Close To Home (Westen Series)

by Ferrell, Suzanne

  “What happened?” Clint asked as he came back inside. “Did you get burned?”

  “It’s nothing. Really.” The cold butter eased the burning pain in her hand.

  “Let me see.” He took her by the elbow and stared at her with one eyebrow cocked in strained determination, waiting for her to open her fingers.

  “You aren’t going to leave this alone, are you?”

  “No.”

  She rolled her eyes, huffed out her breath, then slowly opened her fingers.

  “Geeze, Em. Butter?” He took the towel and wiped the greasy mess from her fingers.

  “Yes, butter. It’s an old-fashioned remedy, one my daddy always made me use, but it works.” Why did she always feel the need to defend her actions to him?

  The kitchen door opened and her mother stepped in, carrying a basket of wild berries and pinecones. “Look what I found on my walk. Oh dear, did you burn something in here?” she asked as she took in the damage to the kitchen. “Haven’t I told you to be careful when cooking, Emma?”

  Suddenly the whole thing was just too funny to Emma. First her shoulders shook then she let a giggle out. Clint looked at her and winked. That’s all it took. Despite the pain in her hand, she started laughing harder.

  “Emma, dear, I don’t think this is funny. The whole house could’ve burned down.”

  Sobering quickly she stared at her mother in numb silence for a moment. The anger started deep inside—a small spring that slowly tightened, until it coiled around her gut and threatened to explode.

  “Mama,” she said in a low whisper. “I didn’t set the bacon on the stove to cook.”

  “Are you sure? Perhaps one of the boys…”

  “No, Mama. The boys are in school.”

  “Oh dear, you don’t mean I did this.” Mama started to shake, her eyes watering from the realization that she’d set the house on fire.

  She started toward her mother.

  “Emma.” Clint held her fast. “You need to calm down.”

  His firm tone gave her pause. She looked at him, then inhaled and exhaled slowly. He was right. She couldn’t vent her anger on her mother, no matter how much she wanted to. Mama couldn’t help what her disease was doing to her mind and she’d no more hurt her mother than she’d abuse one of her sons.

  “Perhaps it’s time Miss Isabelle went to visit with Harriett, today. I’ll escort her over then come clean up this mess.” Clint squeezed her shoulders then stepped around her. Gently he guided her mother back out the kitchen door, pausing on the threshold. “I’ll bring back something to put on that hand. You’d probably best call the local fire department to make sure there’s nothing smoldering in the window frame that could re-ignite the house later.”

  Emma nodded, turning away from him and the sight of her frightened mother. Mama needed her comfort now more than ever, but she just couldn’t do it—not right this minute. Her anger was so strong she could taste it.

  She lifted the phone and called the county fire department, explained it wasn’t an emergency, but someone needed to come make sure the fire was completely out. Once the dispatcher assured her a fire crew would be there shortly, she stared out the remains of her kitchen window.

  Her attention focused on the charred remnants of the café curtains. Years ago, when they moved into their new home, her mother had lovingly sewn those curtains. Emma had hoped to keep them in the newly remodeled room as a connection between her family’s past life and the future. Now they simply reminded her of everything she’d lost.

  She pushed herself away from the counter and stomped outside, the door slamming behind her. Letting her anger boil over into rage, she headed straight for the garage, threw open the door and grabbed the first sharp thing she could find—her garden hoe. With her insides sizzling, she marched back to the curtains, lifted the hoe and hacked away. Arching high with each swing, she let her frustration and rage feed her momentum.

  “It’s not fair, not fair, not fair.” The words formed a mantra as she hacked and hacked at the charred material. “No one should have to endure this much. First my marriage, then my reputation, my job, my dreams, my father. Now Mama.”

  Breathing hard, Emma let the hoe’s blade rest on the ground, the handle leaning loosely between her hands. “I can’t take it, I just can’t…I can’t do it, anymore.”

  Strong arms wrapped around her from behind. “Sh, Em. It’s okay. Everyone’s safe. The house is still standing.”

