Sam put down the plate and reached for the older woman’s hand. “If you make him happy and can bring some joy to whatever time he has left, the only thing I can do is thank you for that.”

“Thank you,” Celia said, her eyes bright with emotion. “It matters to him, to both of us, that you’d approve.”

“I guess I need to get busy looking for another place to keep my clothes.”

“Why?”

“You crazy kids won’t want me underfoot.”

“He wants you to stay. We both do. There’s no reason for you to move out. I’ll take one of the other bedrooms up here. We’ll work it out. I’m here most of the time anyway. I don’t expect much will change.”

“This’ll change everything for him, Celia. It’ll give him a reason to keep fighting.”

“Perhaps. I’ll consider myself blessed for whatever time we get.”

“Did he bully you into telling me?”

“He was afraid it would upset you, so I offered.”

“You can tell him that not only am I fine with it, I’m thrilled for him. For both of you.”

“That means a lot, Sam. I’m tired of hiding it. He’s the most remarkable man I’ve ever known and the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Ditto,” Sam said with a smile as Celia got up to leave. “Thanks for the pie.”

“My pleasure. Don’t work too hard.”

When she was alone, Sam had to resist the urge to call her sisters to share the huge scoop that had just fallen into her lap. “Not my news to tell,” she muttered, deciding that maturity wasn’t much fun at all.

While Celia’s news had surprised her, Sam realized it shouldn’t have. With hindsight, she could see there was something special between her father and his devoted nurse. Their banter, the carefree caresses Celia showered him with even though he couldn’t feel them, the genuine affection.

Comforted by Celia’s disclosures, Sam finished the pie and turned back to her report. She ran through it twice more before she sent it off to Freddie, who always checked them for her before she passed them up the food chain. If he wondered about the random mistakes, odd phrasings or twisted wording, he never said. Rather, he corrected the errors and returned the reports to her without comment.

Might be time to bring him into the loop, she thought. Dyslexia had cast its long net over every corner of her life, and until its diagnosis in sixth grade, she had believed herself to be as stupid as she was made to feel by teachers who had no idea what to do with her and parents who had been frustrated by her less-than-stellar performance in school.

Giving it a name had helped somewhat, but the daily struggles that went along with it were exhausting at times.