by Lyla Payne
Will comes back in with a middle-aged, bald man in a lab coat. His beady eyes gleam with annoyance, as though Will grabbed him from a more important patient, and they sweep over my injuries.
“I’m Dr. Michaels.” He pushes a pair of spectacles up his beak of a nose. “If you can get into the other bed, it will be easier for me to examine that ankle.”
Before I can move, Will bends over and scoops me into his arms. It’s warm there, and familiar. The smell of him hasn’t changed a single bit since the last time I was close enough to breathe him in—he smells like salt air and sweetgrass. Like the Creek.
His heartbeat quickens under the press of my palm, and when he speaks, the words are breathless enough for me to guess he’s under assault by memories, too. “Jesus, Gracie. Gain some weight already. I bet you barely have a shadow.”
He sets me on the other bed, wisps of peppermint breath following me down onto the pillows, then grabs an extra one and lifts my foot onto it. I close my eyes and, just for a second, enjoy the heavenly nature of being horizontal on a soft surface. There will be plenty of time to continue berating myself over leaving Gramps alone later. Like the rest of my life.
Over Will’s shoulder, Beau’s face tinges red. If he were a cartoon character, steam would be blowing out of his ears in streaming white clouds. I have no idea what his deal is, or why he’s so angry, and staring at him isn’t doing much good as far as figuring it out goes.
Now that the lingering adrenaline from getting lost and then coming home to the news Gramps is in the hospital has worn off, my ankle throbs. Dr. Michaels lays a hand on my foot, shooting pain up my shin.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” he relays after a quick examination. “We’ll take some X-rays just to be sure, but it’s most likely a sprain. We’ll get you wrapped up and back on your feet.”
Not broken is good. No way would crutches and I get along.
“I’m not going anywhere until we find out Gramps’s test results. I can wait.”
Dr. Michaels shrugs, as though he couldn’t care less whether or not my foot rots and falls off. His honesty refreshes me, as far as my opinion of doctors, and there’s no way he doesn’t have more pressing issues than a wrenched ankle on his plate today.
“Fine. I’ll send the nurse in with some ice, and we’ll do the X-rays when you’re ready. We can’t admit you, though.”
He leaves, and Will does, too, to call Melanie back in response to a text message. My ex-boyfriend shoots a look toward Mayor Beau that’s impossible to translate—it shifts too quickly through envy, protection, sorrow, and finally something primal, as though his eyes are bared teeth.
For my part, I summon my sweetest, most innocent expression and turn it on the mayor. I’m not surprised when it doesn’t work. That expression is more than a little rusty.
“Don’t go giving me any cute looks, Graciela. I want to know what happened last night.” He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving a few pieces sticking up.
The thought crosses my mind that he might look similar after an evening of rolling around in the sheets, and my mouth goes dry. I shouldn’t be thinking things like that. Not now.
“Run out to my car, will you, and grab the little wooden box and plastic bundle in the trunk?”
“What? Why?” Beau crosses his arms, muscles showing under his short-sleeved polo. He peers at me like a little boy who suspects he’s being tricked by a clever parent.
“I’m not avoiding your question, but I need those things in order to explain properly. I get the feeling you don’t appreciate half-assed answers.” I don’t owe him anything, except since he took care of Gramps this morning, I sort of feel as though I do. And I’m tired of doing this alone. He already knows about Anne.
He growls on his way out the door, the sound low and frustrated, and it shoots heat straight between my legs. It’s been too long, obviously, and the mayor is dreamy. Finer than frog’s hair, my Grams would have said. The right balance of protective and supportive, at least from where I’m sitting. Lying, whatever.
Will returns, without his wife and son, with a bag of ice and bottle of water. He holds the latter out to me, then uses the towel from the bathroom to arrange the other on my foot. “You really do look like shit, Gracie. Mayor Drayton’s been more freaked out about you being missing than about Gramps. I told him you’re kind of…headstrong sometimes. Do your own thing, but he’s been worried.”
My lips twist at the descriptor headstrong, and he has the good sense to look ashamed. “Does this little speech have a point?”
