The image was so vivid she could smell smoke, and the soles of her feet grew warm. She wondered if the arc had burned the meals dangling from her hand but she was afraid to look.
Kat moved closer to Grace. “He is easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”
Flushed, she turned away from the café, glad for the fresh air. “I don’t go for the long-haired, tattooed type.”
“Then you’re missing out.”
“Perhaps. It was nice talking to you, Kat.”
“You too. I hope you find what you’re looking for in the library. I’d sure like to be able to eat out without people fussing at me.”
“You and me both.” Grace, still uncertain why she’d imagined that bolt of electricity between herself and Trav, nodded absently. “See you tomorrow.”
With that, she tucked her head and hurried home, refusing to look back.
CHAPTER 12
Trav
He clung to sleep, grasping at the wisps of a hollow dream as it was yanked away. He tried to clutch at it, hoping to stay asleep, but as the dream dissipated, he found himself wide awake, the light from the hallway hurting his eyes.
He rubbed his face, trying to remove the tiredness, and noticed it was still pitch-black outside. He wasn’t sure what he’d been dreaming, but oddly enough, he could smell pasta sauce.
Homemade pasta sauce, like Mom used to make.
The memory was oddly real, and along with the scent of simmering sauce rich with oregano, he could hear the warm clank of a spoon hitting the side of a—
He sat up. It wasn’t a dream. Someone was in his kitchen.
He was instantly on high alert, his skin prickling, his breathing shallow and brisk. He threw off the thin sheet and slipped from his bed, his heart thundering in his ears. He glanced at the clock that hung over the door. Four in the morning. He’d only gotten two hours of sleep, if that, and now he was furiously awake.
Silently, he yanked on his jeans and reached behind the door for the bat he kept there.
As quiet as the dawn, he made his way down the hallway, cautiously avoiding the board that creaked. His skin grew slick, and his stomach felt as if he’d swallowed a stone.
The lights were on in the kitchen, but nowhere else. He swung to one side of the door, against the wall, the hair on the back of his neck prickling, the bat raised and ready.
He waited, listening.
Something metal clanked, and a low voice murmured something indistinguishable.
He gathered himself and stepped into the kitchen, his gaze darting everywhere as—
“Robert, what are you doing with that bat?”
He blinked. And then blinked again.
Tiny Mrs. Giano stood before him. She was barefoot and dressed in her nightgown, an inside-out sweater hanging from her thin shoulders. Her hair, thin and white and curly, stood on end and caught the kitchen light until he could see her pink scalp between the strands.
She held out her hand. “Give that to me.”
Give what— Oh. The bat. He still had it cocked back over his shoulder, ready to strike. My God, I could have hurt her. Suddenly sick, he lowered the bat. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, his heart beating so hard he could feel it against his breastbone. “I didn’t know you were—”
“Silly thing.” She took the bat, jerking it from his grasp with a surprisingly strong yank, saying with a chuckle as if she were truly amused, “You Parker boys. Always in trouble, aren’t you? And you, Robert, are the worst, because you know better.”
Robert. She still thinks I’m Dad. He took a shuddering breath, his body weak as the rush of adrenaline left him. “Mrs. Giano, I’m sorry. I—”
Killer meowed.
Trav turned. The cat sat on the kitchen counter, licking a spoon. Trav noticed steam coming from a pot on the stove, the scent unmistakable; Mrs. Giano had broken into his house and was now making spaghetti sauce.
“Theo, you rascal! Get off the counter!” Mrs. Giano shooed the cat away. “He is so ill behaved, that one. I’ve been trying to cook dinner and he keeps interrupting me and—” Her eyes widened. “Robert! Where is your shirt?”
He looked down and his face heated. “Oh geez. I’ll be right back.”
She shook her head and waved him away much as she had the cat. “Get some clothes on, will you? You can’t come to the table half naked. You know better than that.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right back.”
“You’d better come back, because I’m going to need someone to set the table and it’s not going to be me. I already did all the cooking.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hurried to his room and found a T-shirt, stopping to slide his cell phone into his pocket before he returned to the kitchen.
