by Beth Andrews
Had trusted him to help her. Had believed him when he’d said she’d be okay. That he’d save her.
“I wasn’t with her the entire time,” he continued, his voice strained, though he fought to sound casual. “Once we brought her to the hospital, the E.R. staff took over.”
“Charlotte also mentioned that when you heard Sam hadn’t made it, you punched the wall.”
Leo opened and closed his fist. It still ached.
There had been no censure in James’s tone, no judgment. Only compassion and pity.
And that was even worse.
“You ever see someone die?” Leo asked quietly, knowing the answer before James shook his head. “I have. More than a few. It gets to you sometimes, but you deal with it. Compartmentalize it and move on to the next case, the next person who needs help.”
It was what he did, what he lived for. It was what made him different from his siblings—carpenters, all three. What made him who he was.
James clapped a hand on Leo’s shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”
Hell, no. What good would talking do? It wouldn’t turn back time so that they reached Sam and her friend earlier. Wouldn’t stop Sam from checking her phone or taking that curve too fast. Wouldn’t bring her back to life.
No, rehashing it wouldn’t do anyone any good. Least of all Leo.
“Can’t,” Leo said, stepping back so James’s hand fell to his side. “I need to get home and grab a shower before I go to the station. Tell Mom and Dad I had to leave for work, would you?”
Without waiting for James’s response, Leo walked away, kept his stride unhurried and relaxed, though he wanted to run, wanted to escape as quickly as he could before James tried more psychobabble crap. Or worse, dragged a few family members in on his attempt to get Leo to open up to them, tell them all his thoughts and feelings.
A young woman had died last night. He’d witnessed it. How the hell did they think he felt?
He passed Maddie’s truck and pulled his keys from the front pocket of his cargo shorts. The only reason he’d even come to the picnic was because he hadn’t wanted to be stuck at his place alone with his thoughts and memories. He’d figured being surrounded by people and conversation, laughter and food, would help settle the unease rolling through him, the tension, the feeling that, while he’d done all he could for Samantha, he should have found a way to do more.
He slid behind the wheel of his car, turned on the ignition. And wished he’d stayed home.
* * *
WHEN ANDREW BOUNDED down the stairs, Penelope was sitting at the dining-room table. His hair was still damp and curling at the ends, a tiny piece of toilet paper stuck to a cut on his chin. He’d changed into loose gray shorts and one of the clean T-shirts she’d hung in his closet, his favorite sweatshirt slung over his shoulder.
“It’s curious to me,” she said, her voice sounding surprisingly loud to her own ears, “how anxious you were to leave and yet it took you over an hour and a half to get ready.”
He gave her one of his ill-mannered shrugs. “Car keys.”
Raising her eyebrows, Penelope took off her reading glasses. “Is that a declarative comment? Or an inquiry into the keys’ whereabouts?”
“Can’t you talk like a normal person instead of a librarian? Curious. Anxious. And no one says declarative. Or inquiry.” He frowned and scratched his cheek. “Except for judges and lawyers and stuff.”
“Thank you for that.” She picked up her wineglass only to discover it was empty. Well, that would just not do. She leaned forward, the edge of the table digging into her sternum, the tips of her fingers grazing the bottle of chardonnay. Grunting softly, she stretched and snagged the bottle by its neck. Dragged it toward her, then waved it in her son’s general direction. “It is so enjoyable to be critiqued on my vocabulary by a child who calls everyone dude—including his mother—and uses the word duh as an answer to most questions, as well as a pithy response to any conversation someone beyond the age of twenty might attempt to have with him. Next you can educate me on the finer points of eye-rolling, sarcastic comebacks and a general disrespect for authority. It’ll be such a good time.”
He went still. Studied her. “You’re acting weird,” he finally said. “I mean, you know, more than usual.”
Lovely.
She started to roll her eyes, but then realized she couldn’t very well lecture him on the disrespectful gesture if she did it herself, so she pretended to find the ceiling extremely fascinating.
“I’m fine,” she said, feeling no desire to assure him when, in all honesty, he didn’t sound worried, but more...put out. Then again, when was he ever concerned about her feelings?
She poured wine into her glass, the bottle significantly lighter than when she’d opened it not thirty minutes ago. How had that happened? She’d only had a glass...or had it been two? She gave an inner shrug. And took a healthy sip.
Having lost her appetite knowing she’d be dining alone, she’d opted to catch up on some of the work she’d brought home. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to concentrate, not with her out-of-control emotions clouding her thoughts. Wine was a surprisingly effective remedy for what ailed her.
Even if the numbers on the laptop screen were now a bit blurry.
It was an interesting discovery, and one she could have made years earlier had she ever allowed herself to have more than one glass of the wonderful stuff.
“Mom!”
She jumped and, horror of horrors, had wine sloshing over the edge of the glass and onto her hand. She sucked it from her fingers. “Why are you yelling?”
Andrew gaped at her as if she were the one who’d lost her ever-loving mind. “Because I’ve asked you the same question twice and you haven’t answered me.”
She blinked at him. Why was he so upset? Teenagers. Lord only knew what got into their heads sometimes. “I already told you, I’m fine.”