“Not really. Guess it’s none of my business anymore.” He puts a hand on my head and comes away with a couple of small sticks and a wry smile. “It’s nap time for Grant, so Mel’s not going to come up until later. I’m going to head to work for a couple hours, then we’ll all come back and check in on Gramps after dinner, okay?”
I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat. Will leans down and kisses my cheek, then squeezes my hand. “We’ll get him through this, Gracie.”
Then he’s gone, and it’s just Gramps and me. His steady breaths pull my eyes closed, even though Beau should be back with my artifacts any minute. My worry over getting home took precedence this morning and I didn’t open the box, so whatever’s wrapped inside the oiled cloth remains a mystery to me, as well. Right now, it’s the last and least of my problems.
The sun that wakes me is vivid and glowing, low in the sky. It’s not the bright shine of midday that lulled me to sleep, and the nap had been an accident in the first place. Gramps snores away, his skin pinched with a tad more color and his breathing less noisy. The fact that no one woke me shoots a bolt of anger through me, and it lands on my tongue, begging for someone to blame.
My gaze falls on Mayor Beau, who slumps in the chair between the beds, his eyes closed and fluttering. The sunlight hits him at an angle that makes the honey tones in his hair glint and his long eyelashes cast shadows on his strong cheekbones. Between that and staring at his slightly parted lips, I waver between letting him sleep and waking him up to holler at him. For about five seconds.
“Hey, Mr. Mayor! Wake your ass up.”
He starts at my raised voice, cracks one eye to peer at me, then closes them both to stretch. When he’s done he rubs strong fingers through his hair, then digs them into his eyes before sitting up. “I can’t say that’s how I’ve been imagining you waking me up.”
“What?” The word slides off my tongue in a breathless gasp that would make a porn star jealous, but I manage to recover with some dignity. “Nice, Mr. Mayor.”
“Graciela, for God’s sake, stop calling me Mr. Mayor. It’s annoying.”
“We’re even then, because I’m annoyed you didn’t wake me up when the doctor came in.”
“Who said anyone came in? I’ve only been asleep for about…” He glances down at his watch. “An hour. No one came in before that.”
The clock says it’s almost six, and the late hour refuels my ire. “Did they forget about us? Aren’t you, like, the mayor or something?”
My ankle throbs, ending my tirade, and I look down to see it’s graduated to deep purple streaks that run on the underside of the bone, up the outside of my leg, and along the outside of my foot. Gorgeous. The ice pack Will left has turned to water, and I wouldn’t say no to a couple of ibuprofen, if they were offered.
“I am the mayor or something, and when I checked earlier they informed me the lab is backed up with some kind of issue but they expect to have results by dinnertime, which is in thirty minutes. How’s your foot?”
“Hurts. Has Gramps been awake at all?”
“For a few minutes. He was relieved to see you.”
The tears that have been swirling into a tight lump in my throat all day break loose, streaming down my cheeks in the kind of hiccupping, snotty gush that’s embarrassing even when no one’s around to bear witness. They’re not the pity party tears that have plagued me for weeks. These are big and rip loose from a place
inside me that’s been sealed up since I caught David with that girl, and with them comes a torrent of guilt, loss, and failure that stems from every aspect of my life.
I don’t realize Beau is moving until he’s on the bed, pulling me into his chest. The heat and strength from his arms hold me up, make me feel more than ever that I’m not capable of holding myself together right now—and grateful he’s here to make sure all the pieces stay in one place. It probably means he’s never going to see me romantically ever again, but at the moment, his friendship is more than enough, and I sob into his shirt until it’s soaked through, wrinkled inside my clutching fingers.
Hot breath tickles the top of my head, which must smell less than wonderful. “Gracie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything, bringing up Martin. He wasn’t that worried, honest, he thought you’d overslept but wasn’t feeling up to climbing the stairs to check.”
My sobs slow to hiccups while his voice trickles down the back of my neck, warm and smooth and wrapping massaging fingers around my tense muscles.
