Ouch. Alex moved up the steps, remembering he had Aiden in his arms and wasn’t free to say all the mean, miserable, commiserative stuff he’d like to say right now. “The kids eat yet?”
Mac scowled. “What day is it?” When Alex started to answer, Mac waved him off. “I’m kidding.” He held the beer aloft. “This is my first one of my normal two-beer Sunday. I look rotten because I feel rotten but that doesn’t mean I’m going to drink myself into oblivion and ignore my boys.”
“What’s oblivion?”
Mac looked startled by Aiden’s voice. His tone softened. “It’s kind of like how your Dad didn’t pay attention to your Mom and now she’s gone.”
Alex squared his shoulders, ready to argue the point, but Aiden reached out for his father. “So maybe she’s happy now.”
Mac’s eyes misted as he worked his jaw, accepting the child. He tightened his grip on the boy as Aiden settled himself against his father’s broad chest. “Maybe. We want her happy, don’t we?”
Aiden nodded. “But we still miss her and that’s okay.”
Alex bit back a curse as his own eyes moistened in sympathy. They weren’t criers, none of them. They were big, rough, tough, burly guys who’d survived the trials of youth to become staunch citizens. Macho men who didn’t cry, rarely sympathized, and didn’t eat quiche. It just… wasn’t done.
But here he was, watching the mix of sorrow and empathy in a little kid’s eyes, seeing Mac’s grief, and knowing he could do absolutely nothing to make things right for the friend that stood by him when no one else wanted to be near him. He swung back Nick’s way. The three-year-old looked befuddled. Alex held out a hand. “Hey, kid, toss me the ball. Let’s see if we can sharpen your skills so you can kick the—”
“Watch it.”
Alex amended his choices. “Beat your brother. Let’s try a nose tackle first.” Alex raced across the short expanse of lawn, grabbed up the little boy, tweaked his nose between big manly fingers and wrestled him to the ground, pretending to have his nose all the while. “Gotcha. Now. How about this?”
He turned the boy and tickled his ribs, making Nick shout with glee. Alex grinned down at him before hauling him up and chucking him over his shoulder, fireman style. “That’s my tickle tackle. Wanna’ see my other moves?”
“Yes.” The boy’s voice shook with anticipatory delight. “I wuv wesselwing.”
“And who’s the best wrestler of them all? Who’s Da Man?” Alex held the boy upside down, dangling him. “Answer right, kid.”
Nick giggled too hard to do more than whisper. “Huuuuulk Hogan.”
“Got it in one.” Alex righted the boy, feinted left, then right, then tackled him into the grass, rolling the pre-schooler around like a dog with a bone. “The Hulkster rules. Say it.”
“Hulkster wules.”
Alex grinned and gathered the kid in, giving him a hug. “We’re gonna work on that speech stuff, kid. Right after I grill us something to eat. You hungry?”
Nick nodded. “Yes.”
“And you?” Alex turned toward Aiden.
“I’m starving.”
Alex nodded. “Then how about I rustle us up some grub? What’ve you got in the freezer?”
Mac shook his head. “Not much. Lindi usually shopped on Saturday.”
“Well, then.” Alex grabbed his cell phone from his back pocket and speed-dialed Cruz. “Uncle Cruz can grab us some burgers or dogs. Maybe both. Or maybe a nice, juicy steak would taste better?” He posed this option to Mac.
His buddy shook his head. “Kids’ll like the burgers and hot dogs better. I’m not hungry.” The idea that Mac didn’t want to sample a wood-fired steak made Alex hate Lindi a little more. Selfish, egotistical witch. Two little boys, wondering why their world had been knocked askew, and a good, solid, pillar-of-salt guy, a man admired by all who knew him.
Except his pom-pom waving, butt-shaking, gotta-look-good-for-the-cameras wife.
But Mac had friends, plenty of them. And respect. Not to mention the love and appreciation of a whole school who knew his prowess both on the football field and alongside, coaching.
He’d do all right. They’d see to it.
But right now Alex would give anything to erase the look of anguish from his friend’s face. Cruz’s voice interrupted Alex’s one-man pity party.