Better than fine. She actually felt...good. Light and floaty and sort of free. As if all her worries had simply drifted away. Although oddly enough, for all her floaty feelings, her eyelids were becoming heavy. It was increasingly difficult to keep them open.
Andrew’s narrow gaze flicked from her, to the glass, to the bottle. “Are you...are you drunk?”
She whipped her head around and leaped to her feet, but had to grab the table so she didn’t topple over. Just a rush of dizziness from standing too quickly, she assured herself. “Of course not. I do not get drunk. I have never been drunk. Not once in my life.”
And why she was speaking so slowly and carefully, she had no idea.
Andrew smirked—oh, how she hated it when the boy smirked. “Whatever.”
She bristled and straightened, lifting her hands from the table as if to prove to both of them she was not only capable of maintaining her balance, but sober enough to do so. “Andrew, you know how I feel about drinking to excess.”
“I know how you feel about everything. Every. Damn. Thing.”
What was wrong with that? She made her expectations clear, let him know her thoughts, views and opinions on the matters that were important. Her views on drinking—especially underage drinking—smoking, drug use and sex may be conservative, but there was nothing wrong with making good, smart, responsible choices and respecting your body.
“Why all this concern about my sobriety?” A thought occurred to her. “Will there be drinking at this picnic?”
“You caught me,” he said as he flipped his sweatshirt from one shoulder to the other. “I’m just trying to divert attention from the fact that Luke’s mom bought a keg so her son and all his friends can get wasted. Too bad she drew the line at hiring those strippers we asked for.”
“The scary part is I’m not entirely sure you’re joking.”
His answer to that was, yes, one of his impressive eye rolls. “Keys?”
“On the hook by the door.” Where they always were. Well, where she always put them. He, on the other hand, seemed to have a hard time remember
ing to hang them up after using her car. One time she even found them in the freezer.
She prayed he remembered to brush his teeth every day. No need to worry about him using deodorant, though. Or aftershave. The child splashed the potent stuff on like it was some sort of muscle-building, beard-growing, girl-catching elixir.
The room spun. Which was incredibly strange as she hadn’t actually moved. Maybe wine on an empty stomach hadn’t been the best idea. Lesson learned.
She’d always excelled at learning her lessons. And not making the same mistakes twice.
While Andrew texted someone, she pulled the raw turkey burgers from the fridge, then crossed to the double doors and stepped out onto the patio. Inhaled the warm air. There. That helped. A little food, a little fresh air and her head would clear right up.
She set down the plate, then knelt and turned on the gas to the grill.
“Bye,” Andrew said, stepping outside.
“Hold it.” She straightened—too fast, it turned out, as the world pitched and spun. “Were you born in a barn?”
“Seeing as how you were there, you’d know that better than me.”
“Ha-ha. Close the door.”
While he did, she shut her eyes for a moment, got her bearings. “I don’t recall you asking for permission to take the car.”
“I figured you wouldn’t mind,” he said, jiggling the keys, “since you’re not going anywhere.”
Irritation pricked her, dimming some of her previous glow. She couldn’t fault his logic—after all, she had nowhere to go. But did he have to rub it in? Her foot began tapping in agitation as if of its own accord. She wasn’t jealous of him. That would be ridiculous. She was thrilled beyond measure he’d made friends. That he didn’t have her shyness, her awkwardness around others. And it wasn’t as if she was a complete social pariah. There were a few women in the office she chatted with. Sometimes.
When they initiated the conversation.
“I’m not going anywhere, but seeing as how it’s my car, it’d be nice if you asked first.”
She winced. That had sounded close to...well...whiny was the only way to describe it. She pulled her shoulders back. She wasn’t a whiner. She was a doer.
A doer with absolutely no social life whatsoever.
How wonderful.
Andrew shifted, impatient to be gone. “Can I take the car?”
She wanted to say no, but that would be petty. Besides, if he didn’t drive himself, she’d have to take him. And she was seriously considering a third glass of wine, since what she’d had already was making her feel...not quite happy...but certainly no worse for the wear. “I suppose.”
He brushed past her. “See ya.”
“At nine,” she reminded him, since he’d had a hard time lately remembering when his curfew was. He didn’t even acknowledge she’d spoken, just descended the two wooden stairs and crossed to her car in the driveway. He climbed in, buckled up, then, with the sound of the radio thumping much louder than was necessary, he carefully backed into the road.
“You’re welcome,” she muttered. So glad to see he appreciated her letting him go to Luke’s, use her car and avoid her company for yet another day.
Didn’t matter, she assured herself. She was fine on her own. She’d have a nice dinner, catch up on her work and maybe even finish the bottle of wine. Why not? Everyone else seemed perfectly content to indulge in bad behavior once in a while.
Maybe it was time she joined the party.
Besides, it wasn’t as if she had to worry about giving her teenager the wrong impression since the child preferred to spend his time anywhere and with anyone but her.
Frowning, feeling more than a little sorry for herself, she jabbed at the grill’s ignition button, though something in the back of her mind told her not to.
Too late. There was a loud boom and the lid flew open as a wall of flame engulfed her.