  She sagged back against Clint’s solid frame, letting him take the hoe from her hands. “But it’s not okay, Clint. I’m slowly losing her. In a few years she won’t even know who I am, who her grandsons are. Haven’t we lost enough in our lives? Haven’t I had to endure enough of this pain?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, you’ve managed to survive more than the average person. If anyone deserves a break, it’s you.” He slowly turned her to face him. His hands caressed her back. He brushed his lips against hers, then leaned back to stare into her eyes. “But life isn’t always easy. You know that. There are no promises that you won’t have more loss in your life. All we can do is work through this one day at a time. You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met.”

  She clutched his shirt in her hands. “I’m tired of being strong. I just want a break. A breather.”

  He smiled at her—a tender, patient smile. “This town and all the people in it are here to help you and your mother. When it becomes too much, just call for help, sweetheart. Help is just a heartbeat away.”

  “And when she becomes too much for me to handle?”

  “Then we’ll be prepared. Did you call Elizabeth Wilson yet?”

  “No…” She hesitated, not wanting him to know she’d still been trying to deny how serious her mother’s condition had become.

  Clint turned her so she could look at the mess of chopped and burned material behind her. “Emma, don’t you think it’s time you did?”

  “I hate it when you do that.”

  “Do what?”

  She twisted her lips into a half grin, half frown. “Force me to face the truth.”

  “Emma, I’d never force you to do anything you weren’t ready to do.” He tipped her face back and stared into her eyes. “You know that, don’t you?”

  She did know that. God help her, she’d put her trust in a man again. She felt like a trapeze artist working without a net. And it was a very scary place for her to be.

  “Emma?”

  “Yes, I know you’d never force me to do something. You just have a way of making way too much sense.” She kissed his chin then gently pushed herself out of his arms. “I’ll give Elizabeth a call right now.”

  “Emma.” He took her left elbow, slowly running his hand down her arm and opening her clenched fingers. The flesh of her palm was red, and blisters had formed on the heel. “We’d best bandage this before you do anymore damage to it.”

  She led him into the kitchen, sitting hard in her chair and laying her hand palm up on the table. In her anger she’d completely forgotten the pain from the burn. Now it throbbed like a son-of-a-gun.

  “This will sting at first.” He opened the large jar of salve then smeared the shiny silvery-white goo over her palm.

  She sucked in air as the touch of his hand sent slivers of burning pain up her arm. “Sting is a bit of an understatement, Doc.”

  “You’re tough, lady. You can take it.” He chuckled as he wiped his hand on one of her clean dishtowels then unwrapped the package of gauze.

  She watched his hands as he carefully wove the dressing over her hand, front to back. “You do have a very nice touch.”

  He grinned at her. “You should see my bedside manner.”

  “I believe I already have.” She couldn’t help grinning back at him.

  He leaned forward to kiss her, but stopped when a large fire truck pulled up out front. “Ah, saved by the fire brigade.” He winked at her and leaned back. “I’ll go explain the situation and bring them in before they storm the pl
ace.”

  She licked her lips and watched him saunter toward the front door, admiring the fit of his jeans on his hips. Sometimes the man was just way too charming. She sighed then pushed herself out of her chair. And he was right. It was time to make some plans.

  Grabbing Ms. Wilson’s business card from where she’d posted it on her refrigerator, she lifted the phone and dialed.

  When Elizabeth answered, she inhaled deeply. “Elizabeth, this is Emma Lewis and I need to talk to you about Mama.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two days later Emma slid into the corner booth at the Peaches ‘N Cream Café where Elizabeth Wilson sat nibbling on a bacon and turkey club sandwich.

  “Thank you for meeting me, Elizabeth,” she said, setting her own lunch on the table. “I know you’re busy driving all over the county.”

  “Please call me Libby,” the sandy-haired blonde woman said, holding her hand out to shake Emma’s. “Even the county has to allow me time to eat. So, I might as well eat with a friend, don’t you think?”

