Page 78 of A Change of Location
“Okay. Just remember, you can’t blame me for wrecking your love life. Or causing the weird vibe I get whenever you’re with your parents. Yeah, I’ve noticed. What’s that all about?”
“A longstanding grievance.”
“Well, that sure clears it up. C’mon, tell me. Maybe I can help.”
“It’s more than ten years too late for that.”
“Oh, yeah? I spilled my guts. Your turn.”
“They didn’t let me testify in front of the jury. Or before the judge handed down your sentence. I wanted to be a character witness.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not them. I’m the one who didn’t want you in court. No way was I involving you in that trial. My lawyer—the public defender—wanted you on the stand. But without my okay, it wasn’t going to happen. You were a teenager. And you couldn’t have said anything that would’ve done me a damn bit of good.”
His admission, a convincing contradiction of her assumptions, stunned her into silence. She couldn’t shift all her pent-up resentment from her parents to Chase. Her determination to spare him from public exposure and media intrusion had been so strong that she’d turned away from the man she loved. Battling her shock, confusion, hurt, remorse, and regret, she realized she couldn’t justifiably criticize her uncle’s effort to protect her. Not when she’d done the very same thing on his behalf.
“I can’t understand why Mum and Dad didn’t tell me it was your decision. They should have.”
“Don’t be mad about that, either. Water under the bridge, Han. Get back to work. Break’s over.”
With that, he disposed of an entire decade of hardship and turmoil and misunderstanding as easily as he discarded cracked and broken shingles.
“It’s Grampa’s night at the Legion Hall, hanging out with his buddies,” she told him when they stopped work for the day. “Come to our house for supper. Shepherd’s pie.”
“Can’t say no to that. See you later, Hannah-Banana.”
***
Dad stood at the stove, browning minced lamb, and Mum used her mixer to whip the potatoes. On the counter stood a bottle of champagne, beaded with water drops, and three crystal flutes.
“We waited to start the celebration,” her mother said, “until you got back.”
She dropped her bag onto an antique thumb-back chair. “This isn’t an anniversary or a birthday. What are you celebrating?”
“Good news. The best we’ve had in ages.”
Not a drop of bubbly had been consumed, yet her parents were giddy.
Dad pulled the cork and poured sparkling, foaming liquid into each glass. “To Wendy Edney!”
“To Mum!”
“To me! To the multi-book contract! To my television series!”
“Wait, back up. You’re going on television again?”
“Wendy Edney’s Great British Gardens. A US-UK production by Acorn Films, for streaming on ServeFlix. Six one-hour segments, two or three gardens per hour. Not a travelogue,” Mum said excitedly. “Each episode will include the history and development and contents and maintenance of each garden. I’ll interview the designers and groundskeepers as well as property owners. Shooting starts in spring and summer. The scripts will be used to create the tie-in book, which will be illustrated with photographs.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“Wendy Edney’s Great Irish Gardens will follow, and its book. If all goes well, there’s a chance of doing a European series. After that, the Caribbean.”
“Jeezum crow! Say, Dad,” she said, looking up at him, “you’ll be spending a lot of time all alone.”
“I’ll survive. Just like I did all the other times.”
Mum looked up at him. “I’m counting on you to take that long overdue vacation. When I’m not filming, we’ll visit my mother and George and Barbara in Wales. And it’s been yonks since we’ve spent time with my brother James, and Lisa. Their Will was a schoolboy when I last saw him.”
“I’m trying to bring another vet into the practice. Plenty of time to get it done before I have to make travel plans. Did you invite Chase for supper, Punkin?”
