thinks you don’t care about his mother’s death.”
“He acts as if I caused it.”
“Did you?”
He looked at her sharply.
“I mean, in his mind? Is there any way he might blame you?”
“I don’t see how. It was a weekend getaway with her second husband. The plane went down in the mountains.” He shook his head. “Bryan would have been with them, but he got sick at the last minute. Some stomach bug.”
“Oh. Well, no wonder.”
He lifted his brows.
“He feels guilty,” she explained. “Wishes he had been with them, wonders why they had to die when he was spared. Survivor’s guilt. Surely you’ve heard of it.”
“You don’t know the half.” She looked at him, a question in her eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve heard of it.”
“So that’s part of it, then. I mean, it might be.” She shrugged. “Maybe I can get him talking.”
He looked up as a car passed. A brown sedan. The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t see inside. Only one person, though, he thought. The driver. The license plates were too coated in dirt to read.
“I suppose you’ve tried that already, though.”
He glanced her way again. “Tried what?”
“To get him to talk to you. About his feelings.”
“I’ve asked him to talk to me. It hasn’t worked.”
She licked her lips, then pressed them tight.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, you were going to say something just now.”
“I’m butting in, and that’s not my way. It’s none of my business.”
“If I’m asking, you aren’t butting in.” He waited. Then, “Please, Beth. I need all the help I can get here.”
She sighed. “I don’t know Bryan very well, so this could be way off base. But what I’ve found in other kids his age is that the best way to get them to open up to you is to open up to them first. Maybe he needs to see your feelings before he’ll feel safe showing you his own. It’s hard to admit to weakness and confusion to a man you see as always strong, in control, perfect.”
“You were right in the first place. You don’t know Bryan very well. He doesn’t think I’m anything close to perfect.”
“You’re his dad. You might be surprised. Even my…”
He studied her face. “Even your what?”
She shrugged and stopped walking. “This is my place.”
Her place was a little square cottage with siding designed to make it look like a log cabin, though it wasn’t. “Thanks for seeing me home, even though it was far from necessary.”
He looked beyond her, seeing no sign of the car that had driven past them. Not at the moment, anyway. But her house was in the middle of a stretch of empty road. A thorny hedgerow marked the boundaries of the open field behind it. A stream meandered through. The water caught the morning sun and changed it into diamonds. Across the street there was a woodlot bordered by scrub brush. Cover. Not another house in sight in either direction.
“I don’t suppose I could hit you up for a glass of water before I head back? I’m not as used to running as you are. Out of shape.”
“Liar.” She led the way to her front door.
He followed her inside, even though she hadn’t really invited him, and took everything in. The front door led into a small living room, where a settee and overstuffed chair sat on a brown area rug in front of a television set. A large punching bag dangled from a hook in the ceiling, near one corner.
“I’ll get your water.” She walked through, into what he presumed was the kitchen. He heard ice rattling into a glass, took a few steps farther inside and peeked into the only other room he saw—her bedroom. There were a twin bed with rumpled covers and a weight bench with a bar balanced in its holder. He thought it had fifty pounds on each end.
“Snoop much?”
He spun around fast, almost bumping into her. “Sorry.”
“So what are you looking for?” She shoved the icy, dewy glass into his hand.
He took a long pull, mostly to give himself time to come up with a convincing answer. Then he lowered the glass, licked his lips. “Just looking. You spend a lot of time with my grandmother, after all.”
“Oh. And you think I might be some sort of a con-artist, out to fleece her? Maybe offer to reshingle her roof and then vanish with her money, something like that?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just…curious about a woman who lives in a small town like this for a whole year and only makes one friend. One elderly, vulnerable friend.”
“Maude Bickham is far from vulnerable. And who said she was my only friend?”
“She did.”
She lowered her head. “You done with that water or what?”
“No.” He took another drink, a slow one. He could see it was pissing her off. She wanted him out of there—now. When he swallowed, he nodded toward the punching bag. “So you box?”
“You want a demonstration?”
He blinked in surprise.
“Look, I know what you’re doing. I saw that brown car go by. It was nothing, okay? I’m fine. Perfectly safe all by myself. Have been for over a year now. No bogeymen have come calling. And if you knew your grandmother at all you’d know what she was up to with all this make-believe worry about me walking the streets alone.”
“She’s up to something?”
“Of course she’s up to something. You’re single, I’m single. She’s probably hoping you won’t even come back home tonight.”
“Oh,” he said. Then he lifted his brows. “Oh. Well, there’s no danger of that happening.”
She blinked, clearly not sure whether she’d just been insulted.
He let it hang there for a moment, then added, “Your bed is way too small for both of us.”
She snatched the water glass from his hand, turned and marched to the front door. “Very funny. Tell your son I’ll see him at noon.”
“I will,” he said following her. “And, Beth?”
She stood there, holding the door open, his
