at all what she had envisioned—a small white house that could use a good coat of paint as best she could tell from the lone porch light. A simple dwelling to match the aged blue pickup that sat in the drive and the weathered plank porch beneath her feet.
She’d imagined a grand home fit for a physician, not a cracker box dwelling that reminded her of her grandparent’s farm. Once again Dr. Jared Granger had surprised her, and she wondered what else might be in store for her this evening.
But at least he had agreed to home therapy, something that both surprised and pleased her. And made her a tiny bit leery. Facing him in unfamiliar surroundings—his territory—caused her to question the wisdom of her offer. She certainly couldn’t worry about that now.
Brooke bolstered her courage and rapped on the door, primed for whatever she would have to face. She waited for a time, glad the weather had turned warm again, although it still rained on and off. So typical of fall in Texas.
She heard a shuffling sound, and the door opened to Dr. Jared Granger dressed in ragged T-shirt, faded jeans, his dark-blond hair mussed as if he’d just crawled out of bed.
“You found me,” he said with more welcome in his tone than she’d expected. Or perhaps she was simply engaging in wishful thinking.
“Yeah,” she said. “Dr. Kempner gives good directions.”
He opened the squeaky screen and allowed her entry. Brooke stepped inside and found the place to be warm and dry—and a total disaster. Her gaze roamed around the small living room where she zeroed in on the coffee table cluttered with newspapers and an assortment of paper cups. A pair of discarded work boots sat near an opening at one end of the room, clothes tossed about as if a tornado had swept through the area. Several times. Quite a contrast to her immaculate apartment.
Taking a few guarded steps, Brooke met his gaze and offered a polite, noncommittal smile. “Well, this is certainly a comfortable home.”
He shrugged. “Suits me fine.”
She shifted her canvas bag from one arm to the other. “Where would you like me to set up?”
“In here.” He leaned heavily on his crutch as he struggled toward the entrance that opened into the small kitchen.
Brooke followed silently behind him, trying hard not to notice the tear beneath his back pocket where she caught a glimpse of flesh when he moved. No need to look there again, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
Once in the kitchen Brooke found more mess to garner her attention. More discarded food containers, more newspapers, more chaos.
He pointed to the small dinette. “Will this work?”
She couldn’t see anything at all because of the debris. “Is there a table under there?”
“Yeah. Somewhere.”
He looked up at her, and she noted a bit of self-consciousness in his expression. With one arm braced on his crutch, he began to sweep the mess away with his free forearm, onto chairs, the floor, wherever it happened to land. If only Brooke’s mother could witness this act. She’d faint.
“Look,” Brooke said. “Find a chair, have a seat, and let me pick up some of this.”
He pinned her with an irritated glare. “I didn’t hire you to be my maid.”
“And I didn’t sign on to be one. But if we’re going to make any progress, I need some room. It’ll only take a minute if you’ll point me to the trash bags.”
He indicated a cabinet underneath the sink. “Right there. If you insist.”
“I insist.” Setting her tote bag on the hardwood floor, she made her way to the cabinet and opened the door to find an overflowing trashcan. “You’ve obviously given your housekeeper the year off.”
“She’s at my house in town.”
She regarded him over one shoulder. “You have a house in town? Then why aren’t you living there?”
“I like it here. More secluded.”
“You can say that again,” Brooke muttered as she bent over to tug a black bag from the cardboard dispenser. She turned to face him and shook the bag out, surprised to find an indescribable darkness in his normally light eyes. “Maybe you could get your housekeeper out here for some spring cleaning.”
“It’s fall, and I don’t want her here.” His tone was harsh, and Brooke got the feeling he didn’t want her there, either. Back to square one.
His resistance only fueled her tenacity. Made her want to try a little harder to gain his respect, or at least his cooperation. “Well, I’m no domestic goddess, but I can handle the trash.” Her mother fit the prima housekeeper role perfectly, and there was only room for one of those in the family. Neither she nor her sister, Michelle, had ever embraced domestic bliss. Right now she had little choice in the matter.
Brooke stared at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and wondered how long they’d been there. A long time from the looks of the caked-on food, at least since the accident. Turning back to the table, she began slipping cartons of every shape and size, paper cups, a few discarded newspapers and myriad pizza boxes, into the bag.
After that was done, and she could actually see the scuffed wooden table, she gathered up her bag, took out her pen and forms to note his progress and sat facing him. “Have you started doing your home therapy as prescribed?”
“Some.”
She looked up from her charting. “Explain ‘some.’”
He struggled to remove the splint, avoiding her gaze. “Once since last week.”
She jotted the note and tamped down her frustration. “You might want to try at least once a day. Twice or three times would be better.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have the energy. By the time I get up in the morning, try to clean up, then get dressed, I’ve wasted half the damned day, and all I want to do is take a nap.”
Little did he know, Brooke could relate to that. If she had a particularly rough asthma attack, her weakness sometimes slowed her to a snail’s pace.
“Okay. Now let’s get down to business.” She looked toward the mound cluttering the sink. How could she run water if she couldn’t find the faucet? How could she heat water if she couldn’t find a clean pot to boil the packs? Heaven help her, she would have to wash dishes, or at least try to clear some of them away. Her mother would be so proud.
Without speaking, Brooke rose and began stacking some glasses to one side of the sink until she had a makeshift fortress teetering on the edge of catastrophe. Finally she made enough room to draw some water. Now, to find some kind of soap.
Bending down, she retrieved a half-full bottle of dishwashing liquid from the cabinet underneath and squirted a few drops into the sink. She washed the pot with the least dried on food, filled it with water, dropped the pack in, then set it on the gas stove to heat.
While waiting for the water to boil, she went back to the sink and the Mt. Everest mess. After remarkably finding a clean towel and rag in the drawer, she dove into the task of