“Cruz, hey. Grab some burgers, will you? And dogs, maybe. Yeah, both. And rolls.”
“I like ice cream.” Nick’s shy voice penetrated Cruz’s sputtering response that he wasn’t a freakin’ QVC.
Alex leaned back and eyed the boy. “What kind?”
“Banilla.”
“I like chocolate.” Aiden’s voice wasn’t soft or demure. He made his demands loud and well known.
The inherent differences between the boys brought back long-gone memories, making Alex smile. He and Cruz had been a lot like Aiden and Nick. Different as night and day with one parent who loved them and one who created scandal. Not too hard to see the parallels there. The difference was, Alex and Cruz would make sure no one bothered these two little boys, or make them feel left out or like they didn’t quite measure up to society’s standards because their mother was a two-timing, attention-loving—.
Alex put a hard-stop on internal negativity and winked at Aiden. “And grab some ice cream for the boys, okay? Chocolate and vanilla.”
Cruz’s voice eased off. “You got it. I’ll be there in half-an-hour or so. Store’s busy. Who shops on Sundays?”
Alex laughed. “Everyone these days.”
“Well they shouldn’t.” Cruz huffed. The sound of grocery carts clanging traveled through the cell’s sensitive mike. “They should be home grilling, playing with their kids, taking a ride, going to the beach for one last hurrah of summer. Not clogging up the aisles at Gordy’s.”
“Where’s Pleasantville when you need it?”
Cruz’s tone stayed blunt. “In my line of work, Pleasantville sounds a whole lot more appealing than middle-school kids cranked on meth and sex offenders downloading thousands of images of little kids off the Internet. I’d love a world where the occasional joy ride was the worst part of my day.”
Alex bit his tongue. Talking about police work with Cruz would get them nowhere, so they generally left the topic alone, the Westmore’s version of the eight-hundred pound gorilla in the room scenario.
Nick reached for the phone, his little fingers anxious. “Tell him to huwwy.”
Alex grinned, sloughing off thoughts of police, meth and wayward wives, the light in the little boy’s eyes bright and engaging. “Nick says hurry.”
“You tell him I’m on my way.”
Alex passed on the reassurance with a nod as he disconnected the call. Despite their differences, he, Mac and Cruz stood together. Right now one of them had suffered a cheap shot, but they’d be there to help him along, give him time until things got better.
No matter how long that took.
And in the meantime, two little boys needed to be tossed in the air, rolled on the ground, and wrestled into submission in proper fashion. Wisconsin men didn’t hold real well with the idea of Metro boys. Uh, uh. Boys were boys and girls were girls and Alex was convinced the differences were inspired by God himself, not to be messed with by twenty-first century pseudo-psychology.
And why that thought brought an image of Cress Dietrich to mind, he had no idea, but a good hour of little boy fun ought to erase random images of the jean-wearing, tougher-than-nails detective with a gimpy leg.
He hoped.
Chapter Seven
“You’re recommending a fourteen day chemo cycle, Doctor?”
Dr. Holland nodded. “Yes. Studies have shown the fourteen day cycle of R-CHOP 14 to be effective against aggressive NHL’s. The downside is the body loses seven days of recovery time between treatments, which can mean heightened side effects.”
Cress frowned. “NHL’s?”
“Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphomas,” the doctor explained.
“So this
is an aggressive cancer?” Cress persisted, the frown deepening.
The doctor nodded while Gran squirmed. “I thought we were ready to get this show underway?” Her scowl traveled from Cress to the doctor. “Does a body have to share all her information with every Tom, Dick or Harry that comes along? Fourteen days is fine with me if it gets this business over and done with quicker.”
“But, Gran.” Cress turned in her seat, ready to protest.
Dr. Holland interrupted, nailing Gran with a stern expression. “You’re the one that brought Cress into this, Norma, not me. And you gave me permission to explain things.”
“Not to take all day I didn’t.”
“Gran.”