  Near the same age, Emma remembered Libby Wilson being two years ahead of her in high school. While neither one was part of the cheerleader-football set, they hadn’t really been what she’d call friends either. Over the years they’d exchanged pleasantries whenever Libby came into the diner for a meal or they passed each other on the street. But she did remember after she returned home pregnant with the twins and saw Libby for the first time, the other woman had been genuinely glad to see her and kindness had filled her eyes as they spoke.

  Which was why she trusted her now to help plan Mama’s future. She didn’t want to take advantage of the other woman’s kindness by misleading her. “Well, this really is a business meeting, Libby. I was wondering what your fees are for taking on cases. I need some advice about my mother.”

  “So you said on the phone. Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me exactly what Doctor Preston has said about your mother’s condition.” Libby took out a pad of paper and silver pen then she winked at her. “And there isn’t a fee for two people just making conversation over lunch.”

  The knot in Emma’s stomach loosened and she took a long sip of her iced tea. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as bad as she’d thought. As quickly and clinically as she could, she filled Libby in on Clint’s diagnosis, the medication he prescribed and her mother’s changes in behavior, finally ending with the recent kitchen fire.

  Libby made notes on her legal pad as she listened. When the tale was finished, she held her pen in one hand, elbow on the table, rested her chin in her hand, and studied Emma. “So, how do you feel about all this?”

  The question hit her right in her gut. How did she feel? “I guess I’m going through all the classic stages of grief. Sometimes when Mama takes her medicine, she’ll have a few almost normal days. Then something will happen—she forgets her medicine or the weather changes—and she barely knows me or the boys.”

  “And it’s only going to get worse.” Libby nodded. “But you didn’t answer my question. So how do you feel about all this?”

  The clear blue of Libby’s eyes didn’t hold malice. She wasn’t trying to tear her guts out. She wanted a truthful answer.

  Emma inhaled slowly, then exhaled letting the tension in her body go with the outgoing air. “I’m sad. This is my mother, the woman who raised me. She always knew the right things to say or do whenever I had a problem. Now, I never know from day to day if she even remembers she had a daughter.”

  Libby waited.

  “I’m confused. Mama’s the parent. She’s supposed to take care of me, not the other way around. I want to do what’s best for her, what she’d want me to do. But then I don’t know what that is anymore. Is it keeping her home? Sending her to a nursing home?”

  Libby nodded. “And?”

  “I’m overwhelmed by the extra work it’s taking to keep an eye on her. Half the ladies in her quilting guild take turns watching her for a day. They don’t think I know what they’ve been doing, but I do. I have no way to thank them. While they’re kind to help Mama and me, I certainly can’t keep imposing on their time.” She paused and drank more of her tea, completely ignoring her tuna sandwich. The discussion had wiped out her appetite.

  “Anything else?”

  What more did the woman want her to say? The truth. She wanted her to face her true feelings, the ones she’d hidden deep down inside for so long.

  “I’m mad as hell.”

  Libby smiled. “Mad about what?”

  Emma shook her head. “At this point, just about everything. My life hasn’t been easy, but I’ve always figured that was because I’d made poor decisions. So I had no one to blame but myself.”

  “Even when your husband left you?”

  “He was my biggest bad decision.” She took a long drink of her tea before continuing. “I was willing to work hard, raise my sons and make up for being so naïve. But I was counting on my parents being around to help me. When Daddy died last spring it felt like I’d suddenly gone sailing without any kind of anchor. However I still had Mama.”

  “And now?”

  “Now with Mama’s erratic behavior I feel as if someone kicked a hole in my lifeboat. I know she’ll only get worse until she dies. I’d hoped for a few years of relative calm once the boys went to school full time.” She shook her head again, biting the inside of her mouth to keep the tears from taking over. Somehow she needed to pull up her big girl pants and deal with all this, instead of uselessly crying. “Was it too much to ask for some peace—a few months without drama?”