She was standing by the stove when he reappeared, stirring the sauce, the bat leaning against the wall. “You can’t hurry a good sauce. But it’s almost ready. I just started the spaghetti.”
She was so tiny, this woman, and she looked oddly at home standing beside his stove.
He found that he didn’t mind that she thought he was Dad. In some ways, it made Trav feel a little closer to his father. Besides, it looked like he might get a home-cooked meal out of it, and that made it doubly worthwhile.
Killer, who’d made himself at home in one of the dining room chairs, watched Trav through half-closed eyes as if struggling to stay awake, but Trav knew the cat would be back on the counter if they turned their backs. “The sauce smells good.”
She beamed at him. “It’s my family’s recipe. You always loved it, didn’t you?”
From the smell of it, he still did. “Yes, ma’am.” The pot of sauce bubbled merrily, and he noticed another pot on the back burner. Sticks of spaghetti rose out of it. Ah, the spaghetti. That’s going to taste goo— A curl of smoke lifted from the pot just as the smell of burnt pasta hit him.
In two strides he was at the stove. He turned off the eye of the stove, grabbed a pair of pot holders sitting nearby, and pulled the pot off the back burner. The ends of the pasta were blackened, and some of them stuck to the bottom.
Mrs. Giano peered over his shoulder. “What happened?” Her gaze locked on the burned pasta. “Oh dear.” She put a hand to her cheek and took an unsteady step back. “I forgot the water, didn’t I?” Her voice wavered.
“No, it just boiled off.” He opened the oven and set the pot out of sight, closing the door on the smell and the mess. He gave her an encouraging smile. “We need a bigger pot, anyway.” He found another pot, put it on the stove, and pulled another box of pasta from the cabinet. “Five quarts of water.”
“Four should do it,” she corrected absently.
“Right.” He filled the pot and turned the stove eye back on.
Mrs. Giano clicked her tongue. “Add salt and olive oil. I swear, haven’t you cooked before?”
He was glad she’d already forgotten the burnt pasta he’d tucked out of sight. Dad had been the same way. He’d sailed along in his little bubble of long-ago memories, but at the first sign of forgetfulness, he’d wobble, uncertain, aware something was wrong. If Trav couldn’t bring Dad back into the moment, his father would get upset, sad, and even angry.
Trav nodded toward the sauce pot. “Spaghetti dinners are the best.”
As he’d hoped, that set Mama G wandering through her memories, sharing stories of spaghetti dinners she and her family had shared.
The water started to bubble. Trav added the pasta. “There. I’ll set the table.”
“Yes. You and your brother, your momma, and your dad. Oh, and we should add Grace and Daisy, shouldn’t we? We can’t forget them.”
He nodded and went to get the plates. He shooed Killer away from the table and then set down the stack of plates. He made sure Mama G was busy before he pulled out his cell phone and texted Sarah.
Sorry to bother you, but I have an unexpected visitor. Tell the Dragon Lady her mother is here.
He didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
Tell her yourself.
Here’s her number. And her name is Grace.
He frowned at the number. He hadn’t wanted to talk to Grace directly. There was some sort of ill wind between them. An awkwardness that he couldn’t quite overcome.
But it was more than that. Just yesterday, he’d seen her at the café, and when she’d looked at him something had happened. He couldn’t describe it, but it had seared him from his heart to the soles of his feet. Afterward, he’d found himself thinking about her far more than he should.
God, I’ve caught a case of new age bullshit from Sarah. Scowling at himself for being so fanciful, he texted Sarah again. Come on, he typed. Can you just let her know?
The reply came quickly.
I’m asleep. You have the number.
Damn all difficult women. He guessed he would have to call Grace himself.
Should he call her or just text her? A text would be easier. And he could read it to himself before he sent it to make sure it didn’t sound weird. That would be better than talking, where there was no do-over.
He thought about it a moment, and then texted: This is Travis Parker. Mama G is here. You should come and get her.
No answer came, so he waited, wondering if her phone was close enough to her bed to wake her.
After a moment, he added, She is cooking spaghetti.
