Delaney James seems to have it all-a successful husband, a stylish Manhattan townhouse, and a thriving career in fashion journalism-until it all falls apart. Her husband leaves her, shattering the perfect life she once knew. Heartbroken and desperat...
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Greyson wouldn't be home until late Friday night, so while he was gone, I decided I'd spend some time with Mr. McKinnie. I try to avoid thinking about it, but I don't know how much longer he has with us, and I don't want to look back on these days in a few weeks, or a few months – or a year if we're lucky – and wish I'd spent them differently. I don't want to watch his casket be lowered into the ground and think 'I should have spent just a little more time with him.'
Jesus, Delaney. A little morbid, don't you think?
I work my shifts at Maribelle's during the day, work on some social media stuff, and upload my weekly blog post to the website Adelaide helped me create, and then I spend the rest of the night at the McKinnie's. I put the cooking classes Will got for me to good use and cook nutrient-filled meals for them each night, and Mrs. McKinnie is more than happy to have the evenings off. I make lentil soup, so he gets the fiber and vitamins he needs. Salmon for the Omegas. Homemade chicken noodle soup for the days and nights he feels nauseous and made from scratch bone broth for extra protein.
I insist on nothing but healthy eating, but when he asks for his favorite meal – fried catfish, macaroni and cheese, and homemade hush puppies – Greyson's mother and I can't say no. I tell him if he wants a cheat meal, he's going to have to help us in the kitchen, and my heart grows three sizes, spreading a welcoming warmth throughout my entire body, when the three of us decide to make the meal together.
It's nights and moments like these that make me so happy I decided not to go back to New York after that first week, but stay in South Grove with the people I love most.
Every night after dinner, Mr. McKinnie and I pour ourselves a glass of sweet tea and head out to their spacious front porch. I mention how Greyson will be mad at both of us if he finds out he's not drinking the green tea he bought him, to which he responded, "I'm a dying man, Delaney. I'm allowed to drink whatever the hell I want." His words throw me for an emotional loop. I could practically feel my heart shatter into a million pieces – like a fragile, hand-blown, glass Christmas ornament that had been carelessly dropped on the floor. It's the first time I've heard him say the words out loud. The first time I believe them to be true. Honestly, I was kind of hoping the liquor and Greyson's heightened emotional state the other night had caused him to exaggerate his father's diagnosis, but now that I've heard the words straight from Mr. McKinnie's mouth, and I've spent this time with him one-on-one, I know it's true.
Mr. McKinnie will be gone soon, and there's nothing anyone can do to change that.
We play checkers to keep his mind from wandering, and he attempts to teach me chess, which he fails at miserably. I simply don't understand the patterns, or the concepts, or the strategies a person needs to know in order to play the game. He suggests Scrabble so I can work on my vocabulary for my future journalism career and all the articles I've been posting on my blog.
"You've read them?" I ask, my eyes wide with curiosity, brow wrinkled in suspicion. A lifestyle blog isn't exactly something I imagine a sixty-two-year-old man would be interested in.
