Safely Home

by Ruth Logan Herne

  She’d greeted the morning with intermittent bursts of scalding water because Gran liked to wash clothes early. Like pre-dawn early. Who does that? thought Cress, indignant.

  More time for hanging, the old gal said.

  Well, hang this, Cress thought as she approached the back porch. Her footsteps stirred Shep. He stood, arthritic, yawned, stretched, then moved her way, looking for affection. No way could she ignore the old boy. She paused, bending to pet the dog who’d traipsed alongside Grandpa to the day he died, then entered the kitchen.

  “Did you remember the milk?” Gran peered at Cress’s empty hands and hiked a brow.

  She hadn’t. She’d been so riled after her tête-à-tête with Alex followed by her run-in with the local Barney Fife that she’d forgotten the milk. She choked back what she wanted to say and shook her head. “Forgot. Sorry. I’ll head to the convenience store and grab it there.”

  “It’s a dollar cheaper in town,” Gran scolded.

  Cress’s shoulders wrenched. “I’ll cover the difference, Gran.”

  “That’s not the point.” Gran’s frown made her glasses slip. “You had to go right by Gordy’s Supermarket to get to Alex’s office. What way did you go?”

  Cress ground her back teeth, then rolled her shoulders. The maneuver did nothing to help the growing tightness. “Past Gordy’s. I just forgot.”

  Gran peered over her glasses before righting them with the index finger of her right hand. “We can get it later when we stop at the mortuary.”

  “Gran, we are not going to the funeral parlor to make your arrangements.” The very idea gave Cress the creeps. “That’s morbid.”

  “That’s life,” Gran retorted. She poured a cup of coffee and moved to the back door, her gaze directed south. “You live, you die. Trick is, make the most of both.”

  “Yeah, well, good luck on that one.”

  “Cynical.”

  Cress sent her a cryptic look. “Chip off the old block.”

  Gran’s scowl deepened the natural creases of a seventy-something life. “Not at your age. Being away from the city is good for you. You need a break, something to change things up.”

  Cress didn’t add that being away from an abusive man was good for her. Gran would never understand such a stupid mistake. “I love my job.”

  “I know.” Gran turned, regarding her. “But there’s police work everywhere.”

  Images of her recent run-in with Les flooded Cress’s brain. Like that was real police work. Please. “Umm. Right.”

  Gran must have followed her line of reasoning because she smiled. The softened expression shed years from her face. “Not the locals, maybe, but the county sheriff. State troopers. There’s options right here.”

  “I have a job, Gran.”

  “You’re not happy there.” Gran read her like a book. Always did.

  Pressure added to Cress’s already tight shoulders. “Happy enough.”

  Gran snorted. “That’s no answer, and you know it. In any case,” her gaze dropped to Cress’s leg, “until you’re healed proper, it’s nice to have you here.”

  Cress acknowledged that with a lift of her eyebrows. “Dad’s upset that I didn’t move back there, with him and Stacey.” She liked her stepmother well enough, but Cress hadn’t reconciled those years of loss and pain, when everything fell apart following her mother’s death. Was she wrong to expect her father to be the strong one, in light of the circumstances? Probably. But falling apart and neglecting four motherless kids hadn’t made her short list.

  “He’ll get over it.” noted Gran. The lack of respect in her voice said she had a hard time forgetting, too. “I’m glad you’re with me. In spite of the reasons why.” This time she swept her own body a look.

  Cress changed the subject. “The tomatoes are ripe.”

  “Ready to pick.”

  “Are we canning them?”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Gran.”

  The old woman bristled. “Spend all that time and effort, then not be around long enough to eat them?”

  “Whatever happened to sharing?” Cress jerked her head toward the window. “Helping your neighbors?”

  Gran eyed the designer houses lining the curving trail along what had been the back field not too long ago. Her expression made Cress laugh. “Not them. How about Mary? The Dumereses? Your friends. Or someone down on their luck.”

  “And Alex.” Gran nodded. “He likes homemade things. Has a real appreciation for them.”

  Seeing the perfect opportunity for botulism poisoning, Cress brightened. “I’ll bet.”