“He looked at me with his eyes sparkling—you know how they do, right?” I nod against his soft shirt, a smile darting to my still-trembling lips. “Anyway, and he said, ‘You gotta keep your eye on my Gracie-baby, Mayor.’”
My attempt at a giggle turns into a cough and a sniffle, and he rubs my back and chuckles in return. I pull away enough to wipe my eyes and pat down my hair, embarrassed now that my meltdown is over.
Mayor Beau’s eyes meet mine, and they’re amber, filled with fire and concern, desire and gentle care. They flick to my lips, and I lick them instinctively, thinking that he’s going to kiss me despite the crying.
And I’m not going to stop him.
He puts a hand on my collarbone again, the way he did earlier while he cleaned my face, and the tips of his fingers brush the throb of my heartbeat in my throat. The forefinger of his other hand traces my injuries with a touch lighter than a feather, trailing down my bruised cheek until it lands at the corner of my mouth.
“I think you’re terribly interesting, Graciela Harper. I’d be honored to keep my eye on you.”
Before I can smile, or roll my eyes, or figure out how or if to deflect his cheesy, sweet, husky statement, Mayor Beau lowers his lips to mine.
Chapter Twelve
They’re soft, as gentle as his fingers had been a moment before, and taste like sleep and a faint trace of maple syrup. The heat between our mouths makes me sigh into him, and warmth spills down my throat and into my belly, where it starts to simmer. It sizzles as he scoots closer, moving his mouth against mine and testing half a dozen ways we fit together before sliding his tongue along the seam of my lips, begging access I’m too willing to give.
It’s brief, as kisses go, and our tongues meet for a brief caress before he eases back just in time for a nurse to breeze through the door. It’s possible he heard her coming, but I didn’t hear a damn thing but the sound of water roaring between my ears and the world.
My lungs struggle to get us a good amount of oxygen, and the world’s a little black around the edges, and from the way Beau’s molten gaze clings to mine, the effect of our chemistry isn’t all in my head.
The nurse, a perky, short girl with red curls that remind me of little orphan Annie, notices that she’s interrupted something but, other than a curious glance or two, acts as though nothing’s amiss. “Martin, dear, it’s time to wake up and have your dinner!”
I like the way she talks loud enough for him to hear but doesn’t resort to the kind of cadence some people take up, as though they’re speaking to an infant or someone mentally deficient. He might be old and half deaf, but Gramps is sharper than a lot of people twenty years younger. That she understands that makes me take to the girl despite her over-perky attitude.
Beau helps me off the bed and to Gramps’s side, and when he wakes up and sees me, the way he lights up stabs me with so many holes my soul could strain pasta. I’m not trying hard enough, not doing enough, not being a good enough granddaughter. There might only be weeks or months left with Gramps, so why has it been so important to me to minister to the silent, bossy requests of a woman who is already dead? Anne Bonny has waited two hundred and fifty years for whatever closure she seeks; it’s not going to kill her again to wait longer.
But the notes surround the archives, and Anne wanted me in that room. They could be connected, which is all the more reason to let it lie for now.
I shake off the thoughts of my ghostly bestie and take the tray from the nurse while Beau gets Gramps’s bed into a good position for eating. The food doesn’t look as bad as it could, and my stomach growls at the scent—I haven’t eaten since the meatloaf last night, and Gramps probably hasn’t, either. He only picks at his food, though, and the worry twisting my heart reflects in Beau’s concerned gaze.
“What’s wrong, Martin? Not a fan of cubed steak?” He grabs the remote and flicks on the television, turning to the Braves game that’s just started as though his question is nothing more than general conversation.
I look toward him and lower my voice. Not that Gramps can hear either of us without his hearing aids. “You can go, Beau. It’s been a long day, and you don’t need to stay. I’ll be fine, and Will and Mel are going to stop by later.”
“First of all, I’m not leaving until we hear from the doctor and then get you down for X-rays on that ankle. And second, even though the events that began the day were unexpected and unhappy, I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. Even asleep.”
