her green eyes. Satisfied that her grandmother would be pleased, she slipped her feet into her sandals.
“I’ve got to get this casserole to Harvey,” she told the cats, who’d deserted the bed and gathered around her. “Watch the house for me.”
Lifting the glass dish with her tiger-striped oven mitts, Macy opened the screen door with her hip and started down the front steps, avoiding her bicycle at the bottom. She took a shortcut across the lawn and ran up the steps to Harvey’s place.
The World War II veteran had been her grandmother’s next-door neighbor for more than forty years. They’d been good friends and neighbors all that time, and although neither would’ve admitted it, Macy was convinced they were—as her grandmother might have said—“sweet” on each other.
The front door was open, so Macy called out. Normally she wouldn’t have bothered with formalities like announcing herself or ringing the doorbell, but it was difficult to open the screen while she was loaded down with a hot casserole dish.
“Go away.” Harvey’s voice came from inside the kitchen.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” he barked.
Macy had learned long ago that his gruff exterior disguised a generous, loving heart. Apparently, his mission in life was to hide it.
“I brought you dinner.”
“It’s not even noon,” he shouted.
“I know, but I won’t be home by dinnertime,” Macy shouted back. She made an effort to open the screen only to discover it was locked.
“Come on, Harvey, open the door.”
“I locked it for a reason.” Taking his time, he ambled into the living room and reluctantly unfastened the screen. He looked none too happy to see her. “I’ve got more important things to do than answer the door, you know.”
“Of course you do.” She glided past him and into the kitchen. The newspaper lay on the table, the crossword puzzle half-completed. Harvey read the paper from front to back every day.
Macy set the casserole on the stove, then pulled off her oven mitts and set them aside.
“What’s that?” he asked, nodding at the casserole and grimacing with exaggerated disgust.
“Food.”
“Don’t get smart with me, little girl.”
Macy grinned. “It’s a new recipe.”
“So I’m your guinea pig.”
“In a manner of speaking.” Harvey had lost weight in the past year. His clothes hung on him and she couldn’t help worrying. At eighty-six, his age had finally begun to show. He used to work in his yard year-round and had always taken great pride in his garden and flower beds. Twice now, Macy had mowed his yard for him. If he noticed he didn’t say. She had an old push mower that had been her grandmother’s, and it was better exercise than working out at the gym. Less costly, too.
Macy avoided anything that required monthly payments, other than those that were unavoidable, like water and electricity. Since she didn’t have a steady job, she couldn’t count on a regular income. There were a lot of months when she had to resort to digging in the bottom of her purse for lost coins.
“It smells good,” Macy said, leaning over the casserole dish and giving an appreciative whiff.
“What’s in it?” he asked suspiciously.
“Meat and rice.”
“What kind of meat?”
“Chicken,” she said. “But when did you get so choosy?”
“I’ve got my standards,” he insisted.
She smiled; it was true—but those standards were starting to slip. She saw dirty dishes stacked in the kitchen sink. That wasn’t so unusual at her house, but it was for Harvey. He liked organization, thrived on it, while she was most comfortable in chaos. Perhaps comfortable was putting it too strongly. Saying she was accustomed to chaos would be more accurate. One day she really did intend to put everything in order; she’d have Harvey teach her.
“I don’t need you looking after me,” he said. “Haven’t you got better things to do than feed an old man?”
“Not really,” she told him. Granted, she had to get to the studio, but Harvey was a priority. Even if her grandmother hadn’t asked Macy to keep an eye on him, she would’ve done it anyway. “Besides, I’m the one who needs you.”
He snorted and sat back down at the table, picking up his pen. “I don’t intend to argue with you all afternoon.”
“Fine.” She tucked the oven mitts under her arm. “Now promise me you’ll eat dinner.”
He glared at her and shook his head.
Macy sank into the chair across from him with a deep sigh.
“By the way, what’s the name of that singer your grandmother liked? It’s seven letters.”
“Barry Manilow?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” He filled in the squares, then immediately started working on the area around that answer.
Macy exhaled again, just to remind him she was still there.
“What are you doing now?” he grumbled, briefly glancing in her direction.
“I’m staying here until you promise me you’re going to test my new recipe.”
“Well, you’ll have a long wait. I haven’t been hungry in five years.”
“I’ve got time,” she lied.
“Thought you had a job today.”
“I do.”
“You’re going to be late.”
“In that case, they might not ask me to work for them again.” Actually, that was more of a guarantee. In Sharman’s world, as he’d repeatedly pointed out, time was money.
Harvey snorted once more. “I suppose you’re going to blame me if you lose this job.”
“I’ll probably lose everything,” she said dramatically.
“You could always sell your art. That is, if you ever finished a project.”
Macy shrugged. “Not much of a market for it in this economy.”
He muttered something under his breath. “If I agreed—and I do mean if—would I have to eat the whole thing in one sitting?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“You’re the silly one,” he said. “Don’t know
