.
“We’re breaking for lunch,” she said. With a glance at her watch, she added, “Thirty minutes each way and thirty to eat. We’ll be back at about two forty-five, give or take.”
Quincy managed to swallow. “Enjoy the break. See you in a bit.”
Nona left. Quincy turned back to his lunch. Mary, from the deli, had sent him a side of sugar peas and hummus dip. Frank had a bag of greasy potato chips and a fruit tart, one of those assembly-line things full of fat, white flour, and sugar, and with little nutrient value. “How can you eat shit like that?” Quincy asked.
“Just like this.” Frank took a huge bite of a double-decker sandwich and grinned with a bulging cheek. After chewing a moment, he swallowed and added, “I’m surprised your eyes ain’t green, son. You eat the strangest things. That kale, for instance. Why do you think it’s so great?”
“It’s a super vegetable.” Quincy knew that fell on deaf ears. “Full of iron and calcium. You should read about it, Dad.”
“Readin’ about it is all I’ll ever do. Dee Dee gets some spinach into me every now and then, and I’ll even force down asparagus and broccoli on occasion, but that’s about as healthy as I’m willin’ to eat. I’m a meat-and-potatoes man. I do have a salad every night, but only because she won’t serve my main courses until my bowl’s clean.”
“Meat and potatoes with lots of butter, gravy, and grease tossed in, not to mention heart-attack breakfasts.”
Frank chuckled. “I’ll die happy. You’ll die hungry for some real food.”
The argument was one of long standing, so both of them tucked back into their lunches without speaking again. When the sacks and napkins had been dispensed with, Quincy returned to the dining room. “Okay, what’s in the carton? I know you didn’t open the safety-deposit box at the bank and bring that stuff home just for the exercise.”
Frank moved to the end of the table and opened the cardboard flaps. “Old family heirlooms, son. I doubt you’ve ever clapped eyes on ’em. After your mama passed away, I pretty much couldn’t bring myself to look at any of these things. Not because my family history no longer mattered to me, but because your mama got so excited about every little thing. Every couple of months, she’d insist on a trip to the bank, just so she could read this or that. She used to swear that someday, after you boys was grown, she’d track my family clear back to Ireland. I just couldn’t face all them sweet memories, you know?”
Quincy’s memories of his mother were dim. He’d been young when she died, and when he tried to picture her face, all he saw was the photograph of her that his father had kept on his nightstand until he finally remarried. “I wish I’d known her better.”
Frank’s eyes grew misty. “Yep, me, too. But it wasn’t meant to be, I don’t guess, and life goes on. There was a time when I didn’t think it would, but now . . .” His voice trailed off as he lowered a hand inside the box. “Well, now I have Dee Dee and a lot of wonderful memories of your mama. In many ways, I’m luckier than most men ever thought of bein’.”
Quincy inched closer to the box. “So what have you got there?”
“Harrigan history,” Frank said softly. “Some of it to be proud of, and some of it skeletons in our closet.”
“Skeletons?”
Frank trailed his fingertips over the leather binding of what looked like an ancient journal about to fall apart with age. “Not all my ancestors was what I’d call normal, let’s just
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