  Gran moved toward the shelf-lined pantry. “His mama had plenty to do, keeping food on the table once his daddy died. Not much time for home cooking, raising two boys on your own, working night and day. But she done good.”

  “What’s his brother doing?”

  “Trooper.”

  “Really? A Westmore that’s not cheating people out of their life savings?”

  Gran leveled her a stern look. “Alex did nothing of the sort.”

  “Mm hmm.” Cress moved sideways. Gran hated the idea that anyone second-guessed her judgment despite the obvious, and Cress wasn’t about to get into it. “Shall I pick?”

  Gran nodded toward the back shed. “There’s boxes inside the door, to the left. They’re better than baskets for tomatoes. Don’t want ‘em bruised. And don’t go more than three layers high, though if we’re doin’ ‘em right up, it probably don’t matter.”

  “Boxes. Three layers. Got it.” Cress headed for the stairs, her leg more cooperative than it had been when she climbed out of the car. “I’m going to change first.”

  “You looked real nice goin’ into town,” Gran approved. “Except for them shoes.”

  Cress kicked off the scuffed flats. “They’re the only ones I feel sure on right now. Well, except for my running shoes.”

  “When do you go for therapy?”

  “Same day you get your first chemo. What a pair.”

  Gran tipped her chin down. “We are that. Always have been.”

  No argument there. Cress knew where her tough nature sprang from, which meant living together might have interesting consequences. Mountain-leveling natural disasters came to mind.

  She shoved those thoughts aside. She could get along just fine with her maternal grandmother, about the only one in the family who could. She just had to stand firm, not get bossed about.

  “Time’s wastin’. Them tomatoes ain’t pickin’ themselves.”

  Fine, huh? Stand firm? Cress climbed the stairs, choking down what she wanted to say and substituting, “I’m on it, Gran.”

  “And take a sweater,” Gran barked. “There’s a chill in the air.”

  The thermometer read seventy-three degrees. Cress tried to decide which of her sisters should meet their demise first, then decided Audra would be more forgiving of an early death. Except she was nice to animals, and that wouldn’t do. Cress turned left on the landing and grabbed her iPod, determined to wear shorts and a tank top just to scorch the old girl.

  *

  The first thing Alex spotted as he rolled up Norma’s drive was the same figure he’d noted that morning. Still fine. Real fine. Just the right amount of curve, left to right.

  He heaved a sigh, unheard.

  What a shame it came attached to Cress Dietrich.

  As he rolled to a stop, the hips began to move, rolling and rhythmic. Then her shoulders followed suit. It took a few seconds for him to realize she was dancing to some private drummer, the cadenced movements synchronized but downright silly in the middle of a thriving vegetable garden.

  Until she stood, still dancing, looking incredibly sure-footed despite her bad leg. All of a sudden she didn’t look silly. She looked smooth, her curves making the most of something with a thumping, solid back-beat. Head nodding, she picked up the timing, light-stepping her way among the vines, shoulders rocking, hips… Well, they had a mind of their own which put his mind right
smack dab where it had been that morning. Definitely not a place he cared to go. Not now. Not ever. Not with her.

  But the view was sweet, and way more up close and personal than network reality dance shows could ever be.

  Drawing near he recognized the song she was rocking, an old favorite of his, the movements reflecting the lyrics before she went into an even more vibrant hip rock during the percussion bridge. She spun into the guitar movement, her leg faltering while she narrowly avoided plants, and caught him watching.

  Color flooded her face, bright spots of pink flashing embarrassment, then anger. “You pig.” She charged his way, not nearly as mindful of the vines as she’d been short seconds before. Gone was the young woman dancing with abandon, in time with three-decades-plus music. In her place was the Cress he knew. Tough. Jaded. Antagonistic.

  Total cop. And Alex Westmore hated cops.

  He stepped back, evading contact, hands up in surrender. “Nice dance.” Ignoring the baleful look she shot him, he nodded to her earpiece. “CCR or Marvin Gaye?”

  She stared as if weighing her options. The click of the back screen door meant her grandmother spotted Alex, so she softened her response out of respect for the old gal, he was sure. It certainly didn’t stem from concern for him. “CCR.”

