No Way Out Fern Michaels (e reader books .TXT) 📖

drive to the other side of town to visit the four-car collection he had in storage there. He wasn’t sure why he kept them. Obviously, he could only drive one at a time. He thought about selling them at an auction, but that would mean he was surrendering to his age. He didn’t feel like ninety, except when he had to get out of a chair.

Andy had once owned the only antiques store in the area, and it had a steady clientele. When he turned eighty, his friends convinced him to sell the store. Ten years later, he couldn’t remember why he had agreed to do so. At least when he had the store, he got to see the people who came in to shop. Now he had to go to see someone, anyone.

Making his way to the kitchen, he navigated between the piles of fabric, newspapers, and magazines that had piled up over the years. Trying to get from one part of the living room to another was like charting a course through a maze. Some of the stacks were so high he couldn’t see over them, and he was over six feet tall. The very thought of sorting through so much stuff made him weary. He occasionally worried that if anything happened to him while he was inside, there would be no way out. Not easily.

He ambled into the kitchen, another room in dire need of a dumpster. It wasn’t so much that it was garbage—just a lot of unnecessary things. How does one sort through years of Time magazine or Life? He knew there was nothing on those pages except nostalgia, but he just wasn’t ready to part with the shiny pages that chronicled the last twenty-five years of his time on Earth. He was also afraid that looking back would catapult him into the present, a place that he didn’t want to depart anytime soon. But he also did not like how the world was unraveling. He yearned for calmer, more peaceful, and cordial times. Times when people actually got out of their pajamas when they went to the store. Times when people greeted each other with “Good morning.” Times when everyone stood up for the national anthem. If he thought about it for too long, it would make him weep.

Even though he barely participated in most social gatherings, he enjoyed visiting the neighbors for summer barbecues. He was always invited, and he appreciated the opportunity to mingle with others, something he missed since he had shuttered the antiques store. He had no family, no significant other. Life could be lonely. He often wondered why that young woman at the end of the block was a shut-in. He thought that if he was still in his thirties, he would be painting the town. To him, her situation was incredibly sad. She had no idea what she was missing, and if she lived to be his age, she would most likely have regrets. He recalled a quote often attributed to Mark Twain but in reality Jackson Brown, Jr. said it:

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines! Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

He knew it so well from memory. It was on a plaque that had once hung in his antiques shop. He looked around at all the clutter. He knew the plaque was somewhere under one of the piles. He chuckled. “Twenty years? What I wouldn’t give to have those years back.”

He thought again about the woman down the street. She could use that plaque. He made a decision. He was going to find it. With any luck, it wouldn’t take too much time. Now, if he could only remember which stack it might be under. For the first time in ages, he felt he had a purpose besides making it back and forth to Sissy’s without sideswiping someone’s car.

Chapter Fourteen

Jackson was adapting well to the new situation at home. He was no longer anxious about what kind of mood his father would be in. Even though he didn’t fully understand the word “anxiety,” he knew what fear was. His father had never beaten him, but Jackson was not sure when the day would come that he would. His mom also seemed to be more relaxed. He was happy to see her smile. She was even singing when she was baking cookies. His mom had a nice voice. She used to sing at the church, but his father had made her stop. He wanted his bacon and eggs on Sunday morning when he got up, which was more like lunchtime.

After his big breakfast, his father would go down in the basement and fiddle with something. Jackson never really knew what he was fiddling with because he never came upstairs with anything to show for the time he spent down there. And if Jackson asked, his father would say, “Son, it’s man stuff.” Once Jackson pressed the issue, and his father exploded. “Don’t you ever question me, boy. You understand that?” Jackson never asked his dad a question again. He tried to remember when things were better, but it made his brain hurt to think so hard. He used his birthday parties as a point of reference. The last one was OK, but his father hadn’t shown up until most of the cake was gone, and everyone had left. His father got really mad at his mom for not saving him a piece. She tried to reason with him. “Mitchel, there is plenty left. Have some.”

“I ain’t eating no leftovers,” he bellowed.

“They’re not leftovers. We just cut it less than an hour ago,” Colleen said calmly.

“Well, you shoulda waited for me.” He took a fork and dug into the last piece on the serving platter, then threw the fork in the sink. “Next time, show