had help. Your mother was there to help shoulder the responsibility of raising you. And, based on normal childhood development, you got more independent every year, too.”
He was facing a life sentence without parole. Not that she’d ever tell him so. He didn’t need her reminding him of the burden he’d undertaken.
But as a medical professional, she was completely aware of it. And knew all about the stresses common to family members of terminally ill or injured patients.
She admired those family members so much—admired their ability to face the burden that had been given to their loved one—and consequently to them.
Grant was shaking his head.
“Our mother died of a rare form of leukemia when I was a junior in high school. Grant was married by then, and he and Shelley took me in and not only gave me a home, they helped put me through college.”
Her heart caught again. “I’m sorry. I had no idea....”
She felt as if she had to do something. To help somehow. More than just as a facilitator of Darin’s therapy at The Lemonade Stand.
Except that his problems weren’t hers.
With his elbows leaning on his knees, Grant’s gaze was pointed out toward the direction they’d come―across the grassy expanse. She had a feeling that the second his brother appeared, he’d be up and out of there, shooting across the yard like a torpedo.
“You know, through all of that, I can only remember my brother losing his temper twice.”
Curious, she glanced at him. “When?”
“The first time was the one time I came home drunk. He half carried me to the bathroom and stood there while I threw up. He handed me an aspirin and stood over me while I drank it down. And then he put me to bed, all without saying a word or offering an ounce of sympathy. The next morning, in a very cold voice he let me know that he was not going to ask his wife to live with a young man who was so selfish, immature and weak as to lose control of himself to that extent. That’s all he said, but I knew he’d given me warning. If I ever came home drunk again, I would have to find another place to live.”
A bit extreme, maybe. For a first drinking experience.
And yet...
“I’m guessing you never came home drunk again.”
“More to the point, I never got drunk again. At least, not until I was of age and in my own living room.”
Which made her wonder when and why he’d done that. What had driven him to the point, as an adult, to sit in his own home and drink himself into a stupor?
Just with the little she knew of him, she could pinpoint a time or two that could prompt such an act.
“When was the second time you saw him angry?”
“When Shelley was fired from her job as a paralegal for filing a written complaint against one of the attorneys in the firm for sexual impropriety.” He stood up. “We should head back. I don’t want him confused if he gets back and I’m not there.”
“He can’t leave the grounds. Not without going through the main hallway, and the staff know to redirect him.”
“I’m not worried about him getting lost,” Grant said. “Darin wears his phone on his belt at all times. I’m the first speed dial, and also a speed dial picture on his front screen. He knows to call it if he needs me.” They were walking at a brisker pace now. “But if I’m not there he could get confused, which makes him feel...less than whole. Which depresses him.”
She wondered who looked out for Grant’s emotional well-being.
Keeping up with him, she said, “It’s a good thing you’re doing, Grant. Not only caring for him, but protecting his confidence in himself, as well.”
“He’s still my big brother. So do you want to check with Lila and the board and see if we can get the go-ahead to remodel the Garden of Renewal?”
They were done talking about Darin. She got the point.
“Based on how you described things, I know they’d love the idea,” Lynn said, attempting to switch gears as rapidly as he did. “But I’m afraid the cost of such a thing is out of our league right now. The initial design work on the grounds was donated several years ago when the concept of The Lemonade Stand was first devised. It takes everything we have budget-wise just to keep it all up.”
“I wasn’t planning on charging you,” Grant said with a sideways look at her that made her insides dance as they walked toward the park. “I work in exchange for Darin’s time here, remember? In case you hadn’t noticed, my brother is practically living here during the day.”
Darin had already progressed to therapy twice a day but had been helping out in the kitchen—of his own volition—during the lunch hour.
“We can’t even afford the supplies....” Which was a shame. The rock fountain, the ambiance he’d described...Lynn could even see herself gravitating toward the area for an occasional respite from the emotional traumas of life.
“Darin and I can build the benches ourselves. And, with your permission, I’d like to hit my suppliers up to donate the plants and the rest of the materials. I bring them more than a million dollars of business a year—I think they’ll carry me on this one. But for the initial rock work, I’ll need to bring in Luke and Craig—my two full-timers. They’re good guys, as your background check will show you. As I said before, Luke’s been with me since college and Craig’s someone he met working at Habitat for Humanity.”
Very familiar with the volunteer organization that built homes for needy families, Lynn’s mind was reeling. She was used to being the one most on top of things, of taking control and making things happen.
Grant was...impressive.
The oasis he was describing would be a godsend to their work. Grant was talking about providing a place of serene beauty, of aesthetic wonder. A place that could help heal the soul. And that was the part of these women that was damaged most of all.
They’d made it back to the area where Darin had left Grant.
“I’ll talk to Lila tonight,” she told him. “But I can pretty much guarantee she’ll be delighted.”
“As soon as you get an official go-ahead, let me know and we’ll get started.”
Just like that.
He was watching her watch him. She moistened her lips with her tongue, and his gaze lowered to them, then rose back up to meet hers.
What were they doing here?
“How long do you think it will take?” Her words were a little too slow. Too soft.
“A week. Tops.”
She said something appropriate. Told him she had to get going. He glanced at her mouth again.
And Lynn fled.
*
