“Have a seat,” she continued. “I’m brewing a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll bring some over when it’s done.”
He retrieved his cupcakes and followed his father. After his old man’s initial reluctance to even step inside the bakery, Isaiah was surprised to see him select a table by the window, overlooking the town’s main thoroughfare.
Not bothering with preliminaries, they immediately took huge bites out of the tower of creamy icing covering their confections.
One mouthful and Isaiah knew why his father was hooked. The rich, sugary rush of flavor was addictive.
“Mmm.” Ben closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “Is this not the best thing you ever tasted?”
His own mouth stuffed with another huge bite, Isaiah could only nod.
Neither man looked up from his plate until Carrie returned with coffee and a purple box with the bakery’s logo.
“I wrapped up a cinnamon roll for Cecily.” She glanced down at their nearly empty plates and winked. “You two make sure she gets it.”
After Carrie left, Isaiah sipped his coffee and looked at his father, who was staring out the window. His face still bore the fine lines of weariness, but he sat a little straighter and the pastry appeared to have elevated his mood.
Ben took a sip of coffee. “Thanks for bringing me here,” he said, continuing to gaze out at the passing cars and occasional pedestrian. “Sorry I gave you a hard time.”
“No big deal.”
The sun made a sudden appearance, poking through the blanket of gray clouds dominating the skies. His father squinted against the beams streaming through the storefront window.
“We can move to another table,” Isaiah offered.
“No, it’s cool.” Ben faced the sun. “Other than driving back and forth to Boston for my treatments, I’ve been holed up at the house.”
Isaiah figured as much. It was why he’d insisted on bringing him here.
His father turned away from the window. Wrapping his hands around his coffee mug, he looked down at the still-steaming brew before focusing his attention on Isaiah. “You haven’t said what your plans are now that you’re out of the military,” he said. “I don’t suppose they include staying in Wintersage permanently.”
They didn’t. He’d intended to spend only the next month with his folks. The day after Thanksgiving, he was booked on a flight bound for London.
He shook his head. Although his father’s prognosis was excellent, the cancer diagnosis had shaken Isaiah. He didn’t want to think about leaving. Not yet. Not until after his father completed his course of radiation therapy this week, and they’d gotten a follow-up report from his doctors.
“I’m here now,” he said.
Ben smiled, sunlight washing over his drawn face.
“Then how about doing your old dad a favor?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
His father rubbed a hand over the stubble along his chin.
“As you know, Martine’s Fine Furnishings still sponsors the children’s Halloween party at the recreation center. This year, I’d like you to stand in for me and your mother.”
The tradition had started with Isaiah’s maternal great-grandfather, a Halloween night nearly a half century ago, when the town’s residents had taken shelter in the basement of the recreation center as a late-season hurricane battered the Massachusetts shoreline. It went on to become an annual event and a Wintersage institution.
Isaiah speculated that his father was more exhausted than he’d let on if he’d consider missing it.
“No problem. You just take it easy and rest up for next year.” Isaiah drained the last of the coffee in his mug with one gulp.
“Rest?” Ben laughed. “I can rest when I’m dead.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve been sitting here thinking about what you said about life being short. Cancer has hung over me like a dark cloud the past few months. Even before my diagnosis, life for your mother and I revolved around the company,” he said. “I can’t think of the last time either of us has done anything unrelated to the company and now illness.”
Isaiah listened as his father continued.
“I plan to remedy that. Starting this Friday with Halloween,” Ben said. “My last radiation treatment is Friday morning. Afterward, I’m going to persuade your mother to take off work and spend the day in Salem for some good, scary fun. We can take one of those corny ghost tours, visit the House of the Seven Gables and the Salem Witch Museum and then spend the night at a local bed-and-breakfast.”
Isaiah couldn’t help wondering if his father was moving too fast. Four more days of treatments would leave him more fatigued than he was now.
Isaiah looked down at his empty coffee mug and searched his brain for a diplomatic way of saying so without offending him.
“Our first date was on Halloween, you know,” his father said. “I took her to see one of those gory slasher films that were all the rage back then. Somewhere between the on-screen screams and Cecily spilling an entire tub of popcorn on me, I fell in love.”
His father’s reminiscence caught Isaiah off guard. It was the first time he had heard that story.
While Isaiah was growing up, Ben’s references to the past had focused exclusively on stories of the Jacobs men who’d come before him, and Isaiah’s duty to follow in their footsteps to Annapolis and then the navy.
Isaiah credited the uncharacteristic sentimental recollection to the cancer diagnosis.
“Perhaps you should give your body a little recovery time before playing tourist and considering an overnighter. Who knows how you’ll feel come Friday?”
Ben opened the box Carrie had left on the table, pulled out the cinnamon roll earmarked for his wife, and took a bite out of it. He appeared to mull over Isaiah’s concerns as he chewed. “Salem’s right down the road, and a shorter drive from here than Boston. If I get tired, we’ll check into the bed-and-breakfast early.”
“How about renting a scary movie and chilling out at home?” Isaiah suggested.
“I’m not asking your permission, son. All I’m asking is for you to stand in for us at an event sponsored by our family business.” Picking up a napkin, Ben wiped white icing from his fingertips. “Will you do that for me?”
Isaiah nodded.
He wanted to spend his short time in Wintersage helping his folks, and if that meant playing host at a children’s party, so be it.
Why couldn’t she have just kept her mouth shut?
Sandra walked the short blocks to The Quarterdeck restaurant in a zombielike stupor.
Autumn was her favorite season. Yet she couldn’t appreciate the scent of firewood permeating the crisp night air or the wind rustling the few leaves still clinging to trees. The jack-o’-lanterns and campaign placards in the shop windows she passed were a blur.
Reality had set in, and all she could think about was the big fat Thanksgiving mess she’d gotten herself into. Thanks to a childish need to constantly prove herself to her dad.
She yanked open the door to the restaurant and blinked as she walked inside.
The usual elegant ambience of her Monday night haunt had undergone a transformation since last week. Paper lanterns adorned with bats and witches riding brooms hung from