Brody shuddered.
Nope. Guilt only got him to Bedford.
“The guest house is fine.” He’d prefer a dark cave in the middle of nowhere. But he’d settle for no cable or phone in a doily-covered dollhouse with flowers on the walls.
“You’re a good boy, Brody,” she said, reaching up to pat his shoulder with a fragile hand before handing him the key to the guesthouse. “You might not like it. You might not agree with it. But you need this time. You’ll heal here. And you’ll be able to make some decisions.”
He glanced down at the woman next to him, her silver-streaked black hair curled softly around a face lined by more worries than anyone should deal with in a lifetime. When he’d been a teen, Gramma Irene had barely come to his shoulder, she was so tiny. Now she seemed to hit just above his elbow. He’d filled out plenty in the last ten years. A daily regimen of kicking ass did that to a guy. But he hadn’t gotten any taller, which meant she’d shrunk.
“There’s nothing for me to decide,” he told her as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. His face set, he gripped the crutches and navigated the concrete steps, numb to the pain in his leg. Numb to everything.
As far as he was concerned, his life was done. And he didn’t give a single damn about what happened next.
5
OH, MAN, THIS WAS IT.
Genna stared at Irene’s front door, the fresh white paint a glossy contrast against the peeling gray siding.
This was crazy. All she had to do was reach out and knock.
She visited here every week. Came calling with baked goods, cookies or cakes or whatever Irene was hungry for. At first, it’d just been to be nice to a lonely neighbor. But over the last few years, she and the older woman had grown close.
But she wasn’t here to see Irene.
A plate of cookies in one hand, she pressed the other against her stomach, where it felt like butterflies were morphing into dragons.
After he’d heard that Brody was to be in town, the mayor wanted to hold a special parade and maybe a benefit luncheon. As community relations liaison it was Genna’s job to arrange it. That’s why she was here. Not because she was nosy. Or horny.
Well, she was both, but that wasn’t why she was here.
She wet her lips, careful not to smudge her lipstick, then wiped her damp palm on her jeans before shifting the plate to it and drying the other. Maybe she should have worn a skirt. Something fancier. She was representing the city, after all.
Maybe she should go home and change. She glanced at her watch. It was close to dinnertime. Maybe she should come back another day. Yeah. Tomorrow. Or next week. That’d give Irene time to visit with her grandson. It was good manners to wait.
Her stomach stopped pitching and a little of the tension seeped from her shoulders at the decision. Which only proved it was the right choice.
With a relieved smile, she started mentally preparing her excuse to offer the mayor and turned toward the steps to leave.
“Genna?”
With a squeak worthy of a cartoon character, Genna jumped. She spun around so fast she damn near landed on her denim-covered butt, almost sending the plate in her hands flying across the tidy porch. Her heart pounded, blood rushing though her head so fast it sounded like a freight train passing by.
It took her three deep breaths before she could respond.
“Hi.” She cleared her throat, then tried again. “Hi, Irene. How are you?”
“I’m good, dear. I’ve been so flustered this week. Flying in planes, it’s not good for a body. Isn’t today Tuesday? Or did we change our visit and I forgot? I was on my way to a book club meeting, but I can skip that. I’d much rather chat with you.”
Looking as if those flights had definitely taken a toll, Irene pulled open the screen door. Genna hesitated. She was officially still on the clock, and supposed to be following her boss’s orders. But Irene appeared tired. The lines in her face seemed deeper, dark circles etched under her usually calm eyes.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your plans. I wanted to drop off these cookies. They’re a new recipe I made up, and was hoping for feedback,” she prevaricated, holding up the plate as proof.
This would work out great. She’d get the inside scoop on Brody before she had to see him. Maybe she could even drop a few hints, mention the parade the mayor wanted to hold in Brody’s honor, and get Irene behind the idea.
“Well, this is a treat.” Irene stepped back, welcoming Genna into the house. The inside was as cozy and comfortable as the outside run-down, reminding Genna again to research how to scrape siding and look into exterior paint.
“Sit, sit. I’ll put on coffee,” Irene said, gesturing to the wingback chairs in front of the bay window. Knowing better than to offer to help, Genna sat. Acting as if all her attention was on meticulously pulling the plastic wrap from the lime-green plate, she surreptitiously looked around for signs of Brody.
Like luggage or a jacket.
Or his body.
Nothing.
“Flustered,” Irene muttered five minutes later when she returned with the coffee. “I almost forgot your sugar. As if I don’t know how you take your coffee. But a couple of days serving it black and I’m all mixed up.”
Genna leaned forward to take the cup, murmuring her thanks. Anticipation rushed so fast through her system it was making her jittery. Figuring it was only polite, she waited for the older woman to get comfortable before grilling her about her grandson.
Before she could, though, Irene launched into the woes of traveling. She followed it up with the horrors of airplanes, with a few comments for the kindness of strangers, or the lack thereof.
Genna decided she should have been rude.
They were on their second cup of coffee and third double-fudge cookie and Irene was still talking about those lousy flights.
Yeah, yeah, traveling sucked. Recycled air was the work of the devil and the cost of a tiny drink was akin to highway robbery. She didn’t care about the trip, though. She wanted to know about the treat Irene had brought home with her.
“How is Brody doing?” she finally asked, unable to continue politely waiting for the older woman to bring him up first.
Irene frowned. It only took Genna a second to realize it was worry, not annoyance over Genna’s interruption.
“He’s hurting,” Irene finally said, staring into her cup and blinking a few times, as if shooing away tears. “Not just his body. He had horrible internal injuries, two surgeries and they’re still not sure if his leg will ever be as strong as it was before. When I walked into that hospital room, I thought they’d lied to me. I thought I’d flown all the way across the country to claim his body, he was so bruised and cut-up and broken-looking.”
Genna
