hear.
Women loved his granddad. But not as much as Kaden did.
Once they were alone, his grandfather complained, “You didn’t need to drive down from Atlanta.”
“Of course I did.” Kaden wrapped his arms around Granddad’s shoulders. His Green Irish Tweed aftershave cut through the bite of hospital bleach burning his nose. He gulped deep breaths to capture the sandalwood scent. “What did the doctors say?”
“I fractured my hip.”
“How?” Kaden took the chair, but reached for his hand.
“Painting.” He grimaced, his thick white eyebrows forming a line. “I just wanted that last little bit and stretched too far.”
“You know better than that.” Kaden squeezed his hand. “You weren’t hopping the ladder along the outside of the wall like you did the first year I lived with you, were you?”
“I gave that up twenty years ago.” Granddad closed his eyes. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m here for you.” Kaden’s heart pounded a little harder as lines of pain etched his grandfather’s face. “Did they schedule your surgery yet?”
“They’re working on it.” His grandfather gave him his infamous no-nonsense look. “I don’t want to pull you away from your job.”
His work was important, but some days it felt like he was holding up an umbrella to battle a tsunami. Drugs flooded the southeast states and innocents were getting hurt.
“I’m not leaving you alone to deal with this.” Nigel had saved him. “I’m right where I belong.”
* * *
“‘RIKKI-TIKKI HAD A right to be proud of himself—but he did not grow too proud, and he kept the garden as a mongoose should keep it, with tooth and jump and spring and bite, till never a cobra dared show its head inside the walls.’” Courtney closed the book and smiled at the circle of children at her feet.
“Read another,” Jamison called in his strong Southie accent. “With more bad cobras!”
“I can’t.” Courtney shook her head. “Our time is up.”
Actually, she’d run over the library’s reading hour. But she’d wanted to finish The Jungle Book story. “I’ll see you next week.”
As she pushed up from her small chair, Jamison wrapped his arms around her knees. “Thank you, Miss Courtney.”
“You’re welcome.” She hugged the little boy. “Thank you for paying attention.”
Two months ago, Jamison hadn’t been able to sit still for more than five minutes. Now he sat for the entire story hour. She nodded as his mother took his hand. He’d learned she wouldn’t read if he was talking or running around.
Grandmothers, sitters and older siblings gathered up the rest of the children.
“Your reading group keeps growing.” Marlene, the librarian who organized the volunteers, took the book from Courtney.
“It’s fun.” And her little secret. No one knew about her weekly visits to this Southside Boston library.
Even though the book’s language had been formal, the kids had been great. How wonderful it would be to put together words to ignite the imaginations of children. Of course, today’s books couldn’t be as lyrical as Kipling’s writings, but oh, to be able to read something that she wrote to children. How amazing.
Not that it would happen. On her drive home, she rubbed the wrinkles in her forehead. Being her parents’ pretty little ornament took most of her day. To maintain her image, it took hours of shopping, salons and working out.
As she approached the gates of the family mansion, a dark shape darted from the bushes. She jerked the steering wheel. Metal scraped stone. She slammed on her brakes and her body jammed against her seat belt. “No!”
She threw the convertible into Park, jumped out and rounded the hood. Had she hit whatever had run in front of the car? She peered under the car, but didn’t find an injured animal.
Damn. Her front bumper was toast. Not again. Father would go ballistic.
She glared. They needed to expand the front gate. This was the third time she’d turned a teeny bit too tight and wrecked her pretty car.
Driving to the portico, she stomped up the entry stairs. Marcus had the door open before she hit the top step.
“Did you have a nice afternoon of shopping?” He took the bags from her.
She always said she was going shopping, which she did. It just wasn’t the entire truth. Her parents wouldn’t see the value of her spending time in a South Boston library.
She shook her head, curls whipping across her face. “I bumped the gate.”
One white eyebrow shot up. “Again?”
“An animal jumped out from the bushes.”
“Oh, Miss. Did you hit it?”
“No.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Could you...?”
“I’ll call the repair shop.” He tipped his head. “Your father would like to speak with you.”
She frowned, then forced her face to relax. She didn’t want a permanent furrow between her eyebrows, but it was hard. Nothing was right in her world. It had been off-kilter for months. “Where is he?”
“In his study.” Marcus headed up the left stairway with her packages.
Courtney’s heels clicked on the black-and-white foyer tiles. She longed to kick off her shoes, but she wasn’t sure what Father wanted. Had she done anything that might have irritated him lately? Last month it had been how late she was coming home, as if that mattered now that she was twenty-six. The month before he’d lectured her for a half hour about gossiping at the dinner table. And in February it had been the way she treated her new sister-in-law.
I can’t help that I’m not my perfect brother.
Outside Father’s study, she straightened her shoulders and smoothed the skirt of the red Versace sheath she’d worn to lunch with Gwen. Her eyes didn’t pop as much when she wore red. Now she wished she’d bought the dress in green, too.
She’d buy the green dress tomorrow. Better yet, she’d have them deliver it to the house.
Staring into the hallway mirror, she forced a smile onto her face and arranged her black curls so they cascaded over one shoulder. She was her father’s princess, even though he hadn’t called her that in years. The blasted furrow formed between her eyebrows again. She pressed on the hideous lines and took a deep breath. Opening the door, she glided into the room.
Father didn’t look up. He pointed to a guest chair and kept typing.
She stood next to the chair. Her dress looked so much better when she stood. She examined
