She summoned a smile and moved to her father’s bedside, where he was propped against three fluffy pillows. Although she saw him every day, her heart pinched when she looked into his eyes. His vacant stare had her wondering if he even knew she was there.
Not that it mattered. He was her daddy, and she would care for him and treat him with the respect he deserved all his days. That was Momma’s dying wish, and Coralee, barely fifteen years old, had promised to honor it. Little did she know at the time what that would cost her.
No! She mustn’t think like that. If Houston hadn’t loved her enough to ask her why she couldn’t marry him, instead of storming off to California, she was better off without him. She had a good life here. Daddy needed her, and so did her brother.
Calvin lacked their father’s business sense. She offered as much assistance as her older brother would accept, although he wasn’t as willing to listen to her opinions as she would like. Not that she had a head for figures, either. She much preferred dealing with people. Which reminded her … She would have a parlor full of ladies shortly, so she’d best get on with her day.
“Let’s get you a drink before I go downstairs.” She reached for the water on her father’s bedside table, held the glass to his lips, and tipped it. He made no effort to swallow, so the liquid dribbled down his chin, dampening his bedcovers.
She laughed. “You’re being ornery today, are you? Fine. We’ll do it your way.” She dipped a spoon in the water and offered it to him. His lips closed around the handle. He swallowed, opened, and held the position, which she’d learned meant he wanted more. She repeated the action until he clamped his mouth shut after she’d removed the spoon.
His eyes locked with hers for a brief moment, and she savored the sense of connection. He might not know who she was, but he trusted her.
“I have to go now, but I’ll be back as soon as my meeting is over and will sing ‘Jesus, Lover of My Soul’ for you.” Before his mind began fading, Daddy had chosen that hymn as his favorite. Grieving the loss of Momma, he’d embraced the idea of flying to the Lord’s bosom and being reunited with his beloved wife. Theirs had been a love so deep that he’d sunk into a depression after her passing, from which he never resurfaced.
She knew the thrill of giving your heart to another freely and completely. Houston had been the keeper of hers—until he’d shattered it.
One day, the good Lord willing, she’d know what it was like to be loved in the selfless way Daddy had loved Momma, putting her happiness before his. At twenty-eight, the possibility seemed unlikely, but the longing persisted, despite her attempts to fill her life with meaningful activity.
She pressed a kiss to her father’s forehead, turned, and nearly bumped into Sally.
“Whoa there, Miss C. I was just coming to check on our dear man. How is he?”
“It’s a good day. He actually looked at me, although he wouldn’t drink from the glass.” Coralee sent an indulgent smile his way. “He does love to exert his independence.”
Sally chuckled. “That he does.”
Bless the dear woman. Not once had their longtime maid questioned Coralee’s attempts to act as though Daddy were still with them. He was, of course, in body, but the father she’d known and loved had drifted further and further away, until only a shadow of his former self remained. But she couldn’t dwell on that. Any minute now the ladies would arrive, and she must be ready to greet them.
As if on cue, there was a knock on the front door. Coralee cast a lingering look at her father. She’d tried hard to sound positive, but his wan appearance was troubling.
Sally fluttered a hand toward her. “Go on now. He’ll be fine. I’ll sit by his side while I do some mending and tell him all about the delicious dinner Olive has planned. You know how much he enjoys her cooking.”
He used to, back when he had an appetite. These days his diet consisted of soups, puddings, and other easy-to-swallow foods. She would ask Olive to prepare a cup of cocoa. That was sure to tempt him. He loved his chocolate.
Coralee dashed down the stairs, opened the door, and greeted her guests. “Welcome, ladies. Won’t you come in?”
They retired to the parlor decorated in her late mother’s favorite colors of burnt orange and butterscotch, sipped lemonade, and ate generous slices of Olive’s moist sponge cake while chatting for a few minutes before their meeting began.
Clarice Spanner, a spinster with gray hair swept into an elaborate style, monopolized the conversation. Hartville’s dressmaker relished passing on bits of information she’d learned about the various residents. Velma Duke, a motherly figure with a knack for organization who served as president of Hartville’s Confederate Widows and Orphans Fund committee, joined Coralee in tactfully but firmly cutting off the pinch-lipped gossip and steering the conversation in new directions.