“It’s all right.” The doctor eased the moment with a smile in Cress’s direction. “Old people get ornery if we interrupt their daily schedule. You know how it is.” She slid an open wink Cress’s way. “If they miss their favorite game shows, the world as we know it might end.”
“Like I have time to monkey with things like that,” Gran scoffed, standing, her hand automatically reaching for support she hadn’t needed a year previous. “If you keep yourself busy enough, you don’t give a good hoot if the danged TV blew up.”
“Seems to me I caught you watching Grey’s Anatomy re-runs the other night,” Cress offered, keeping her voice carefully level but unable to hide the side smirk.
“That’s different,” Gran declared. She’d gotten her bearings now and headed toward the door, feet thumping. “That McDreamy guy is nothing to shake a stick at, even for an old gal like me. And I can’t imagine what he sees in that Meredith woman. Controlling little wench. I like Rose.”
“Rose?” Cress hiked a brow as they headed through the door, keeping one hand just shy of Gran’s elbow. “Who’s Rose?”
“Staff nurse that showed up for a season finale,” filled in the doctor. When Cress met her gaze, the doctor grinned. “My college-age daughter is a big fan. I try to tell her that hospitals actually aren’t all about sex and relationships, then she just rolls her eyes at me, glances at her father and says, ‘Uh huh. Right.’.”
“Because?”
“My husband is a local obstetrician. We, umm…” Dr. Holland leaned in as if sharing a state secret. “Met here. Fourth floor. Very romantic.”
“Proving television drama correct yet again.”
The doctor grinned and led them into a wide-spaced, well-lit, courtyard-style clinic. Plants lined branching walkways fanning from a fountained center garden. The words Ripley Oncological Treatment Center shone in polished brass from an overhead beam. “Mr. Ripley is the founder of a big biotech firm in California,” the doctor explained as they approached the centered reception desk. “His mother was a patient here. He built this therapeutic treatment wing in her honor about eight years ago.”
“Beautiful.”
Gran kept her chin in the air and her gaze focused. “Fancy doin’s don’t change a thing. Can’t see what it matters, havin’ a bunch of plants stuck here and there. When you’re sick, you’re sick. Get over it and get on with it, that’s what I say. A few flowers and trees don’t much make a difference.” Cress heard the words but noted a hint of wistfulness in Gran’s expression.
Gran had always loved her varied gardens. Cress remembered picking strawberries the size of a small child’s fist back in the day. Blueberries, taut and plump, aching with tender sweetness. “I don’t know about you, but I would much prefer to be sick in surroundings like this than the totally antiseptic offerings you find in some places.” Cress pointed to a small aviary tucked into the corner. “Look at the birds there. It’s like springtime all year in here.”
“Germ carriers.”
The doctor’s wink told Cress she recognized Gran’s snarkiness as a cover for anxiety. She patted Gran on the arm and handed them over to the main desk receptionist. “All yours, Trish.”
*
A flash of light split the dark sky, the crack of thunder quick behind. Big, fat drops of rain followed, splatting the boy’s arms, his head, his neck.
The light came again, crackling with electricity, a sizzling sound followed by another thunderous crash.
He wanted to go in. Seek shelter. Storms scared him, they always had, even way back when—
He thought he remembered someone grabbing him, tucking him in, laughing about the rain and the light and the noise, cuddling him, but when he tried to see the image, it slid out of sight, out of grasp.
“You finish up them potatoes before the storm gets worse, you hear?” The old lady was tucked inside, safe and warm, while he dug potatoes in the driving rain. And when he appeared at the back door, covered in mud, she’d let him have it for getting dirty, but he didn’t know how he could stay clean in the rain and the mud, so he tried to prepare himself for the smack upside the head. The cutting words, the angry voice and the empty plate. He hated gardening and he hated vegetables and most of all he hated that he was a coward. If he had guts, he could turn right now and run for the road, head for the hills, find someone, something to lead him back to a past he could no longer remember. And what would he tell them, these strangers who would most likely lead him right back her to her house and the beating to follow? “I think my name is Brian.”
They’d think he was crazy as a loon, another naughty kid, refusing to obey his aging grandmother. And they’d bring him right back to where he started. Here.
