The Mistletoe Inn Read Online Free PDF Page B

night, sweetheart.” He walked to the door, then looked back. “Our best years are still to come. Don’t forget that.”
    â€œI hope you’re right,” I said.
    â€œI know I’m right,” he said, thumping his fist against his heart. “I know it.” He walked out, shutting the door behind him.
    I undressed, turned out the light, then crawled under the covers. I cried myself to sleep.

CHAPTER
Seven
    Sometimes the most whole people are those who come from the most broken circumstances.
    Kimberly Rossi’s Diary

Not surprisingly, I didn’t sleep well. Thoughts of my father’s cancer played through my mind like a bad song you can’t get rid of. I sat bolt upright in the middle of the night after dreaming that I was at his funeral.
    In spite of my lack of sleep, I got up early enough to go outside and watch the sun rise over the River Mountains. It was cool outside, probably in the low sixties, but practically sweltering compared to the freeze I’d left back in Denver.
    I put on my walking shoes, sweatpants, and a Denver Broncos sweatshirt and walked about six miles, trying to clear my head a little before going back to the house. I was hoping that the walk would make me feel better, but it only made my mind focus more on my father’s cancer. I started crying twice, once when I was almost home, so I just kept walking for another mile. I didn’t want my dad to see me crying—not that I could have hidden it anymore, as my eyes were already red and puffy. When I walked into the house my father was in the kitchen making breakfast.
    â€œI made you some oatmeal.” My father said nothing about my puffy eyes, which I was grateful for. He hugged me, thenhanded me a bowl. “I made it just the way you like it, with cream, walnuts, raisins, and a lot of brown sugar. Too much brown sugar.”
    â€œThanks, Dad.” I sat down to eat.
    â€œHow was your walk?”
    â€œIt was okay,” I said.
    My father poured cream over his oatmeal, then sat down across from me. “How did you sleep?”
    â€œIt’s just good to be back home,” I said, ignoring his question.
    â€œIt’s always good when you’re home,” he replied. “You don’t have to live in Colorado.”
    â€œI know,” I said.
    After we finished eating, my father, as tradition dictated, put on the Carpenters’ Christmas album and Karen’s rich voice filled our home.
    We had a lot of cooking to do, which I was glad for. I needed something to occupy my mind. My tasks were pecan-crusted sweet potato casserole and corn bread stuffing.
    I noticed that my father set the table with two extra settings.
    â€œAre we having guests?”
    â€œI invited a couple of men from the hospital. Chuck and Joel. They don’t have any family around. Is that all right?”
    â€œOf course. What about Alice?”
    â€œShe’s in Utah with her children. Her son owns an Internet company up there.”
    Neither of us spoke for a while. The emotion returnedand I purposely kept turned away from my father, occasionally dabbing my cheeks with a napkin or dish towel. I was chopping pecans for the casserole when he walked up beside me. “What’s wrong?”
    I kept chopping, avoiding eye contact. “You mean, besides you dying?”
    He put his hand on mine to stop me. “I told you I’m not dying.”
    â€œRelying on care from the veterans hospital is not exactly filling me with confidence. Las Vegas has one of the best cancer facilities in America. Why don’t you go there?”
    â€œWhy should I get any better treatment than anyone else?”
    â€œWhat you should get is the best treatment available.”
    â€œI am. The VA is what’s available. I can’t afford any fancy cancer center.”
    â€œBut your insurance . . .”
    â€œMy Medicare covers the VA.”
    I shook my head. “There’s got to be