  He nodded. “Thought so.” When she frowned, he flashed her hips a grin. “The drum beat. Nice, long bridge that allows lengthy interpretive expression.”

  Her cheek tone deepened, but she shrugged him off. “I like both.”

  So did he. Great music was great music. “Me too. One has more soul, one has more rock. From what I witnessed, I expect you do all right with both, Detective.”

  “I like to rock and the last thing I worry about is my soul,” she retorted.

  That struck him as sad, but he kept his gaze impassive because Cress wouldn’t take kindly to his sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe a few months at home will change things up.”

  “Right, Preacher Dan. You go right on believing that.”

  She kept her voice low as her grandmother drew close. Alex appreciated her efforts. Norma had enough stress without Cress making a mountain out of every molehill she stumbled across. He smiled and leaned in, then dropped her a wink. “Thanks. I will.”

  Chapter Four

  “A foolish waste of money,” Gran grumbled as Cress pulled into the parking lot of the swanky restaurant a few days later. “When we’ve got perfectly good food at home.”

  “We owe ourselves, Gran.” Cress tested her leg before easing onto the paved surface, then breathed relief when the numbness didn’t come. Better. A little, anyway. Day by day. “The tomatoes are canned, attic’s done, the house is clean, and we only have two more closets to pillage.”

  “Don’t forget the barn.”

  “As if I could,” muttered Cress. She took Gran’s arm and steered her toward the ramp, ignoring the rustic stairs. “Easier on my leg,” she lied, knowing stair climbs tired the older woman. Not that Gran would admit it, no way, no how. Another quality she’d passed to Cress.

  “This place ain’t cheap,” Gran informed the world at large in a too-loud voice, her tone sharp.

  “Gran, it’s fine. It’s not like we’re broke.”

  “Waste not, want not,” Gran shot back. “Take care of the pennies, the dollars will come. I told your grandfather that time and again.”

  Great. She was about to have supper with a walking Poor Richard’s Almanac. Blah, blah, blah. Cress spent a moment lamenting the fact that grandmothers didn’t come with mute buttons, then scolded herself for thinking such a thing. If Gran’s prescribed course of treatment didn’t halt this cancer, she’d be mute way sooner than Cress was ready to say goodbye.

  Recognizing that wouldn’t stop Cress from repeating the emotion whenever Gran got on her nerves, but she figured it showed a vestige of conscience since she’d been stuck with the majority of the clean-out task. As they moved through the door, the crush of people waiting for tables intimidated Gran. She pulled back, shoulders tight, chin tucked. “It’s too crowded.” She stood rock solid and unmovable, her purse clutched to her polyester draped chest as if protecting her life savings. “Let’s just go home.”

  Cress pretended oblivion as she moved to the hostess station. “Two?”

  The young woman scanned her list, and poised her pen. “It’ll be about an hour. First name, please?”

  An hour.

  Cress’s heart sank. Gran would never huddle amongst the crowd for an hour. Even if there was enough sitting room, Gran would be downright fidgety after short minutes. Inactivity spawned restlessness. While Cress hesitated, a voice sounded from behind. “They can share our table, Janet. We should be up next, right?”

  Westmore. Here. Now. It was on the tip of Cress’s tongue to tell Alex what he could do with his table when she spied his mother and Maggie Kennison just beyond. She smiled at them, frowned at Alex, then looked at her grandmother, arms akimbo, standing at the edge of the crowd, glaring. Seeing the determined look on the old woman’s face, Cress read her options. Eat dinner at Alex’s table or take Gran home.

  Despite Gran’s vocal opposition to spending money, Cress knew she’d enjoy the food, the view, and the ambiance of the rough-hewn, lodge-like setting. Eating out was a luxury Gran rarely afforded herself, despite the money she must have made with the farm sale. And her appetite would wane with the coming course of chemotherapy. A few hours of Alex’s company was little price to pay for entertaining the old woman before she began her grueling regimen of medical intervention. Cress fought a sigh of resignation and nodded. “Thank you. I don’t think Gran would hold out in this crowd very long.”

