Page 7 of The Impossible

He shook his head. “Well, I hear you, the only thing I can warn you about is allegiances and direct business with people like Shamus O’Leary. You may be a part of the same circles, but you don’t trust him. Nobody should.”

“I don’t trust that old motherfucker as far as I can toss him, Pops.”

“Good. So I guess congratulations are in order, well probably not yet, huh? Given she still hasn’t said yes.” He laughed.

“She’s gonna say yes. Patience has always been sweet on Hony. She used to be so nervous around him, and so cute.” My mother came out of the kitchen holding a pan with a grin.

My father and I both laughed.

“When are they telling her?” my mother asked, letting us both know she had been listening to the conversation way before she responded.

“Monday.”

“Alright, Hondo. You have to be the opposite of them. Take a few pointers from your father. When my father told me I was marrying him, I could’ve jumped out the window. Not because of him, but because I hadn’t lived yet. I was a fresh twenty-one with dreams to travel the world, not be tied down to a nigga who didn’t smile.” She laughed at herself. “But then it was just him and me, and he told me he didn’t wanna be my life, he wanted to be a part of it… the part that fulfilled it.”

“Now don’t steal my game, youngsta. You gotta be original.” My father held his hands up with a close-mouthed grin, proud of himself.

I laughed.

“And you also can’t be one of those men who works too much. If you’re choosing to get married, then you’re choosing to slow down a little bit and build your home front. I.e. those grandkids I’m owed. Pretty sure I’m not getting any from your brother. He hasn’t even uttered the word marriage, let alone that he likes someone.”

Pops laughed. “First she gotta tell him yes, Alora.”

They both laughed while I waved him off. As far as I was concerned, I had the yes. It was in the way she looked at me at dinner. She wanted me too. She probably just didn’t know how much until the time came.

CHAPTER 3

Patience

The weekend flew past, and before I knew it, Monday had come in hot. I had a late start at the sanctuary today, so that gave me time to run errands and mentally prepare for the week ahead. What I didn’t expect was for my grandfather to be on my line, letting me know a car was outside my condo waiting for me. That I didn’t expect at all, but I knew better than to ignore a summons from the old man.

On the ride out to his house, I made the executive decision to inform my job I was working from home today. Not only was my grandfather long winded, but he was old and you never spent just fifteen minutes with him. Somehow it turned into an entire day. He could get that every once in a while though because I didn’t spend much time with my family. Ever since my mother died, I avoided being too close to them. That didn’t include my sister, but definitely my brother, father, and grandfather.

When we pulled into the gates of the O’Leary estate, I didn’t know what to expect. The main house belonged to my grandfather, then on the left side was my mother and father’s home, and on the right, my brother’s. No homes were ever built for the women because it was expected that we’d be married off and live with our husbands. Boy were they wrong, given my little sister lived in Boston with her fiancé. Then there was me. I didn’t rely on my family to live, so not a soul had the power to marry me off.

The door for me to exit the car was open seconds later. I turned my head to the side, glancing at my grandfather standing at the top of the stairs, his expression serious as he looked at my father who I hadn’t expected to see today. It always amused me how my grandfather never looked a day over fifty when he was, in fact, seventy-two years old and climbing.

Shamus O’Leary was every bit of any Irishman you’d expect, except he didn’t sport the freckles or red hair. He had a head full of grays, always styled to the side and back of his head, allowing only one bit to curl forward. His skin was warm, a thick, lightly bronzed ivory, and he had the most beautiful eyes. The only thing I had inherited from him. While his eyes were a crystal ocean blue, mine had a different array of blues. Then there was my father, a fair, almond skin tone with less of a slick back style to his hair, but instead, two-inch curls rising from his scalp and the same crystal blue eyes. They looked alike, one just older and white while my father was Black and took more of my grandmother’s features.

“I don’t enjoy being summoned,” I said once I was out of the car and moving toward the stairs where they both stood awkwardly. While my father looked extremely uncomfortable, my grandfather wore his usual poker face.

Grandpa grinned. “Well, my dear, had you answered your phone, you wouldn’t have been summoned.”

“Is that so?” I reached the top of the stairs.

“Yes, I called you Friday and Saturday.” My father approached, pulling me into a hug before he kissed my forehead. “Too busy with those animals to return calls, baby girl.” He gave me a once over, that uncomfortableness still in his eyes.

Then it was my grandfather’s turn. He kissed my cheek before looking at me intently. “You cut your hair again,” he commented, those blue eyes tracing my face.

“Yes, last year. We talked about this already.” I laughed, knowing he hated when I cut my hair. Something about hair was a big deal to controlling men.

“I guess we did.” He looped his arm in mine as my father led the way into his home. Nothing had changed, everything frozen in time since my grandmother passed on. Quiet ivory luxury with gold accents.

I was led into the kitchen where a breakfast feast was prepared and that had me staring at them. It made me wonder what was wrong. I knew them too well and they were acting like someone had died.

“Do you remember when my cat Cheil died and you told me she ran away? I saw right through it, and Pop, do you remember when you taught me to play chess? You told me a man’s eyes were the window to his soul. With that being said, what are you guys not telling me?”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, both silently passing the imaginary hot potato. I guess my grandfather was stuck holding the potato at ten because he began to speak while my father went over and poured himself a drink. Whatever was to be told to me was wearing on him.