  Libby laid her hand on Emma’s. “No. And you have every right to be angry. I just wanted to be sure you’ve faced that anger.”

  The woman’s kind eyes and smart advice touched a raw spot inside. If she believed she could ever have a close friend, right now Libby Wilson might just be that person. She’d known just what frightened her so much, losing her mother and the fury she tried to hide. “Are you sure you’re not a psychologist and not a social worker?”

  “I’d say being a social worker has a great deal of psychology mixed into the job description.” She smiled and squeezed her hand before letting go. “Besides I had some of the same feelings when my mother was diagnosed with cancer a few years back.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” The news took Emma by surprised. All the time she’d known Libby, she never would’ve guessed she had a sick mother. “Is she still alive?”

  “No. Luckily for her, pancreatic cancer is swift. We found out and in less than a month she was gone.” Libby gave her a sad smile that barely turned up the corners of her mouth. “I would’ve liked more time with her, but not at the expense of her suffering more pain. Now, let’s see what we can do about caring for your mother.”

  “I’d like to keep her at home as long as possible, but only if I can keep her from burning down the house.”

  “I can see where that would be a problem. How much damage did the fire do?”

  “The kitchen wall has smoke damage. The window frame next to the stove has to be replaced, but I’m already remodeling the house, so the supplies won’t cost anything. And then several floor tiles need to be replaced on the new floor.”

  “Floor tiles? The fire spread to the floor?” Libby’s brows drew together.

  “I’d shoved the pan off the stove into the sink. Which wasn’t the smartest thing to do, since that’s where the flames caught the kitchen curtains on fire. ” Emma explained, realizing how funny the situation was now that several days had passed.

  “So how did the floor tiles get damaged?” The corners of Libby’s lips twitched as if she held onto her own amusement, but was still confused.

  “Doctor Preston came in as I was trying to beat out the curtain fire with a wet towel.” Emma grinned at her. “Next thing I know he’s pulled the curtains off the window and is stomping them on the floor—the freshly laid, rather expensive tiled floor. And I’m trying to stop him, saying…not the tiles!”

  They
stared at each other for a moment then burst out laughing.

  After a few minutes, they sobered. Emma smiled at the woman across from her. “Can you believe Clint thought I was crazy for wanting to save my new floor?”

  Libby shook her head. “Men. They just don’t get the pleasure of a new kitchen.”

  It had felt so good to laugh and Emma suddenly felt like eating. She took a couple of bites of her sandwich. “Is there any information you can give me about caring for Mama?”

  “First, let me ask if she’s involved with any routine activities, like volunteering or card club.”

  “She was in the garden club, but now that it’s fall the club suspends its meetings until May. And she’s a member of the Weston quilters’ guild. They have a meeting once a week on Tuesdays, and dinner every Thursday.”

  Libby wrote the information down. “And your mother attends every week?”

  “Yes, the Miller twins and Miss Harriett make sure someone takes her to every meeting. They also take her to Bible study on Wednesday nights. I think it’s good for her to go, since she always seems a little more…clear afterwards.”

  “It is good for her to stay involved in her favorite activities for as long as possible.” Libby laid down her pen and took a pamphlet and small paperback book from her leather bag. “Over the past twenty years most states have developed adult day care facilities and associations. This will tell you what benefits they are to you and your mother, how they’re accredited and where you can find more information.”

  Emma took the book from Libby, and flipped through the thin volume for a moment. “Does Weston have one?”

  “No. Even though the area is aging, we haven’t got the funds for something like this. However we’re less than a thirty-minute drive from the one in the next town. It’s housed in their civic center, and several of our town’s elderly already attend.”

  “What do they do there?”

  “Most provide small group and individual activities such as reminiscence; sensory stimulation through music, art and interaction with young children. They also have nutritious meals they can enjoy in the company of others. People eat more if they have others to share their meals with. They also have education, family counseling, and nursing care if and when it becomes necessary.”