What We Find by Robyn Carr Page B

attachment, lawn-grooming equipment, riding mower, wheelbarrow and gardening supplies.
    Snowblower . He kept reminding himself to head south. Maybe southwest. It was just all that smog and sand and those hot rocks they called mountains...
    He’d gone to school in Michigan, the state that invented winter. He was from everywhere, usually moderate climates, while Lynne was from New York. Westchester, to be exact.
    He chose the wheelbarrow, spade, shovel and rake, and started clearing away the winter debris. He hadn’t asked what Sully meant to do with the stuff so he made two piles—one of fallen leaves that could constitute fertilizer and the other rocks, winter trash and weeds. You wouldn’t want to use weeds in mulch; that would just invite them back.
    He’d been at it a couple of hours when he heard her approach. He knew she’d get around to it. He leaned on his spade and waited.
    “You let my father eat a hot dog? Does that sound heart healthy to you?”
    He just shook his head. “You know he’s a liar and he’s having fun with your close medical scrutiny. What do you think?”
    “He got me, didn’t he?”
    “He ate a sandwich—lean turkey, tomato, lettuce on wheat bread. He asked for doughy white bread and lost out to Enid, who obviously knows him better than you do. He wanted chips—he got slaw—made with vinegar, not mayo. Really, Maggie?” He laughed and shook his head.
    “He’s antagonizing me, is that what you’re saying?”
    “Over and over. But you can stop pressing the panic button. He’s doing great.”
    “Have you seen his incision?” she asked.
    “Oh, about ten times. I offered to sell tickets for him. He’s running out of people to show. But no worries. He tells me the camp is going to attract people like crazy any second now. Spring break, then weekends, then summer. I just hope he doesn’t scare the children.”
    She thought about that for a moment. “It’s impolite to act like you know more about my closest relative than I do.”
    “And yet, that’s usually the case. You’re too bound up by baggage, expectation and things you need for yourself. Like a father who lives much longer.” He pulled a rag out of his back pocket to wipe off his brow. “Stop letting him bait you. He’s very conscious of the doctor’s orders. He’s taking it one step at a time.”
    “Did he pay you to say this? Or are you Dr. Phil on vacation?”
    Cal laughed. “You two have quite a dynamic going. You could be a married couple. Married about forty years, I’d say.”
    “Remind you of your parents?” she asked, raising one brow. She crossed her arms over her chest.
    “My parents are unnaturally tight,” he said. “They’re kind of amazing, I guess. Deeply supportive of each other, almost to the exclusion of everything around them and everyone else. Protective. They’re in their sixties, as in love as the day they met, and total whack jobs. But sweet. They’re very sweet.”
    Her arms dropped to her sides. “What makes them whack jobs?”
    “Well, they always described themselves as hippies. New-age disciples. Free thinkers. Intelligent and experimental and artistic. They’re from that dropout generation. And Deadheads.”
    “As in, the Grateful Dead?”
    “Exactly. Just a little more complex.”
    She dropped down to the ground like a child fascinated by a bedtime story filled with adventure and excitement. She circled her knees with her arms. He’d seen this before. It was kind of fun, as a matter of fact.
    “Where are they now?” she asked.
    “Living on my grandfather’s farm in Iowa. My grandfather passed away quite a while ago and my grandmother, just a few years ago.”
    “Are they still whack jobs?” she asked.
    “Oh yeah,” he said, working his spade again. “Or maybe it’s more kind to say they’re eccentric. My mother doesn’t hear voices or anything.” Then he smiled. “But my dad is another story. My father fancies himself a new age thinker. He’s incredibly