CHAPTER THREE
“I THOUGHT YOU were dead.”
With a groan she fervently hoped wasn’t audible, Penelope eased onto one of the two high-backed stools at her wide kitchen island. “So you said,” she murmured. “Several times.”
More like twenty, but who was counting?
Well, yes, she was counting, but she doubted her young guest was.
“No,” Gracie Weaver said somberly, shutting the door to the deck. The girl had gone out to make sure the grill was off. “I mean I seriously thought you were dead. Really, completely dead.”
Penelope frowned, but her face felt sunburned and any movement or twitch hurt so she schooled her expression. “Is it possible to be sort of dead?”
She winced—another painful moment—and wished she could see her words floating in the air so she could grab them back before they reached Gracie’s ears. The last thing she wanted was to encourage her neighbor’s sixteen-year-old daughter to continue this inane conversation.
Maybe if she pretended to die—really and completely—the teen would go on her way.
“Oh, it’s very possible.” Gracie opened and shut several cabinet doors, her movements comfortable, as if she went through a stranger’s cupboards on a daily basis. “I once read an article in Reader’s Digest or National Geographic or something about this man who was in a coma for two months, but, get this—” she stood on her toes, the heels of her bright pink flip-flops lifting from the ground as she reached for a glass on an upper shelf “—he could hear everything going on around him. His brain was completely working the entire time. Can you imagine, being trapped in your own body, your mind working, but being unable to get your body to do what it wanted? Not being able to escape?”
Penelope glanced wistfully at the door. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”
Gracie filled the glass at the sink and carried it over to Penelope. “Here. You should drink something so you don’t go into shock or get dehydrated.”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works.” But to appease—and hopefully silence—the girl, Penelope took a small sip of water, the trembling of her hand barely noticeable.
She still wasn’t sure what had happened. One minute she’d been having a nice little alcohol-induced pity-fest and the next, she’d been flat on her back, the scents of propane and singed hair filling her nostrils. Her head had spun, her face stung and a low, annoying thrum filled her ears. But it hadn’t been all bad. She was, for the most part, unharmed. And lying on the sun-warmed deck, blinking at the puffy white clouds drifting across the sky, her thoughts still pleasantly blurred by that last glass of wine, had been sort of calming. Peaceful.
Until Gracie arrived.
By then, Penelope had struggled to a sitting position and had only been catching her breath, getting her bearings. But Gracie had insisted on helping Penelope get inside—though Penelope took great pride in standing on her own two feet, on making her own way.
Now her little savior wouldn’t leave her alone. And Penelope, never any good at asking for what she wanted, had no idea how to get rid of her.
“I really am fine. I appreciate you checking on me,” she added in case she’d come across as ungrateful. Or worse, rude. “I’m sure you have better things to do today than worry about me.”
Worry. Annoy. Why quibble?
“Not really. Besides, you shouldn’t be left alone. You might have a concussion. Or internal injuries.”
“I don’t.”
“But you could,” Gracie said, studying her with a gaze that was way too direct, way too adult for someone so young. It was unnerving. “And you wouldn’t even know until you fell unconscious or started coughing up blood or something.”
“That’s a disturb—”
“Are you hungry?” Gracie asked. “I could make you something to eat.”
“I’m—”
“That’s probably stupid, huh? I mean, you just had a near-death experience—”
“I wouldn’t say I was anywhere near—”
“The last thing you want is a snack, right? Then again, you might wan
t to celebrate being alive and I noticed you have brownies—”
“Really, I don’t—”
“—and what better way to celebrate still being among the living than with some chocolate?”
Penelope wanted to cover her ears and beg Gracie to be quiet, just for a moment, but the determined and talkative girl walked over to the pan next to the stove.
Humming the same Fray song Penelope had danced to earlier, Gracie brought the brownies to the island, then once again invaded Penelope’s privacy by searching through several kitchen drawers.
Penelope slumped. She surrendered. A woman had only so much fight in her, and she’d used up her stores with her son.
Her home was being overrun by a five-foot-two-inch wisp of a girl in cuffed jean shorts and a floaty white peasant top. A thick floral headband held back Gracie’s light brown hair, the riotous curls reaching her waist.
Penelope couldn’t imagine the time and effort needed to take care of that much hair. Her father believed long hair was nothing more than vanity. Her mother—whose own hair was still kept in the same short, layered style she’d worn since her college graduation in 1970—thought it was too much work.
Touching the ends of her chin-length hair, Penelope set her elbow on the counter. Even after she’d been on her own, independent in every possible way, she’d never let her hair grow past her shoulders.
Almost as if she was trying to gain her parents’ approval.
Still.
She dropped her hand and straightened. Absurd. Years ago she’d realized she no longer needed to prove anything to her parents. She didn’t care what they thought of her if they were proud of her.
If they loved her.
She could grow her hair as long as she pleased. Could color it and wear makeup and dress in any manner she so chose.
Except thirty-eight counted as middle-aged. Long hair would now be inappropriate.
Wonderful. She was old, haggard, divorced and unappreciated by her only child. Gracie was right. She really did need a brownie.