  “Since I’m simpatico, I can understand her feelings. I’ll get her.” Alex moved through the crowd. Cress pushed down a surge of annoyance when her grandmother’s face lit, seeing Alex. She nodded, eyes bright, then allowed Alex to take her arm and lead her through the throng as though she were a visiting dignitary.

  Good grief. Cress narrowed her eyes, watching as some people greeted Alex, treating him as if he was something special, while others deliberately turned away. She pulled her attention back to Mrs. Westmore and Maggie, then stuck out her hand. “You probably don’t remember me, Mrs. Westmore. I’m Cress Dietrich.”

  Alex’s mother took Cress’s hand in a friendly grip. “I know who you are, honey, even though the braces are gone and you’re all grown up. Still a slip of a thing, though.”

  Maggie cast her a knowing eye. “When it comes to the Dietrich gals, Kiera got herself the height. Lord o’ mercy, that gal has legs.” She made a clucking sound, half approval, half envy. “When I saw that photo spread last month, I was rightly amazed, then I said to myself, ‘we might be wantin’ to get this gal home and give her a little home cookin’. Put some meat on those bones.”

  Cress didn’t say she thought the exact same thing during Kiera’s brief appearance in Watkins Ridge. Silk and satin only hid so much, despite loose designer cuts, and the jut of Kiera’s hip bones had tweaked Cress’s concern.

  But Kiera had been facing scrutiny as long as Cress could remember. Always tall, a short stint of adolescent weight gain had the local soccer coach scolding her, advising her to drop the weight to increase her running speed.

  Kiera took his advice to heart, maybe too much to heart, and had managed to maintain a model-friendly profile for years. Perfect for the camera and the runway.

  But Cress couldn’t deny wondering at what cost to her sister’s health and self-esteem when she saw Kiera face-to-face the week before. She smiled at Maggie. “They can’t put that girl in an outfit that doesn’t look good. So unfair.”

  Maggie returned the smile. “I think the good Lord knew just what he was doin’ when he handed out looks to the Dietrich girls. Each one prettier than the next.” Cress smiled as Maggie continued, “And girl, you certainly know how to flaunt a pair of jeans.”

  “I told her blue jeans ain’t right for a place like this,” intoned Gran as A
lex led her to their group. “Skirts or dress slacks look nicer, but you know how it is.” She sent a commiserative look to the both Maggie and Mrs. Westmore. “Kids don’t listen.”

  Cress prodded her grandmother’s arm with a gentle nudge. “The kid is thirty-two years old. I can pick out my own clothes, thank you very much.”

  Alex gave her an easy once-over, then arched a brow, his grin a warning. “It’s not the jeans, Gran, it’s how you move in the jeans.” He hummed a few bars of “I Heard it Through the Grapevine,” his eyes bright, his look amused.

  Gran huffed, missing the entendre, but Alex’s mother arched a brow of interest while Gran sputtered, “It still don’t seem right.”

  “Gran, they make designer jeans that cost an arm and a leg,” Cress explained. “It’s not like jeans are just farm clothes anymore.” As Gran scowled at Cress’s denim-clad legs, Cress backtracked. “Well, not these. Mine are definitely off-the-rack standard-issue, but look at the ones Kiera wears.”

  “And wears well,” Alex noted, tilting a distinctly appreciative look her way. He was saved a smack-down because the hostess called his name.

  Gran moved forward, suddenly in charge, as if she had personally engineered the hostess’s cooperation and garnered them a quick table. “Your sister has to wear them kind of things because it’s her job.”

  Great. So Kiera got to look good because she got paid to look good. The rest of the world… ah, well.

  Gran continued, “We normal folk don’t need to spend money on fancy-shmancy blue jeans and expensive restaurants when there’s food at home.”

  Cress felt the bite of the words and wondered just how she was going to get through an entire evening of jab after jab, when Alex spoke up.

  “I’m declaring a moratorium on grumbling.” He slid out Gran’s chair for her and eased her into the tufted-cushion seat while the other ladies sat themselves. He bent to Gran’s level. “Supper’s on me tonight, for both of you.” His look to Cress held warning and something else. Consideration? Empathy? He turned back to Gran. “First, you know I can well afford it so there’s no reason to feel guilty or complain.”