I stared at him, a bit dizzy over the rapid shift in how I viewed Dick Cheney. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Dick Cheney was a father? A grandfather? Suddenly, his comment about burying his child made so much sense. But looking back, remembering how sweet he’d been with Mr. Wainwright, I could see it. He was always so deferential toward him, so kind. And now I was sort of ashamed that I had assumed Dick was buttering him up for some sort of multilevel marketing scheme.
“I put off telling Gilbert about us being family. That’s why I was so pissed at myself at the shop. I always thought I had more time, you know? Maybe that’s the danger of living forever; it makes you take time for granted,” Dick said, wiping at the reddish moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Gilbert went off to war, traveled the world, made a life here in the Hollow. And I was able to see it all. I tried to approach him so many times. Over and over, I would get as far as his door and then run back to my car like a coward. I told myself, Not yet. Give it a few more years. I thought I would have more time to get to know him better and, eventually, tell him who I am. And when Jane’s gettin’ hired on at the shop meant spending time with him, I thought, This is it. This is my chance. But I kept putting it off because I was afraid he’d be embarrassed or ashamed to be related to me. Plus, I didn’t want to complicate Jane’s job. She was so happy there, and Gilbert honestly needed her help. And now I’ve lost my chance.”
“But I thought that he was still hanging around the shop in his ghostly form?”
“He is.”
“So you still have time to talk to him!”
“I did. I told him before you showed up about Albert and his mama and about how I’d watched out for him over the years. He was happy, grateful even, and that made me feel like an even bigger ass. I could have had a relationship with him. We could have gone fishing or traveled together or something. And I missed out on it because I’m a coward.”
“But you can still spend time with him.”
Dick stepped back to lean against my kitchen table, looking glum. “It’s not the same.”
“Well, cry me a freaking river, Dick!” I exclaimed.
He stared at me, eyes wide. “The hell, Red?”
I clapped my hand over my mouth. What was wrong with me? Why did grief bring about such horrifyingly inappropriate responses from me? Maybe I’d taken some sort of psychotropic, truth-serum-type drugs instead of my iron supplement?
Still looking slightly shell-shocked, Dick moved closer and pried my fingers away from my lips. “No, I think I want to hear this. You were saying?”
“I have parents who refuse to talk to me. I’ve been permanently removed from the family tree—with a blowtorch—because my parents are elitist, deadist snobs who are hyperaware of appearances. But you—you still have the opportunity to build that bond with Mr. Wainwright, to love him and let him love you, and you’re too much of a wuss to do it.”
“Hey!”
“You are! Man up, Cheney.”
He pulled a pouty face.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” I challenged him.
He grumbled, “You’re not.”
I preened, but only a little bit. “It’s great that you told Mr. Wainwright. Now he knows what you did for him, that he wasn’t as alone as he thought he was. You said he was happy and grateful to hear that you were related. That’s not going to stop because of timing issues. Now, be the vampire I know you can be, get some perspective, and build a loving relationship with your grandson. Or do I need to keep insulting you for a while to get my point across?”
“No, nope, I got it.” Dick nodded and wiped at his cheeks with vampire speed so I wouldn’t notice the traces of moisture on his skin. “Now, what’s with all the iron pills, Red?” he asked. “You feeling all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Sophie set up an appointment for me later tonight with a new vampire who’s nervous about feeding. I’m heading out in a bit.”
“I could come with you, you know. Make sure you’re safe during the meet-and-bite and then take you out to get rehydrated,” he said, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. “I could be your entourage. Your water-bottle-carrying, over-protective entourage.”
“Yes, because nothing sets the tone for what is already an uncomfortable experience like bringing along a bodyguard. I like my clients to know that I don’t trust them as soon as I walk in the door.”
“I’m just not comfortable with you going out on these appointments for money,” he told me.
“Could you please rephrase that so I don’t sound like the title character in that ‘Roxanne’ song?”
Dick muttered, “I worry about you. “
“I appreciate that, but I’m a grown woman. I don’t need you to keep tabs on me.”
“I don’t think of it as keeping tabs. It’s more like observing closely in a manner that you might not always be aware of but is mostly harmless.”
“Dick.”
“I said mostly!” He scowled. “What more do you want from me, woman?”
“I wish you were less charming while stalking me. And I’m sorry about the yelling and the ‘cry me a river’ thing,” I said, patting his arm. “My reaction to death is bizarre and socially unacceptable.”
“That’s OK. You’re kind of adorable when you’re yelling at me . . . in a supportive fashion. Other types of yelling from you are still pretty scary,” he said. “Also, I wouldn’t mind kissing you again, under better circumstances.”