Season of Change. Melinda Curtis

to mention circumstances had Evy whisking their daughters away.

      Slade called the girls over and introduced them, knowing Takata wouldn’t be able to tell his identical twins apart as soon as they moved away. Slade handed the girls each a twenty and asked them to buy strawberries, tomatoes, and corn, and then run back to the house to put their purchases in the refrigerator. It was only a block and a half away, a safe errand in a small town.

      “You gave them too much money,” Takata complained after they’d skipped off.

      “My ex-wife says I don’t give them enough.” It was a pleasure to give them something instead of writing a check to Evy every month.

      “Kids who don’t learn to work for things don’t have a good work ethic.” Takata eyed Slade. “Why do you think you’re so successful?”

      “Because I worked my butt off instead of living.” From high school to his last job on Wall Street. He’d worked until he’d lost sight of what was important.

      The old man scoffed and tilted closer, as if sharing a secret. “You’re not living now.”

      Slade couldn’t move more than his lips. “I live.”

      “You exist.” Takata sat back, watching Grace stay just close enough to Truman, Becca, and Flynn that she could hear what they were saying, but far enough back that she wasn’t part of their family unit.

      Slade struggled to draw in air. He knew how it felt to be on the perimeter of relationships, to feel as if you’d never quite belong. He didn’t expect to recognize the same thing in his daughter.

      “Grace is an old soul,” Takata was saying.

      Lucky guess.

      “And Faith looks before she leaps.” Takata gestured to Faith, who was skipping by the Jimtown table, as if contemplating buying another sweet.

      “You don’t know that,” Slade said gruffly.

      The Jimtown clerk pointed at a plate of frosted cookies. Faith stopped and nodded enthusiastically, digging in her pocket for money.

      Takata hammered his cane into the grass again. “As a funeral-home director and mortician, I’ve looked at a lot of faces and listened to a lot of stories. I think I know what someone’s about when I look at them.” He glared at Slade. “Your soul is wounded and trapped. Looks like it should be set free.”

      “Are you telling fortunes now?” Slade stood, tugging at his tie, feeling it tighten like a noose. The last thing he wanted was to rehash the past with the old man.

      Takata caught his sleeve above the cuff. “I’m telling truths. You need to forgive, if not your father, then yourself.”

      Slade couldn’t move. Not from the sudden unbridling of grief and guilt, or from the spot where his feet seemed to have taken root.

      “Now,” Takata stood unsteadily, “I’m ready to go home. If you let me lean on you, it’ll go much quicker.” When Slade didn’t move, he raised his voice. “Are you deaf? Lend me your arm.”

      The twins ran by, heading for home with their purchases. He could almost feel the air move as they passed, feel grief and guilt recede. They were his hope.

      Slade stepped closer to the old man and held out his arm.

      “’Bout time.”