The compliment, frank and unexpected, makes my whole body hot. A glance toward Gramps reveals him watching the two of us with far too much interest, and Mel and Will’s arrival flushes me with relief.
My ex-boyfriend steps around the bed and grins at Gramps, ignoring the tension in the room. “Cripes, Gramps, you gave us a little scare. It’s good to see you awake!”
When Gramps bobs his head up and down with a wide grin, we all know he didn’t hear a darn thing. Melanie picks up Grant and rounds the bed to stand next to her husband, she and the boy wearing matching expressions of concern, though Grant’s is tinged with a tad more curiosity.
“Hey there, little boy. Whatcha frowning for? You know what happens to kiddos with scowly faces?”
Grant’s eyes get huge, and one finger finds his mouth.
“Uh-oh, Grant. You’d better give him a big ol’ smile or he’s gonna paddle padooks!” I assume that, after spending several evenings with my Gramps, Grant’s well aware of the phrase, one that means Gramps is going grab you, throw you over his knee, and give you a couple real or fake whacks, depending on his mood.
I’ve guessed right, as evidenced when the kid squeals and smiles at the same time, using two fingers to keep his lips tipped up in a grin. It makes us all laugh, including Gramps, but there’s a rattle in his chest that turns into a cough. We all sober as a doctor walks in, flipping through a chart.
“Good evening, everyone. I’m Dr. Fields.”
This doctor looks as though he’s been cast as a surgeon on Grey’s Anatomy or something, as opposed to being an actual physician. He’s attractive, probably in his forties, with blond hair that’s just starting to gray around the temples and some of the straightest, whitest teeth I’ve ever seen in my life.
I step forward and introduce myself when he asks for Gramps’s family, returning his strong grip as best as I can. He gives me a once-over, from my bruised face down to my swollen ankle, and purses his lips as though he finds the entire package distasteful.
“We’ll get you down for an X-ray, then get that ankle wrapped so you can avoid any ligament damage.”
“I’m fine. What do the test results say about Gramps?”
He glances around at the menagerie of people, now aware that I’m the only family present. “Should we talk in private?”
“It’s fine. Gramps can’t hear you, and everyone else is fine to hear.” Beau’s fingers wriggle into my palm, and I clutch them like I’m drowning in the middle of a hurrican
e.
“I’m afraid it’s not good news. He’s suffering from pneumonia, which we diagnosed when he was admitted earlier today. Unfortunately, that’s not the primary issue. He’s been aspirating food into his lungs because his muscle function is failing.”
“What does that mean?” It’s a disgusting picture, and there’s no doubt food in the lungs is a bad thing, but it doesn’t sound like something that can’t be fixed.
“He’s not chewing or swallowing properly. In order to fix the muscle memory issue, he’ll need physical therapy, and during that period, he would need to be on a feeding tube.”
“Okay, great, we’ll do that.”
His eyes, which I realize are black, like lumps of glittering goal, soften with real empathy. “Your grandfather has a directive on file that specifies no extreme measures or artificial machines are to be used in order to extend his life. A feeding tube falls under those categories.”
“Yeah, but that’s like if he’s unconscious and never going to get better, right?”
“You’ll need to speak with him to determine his wishes, Ms. Harper. It may be that he wishes, in this situation, to use the mechanisms we have in place to deal with his problem. If not, his directive must be honored.” He pauses, watching me in order to make sure his words sink in before continuing. “In the meantime, I cannot recommend he eat, since eating is effectively killing him.”
“If he doesn’t eat, he’ll starve.” My tears start again, but they’re silent this time. Defiant. A glance at Gramps reveals him watching the television, but the tense bunch of his shoulders tells me he knows that this is about him, and that it’s upsetting.
“You see the dilemma. Speak with Martin and decide how he’d like to proceed. The staff here will be able to assist with either course of action.”
Sadness bleeds from his gaze into the air, where it creeps toward me. Before long it’s aspirated into my lungs, thick and cloying and wet. I can’t breathe around it, like Gramps can’t breathe around his food, and Beau eases me down into the chair as Dr. Fields leaves us alone.