A part of him urged the chance, spurring him. He took quick, furtive looks at the road, curving beyond the long, potholed, puddle-filled broken stone driveway. There were no neighbors in either direction, not for a long ways. It would be just him and her, trying to outsmart each other, and she always won.
His heart hurt inside his chest. He plied the mud-encrusted shovel gently, from underneath, trying to not split the potatoes, but the mud weighted the shovel more with each thrust.
His back ached. His shoulders burned. And his tears flowed with the raindrops, mixing and mingling, the downpour washing away evidence of his weakness. At least she wouldn’t know he cried, and he was singularly glad of that.
I think my name is Brian…
*
“Cress. Hey. Get in.”
Cress strode on, head down, letting the driving rain mix with salt tears. That way she wouldn’t have to admit she was crying, not to anyone. Certainly not to Alex Westmore.
“Hey.”
Firm hands tried to slow her stride, but she struggled free, blindly moving down the sidewalk once again.
“Cress.” The voice, deep and low, came from in front of her again. How’d he get there so fast? Hadn’t she just shrugged him off twenty paces back? Two hands caught her arms in a firm grip that wouldn’t be shrugged off quite so easily. That realization sent a momentary surge of panic through her system before she remembered this wasn’t James.
It isn’t James.
Not now.
Not ever again.
“What’s going on?” Alex persisted, his tone thick with concern. “Is she doing okay? Aw, man, you’re crying.”
“Am not.” She side-stepped as if to move around him, but he held tight.
“Are so.” One arm encircled her back, tugging her closer. “She had a rough time of it, huh?”
“Stupid treatment.”
“Is she sick?”
“She had a rough reaction. Fever, chills, aches and pains. She won’t go through another course for two weeks, but I’ll be dreading every day until then.”
“And they used a slow drip?”
She studied him, surprised he understood the necessity of slow application. “Yes, I double checked. Maybe triple-checked. It just hit her hard by this evening.”
“Who’s with her?”
“Audra and Ginny. I just had to…”
She snuffed her runny nose and Alex nodded, guiding her back down the sidewalk. “I know. Come on, get in the car. The rain’s cold and not about to stop.”
“No.” She didn’t have to tell him that the rain matched h
er mood. The red-rimmed eyes made that fairly obvious. And how did he happen to be around at the very moment she could use a friend?
Not that Westmore was a friend in any way, shape or form. But he didn’t feel like quite the enemy she’d wanted him to be a week ago. “What’re you doing here?”
“It’s my town. I live here.” He kept his tone light and teasing, watching her while the car’s heater soothed the chill of the late day rain. “Temperature’s dropping tonight. Could be a killing frost if the sky clears.”
“I know.” She sniffed again, wishing she had a tissue. She glanced around his car, saw nothing and swiped her wet sleeve to her face.
“Here.” He handed her a mostly clean, ketchup-scented napkin. “Best I can do on short notice. Have you eaten?”
She thought a moment. “No, but I’m not hungry.”
He sighed. “Knock it off or we’ll have you looking like your skin and bones younger sister before too long.”
“You love how Kiera looks.” Cress capped the sentence with a stern look of indignation, not forgetting that Kiera’s name was the first one that dropped off his legal-beagle tongue in Gran’s kitchen two weeks previous.
“I love Kiera,” he corrected, signaling to move out into non-existent traffic as if it mattered. “Who doesn’t? She’s got a great personality and a face that owns the camera, but I’m not blind. She’s a stick.”
Cress pulled herself up straight in her sister’s defense. “You have to stay thin to model.”
Alex spared her a look as he stopped at the corner. “You don’t think there’s a problem there, Cress? Or you’re just not willing to admit it?”
Friend? Nice guy? Where on earth did she get that impression? Alex Westmore was a pain-in-the-neck, money-sucking, know-it-all. “I’m not discussing this with you. Or anyone.”
“Fair enough.” He pulled into a small parking lot down the road and swung open his door. “Hop out. I’m feeding you.”
She stayed where she was. “I’m not hungry. Besides, I have to get back to Gran.”
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