He’d already hit send when he decided that was a stupid thing to write. She’d see what was happening once she got here. He grimaced at his foolishness and shoved his phone back in his pocket. Forget it. There was no taking it back.
“You’re not setting the table,” Mrs. Giano pointed out.
“Yes, ma’am.” He set out the plates.
“Forks and spoons. We won’t need knives.”
He put out the silverware, keeping an eye on Mrs. Giano. Her eyes were bright and shiny, and she hummed as she stirred the pot. She’s happy, he realized. She’s happy to be here with me.
It had been a long time since anyone had been happy in his house.
His phone pinged, and he looked at it.
On my way.
There was a noticeable pause and then Thank you. Sorry for the inconvenience.
He muttered under his breath. It wasn’t inconvenient. Not really. But he’d wait to tell the Dragon Lady that in person.
“Dinner will be ready soon.” Mrs. Giano added a dash of oregano to the gently bubbling pot. “And this”—she held up the oregano bottle—“is not fresh. I’ve had to add twice the normal amount just to get it right.” She shook her head at him. “You should keep fresh herbs. The jarred ones are bah!”
He nodded, because it was the only thing he could think to do. “Mrs. Giano, I—”
“Please. Call me Mama G. It’s who I am.” She sent him a sly look that sparkled with laughter. “Or it is when I need to be.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “Mama G it is, then.” He walked past her and checked the bubbling water, stirring the pasta as he did so. “Is it ready yet?”
She came to look. “Hmm. Not yet. Another few minutes.”
She lifted the lid on the sauce and waved her hand, wafting the scent of rich pasta sauce in his direction. “Smell that? It’s gold.”
It was at that. “It’s nice of you to cook.”
“My pleasure. Besides, I owe you for all the times you’ve fixed Mabel and wouldn’t take a penny.”
“Mabel . . .” he prompted.
“You know . . . Mabel! My Chevy. You’ve fixed her a hundred times, and you’ve never charged me, not once.”
So Dad had fixed Mama G’s car for free. Trav wondered how many other people Dad had done that for.
“I figured you’d need a good meal, living here all alone now as you do. Oh Robert, when I heard how Leigh died and left you and poor Travis, well, my heart just broke. I know how you loved her.”
Trav realized that Mama G had moved in time from when Dad was young to closer to the present. Doc Bolton had once explained how that worked. They don’t operate on a time line. Days and events are fluid and they float between times, unfettered and unbothered until something jars them. Then they get confused, and become afraid, which they express with fear or anger. You have to let them know it’s okay. Sort of travel with them from time to time, land where they land, be where they are, don’t startle them. It hadn’t been easy, but over the months as he took care of Dad, Trav had gotten the hang of it.
He said now, “I can’t wait to try your sauce. I’ll get some parmesan for the spaghetti.” He went to the fridge. “I hope you’re hungry. That’s a lot of spaghetti.”
“I’ll have a little.” She smiled at him, and in that moment, her gaze cleared and her smile wavered. It was as if she’d just now seen him as he really was.
“You . . .” Still holding the spoon, she backed away. “You’re not Robert.”
Trav knew what was coming—the confusion, the embarrassment, the anger. To head it off, he said, “You make the best spaghetti sauce. Just the smell is making me hungry.”
Mama G looked around her as if just now seeing the kitchen. She lifted her trembling, spotted hand to her hair and tucked a stray strand behind her ear. “I don’t remember . . . How did I get here? I—”
“I invited you, of course,” Trav said, keeping his tone soft but positive. “Why don’t you sit down? The spaghetti you made is almost ready.”
She looked at the bubbling pots. “I cooked all of this.”
“Yes, and it smells wonderful.” He took the spoon from her hand and placed it on the spoon holder on the stovetop. Then he took her elbow and gently led her to the table. “Come on, Mama G. Have a seat.”
She sat down, her eyes now watery with unshed tears. “I don’t know how I came to—”
The doorbell rang. Thank God. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” He hurried to the front door, Killer following behind.
Trav reached for the door and realized he hadn’t turned on the porch light. Great. What a way to welcome her, making her stand in the dark.
He flipped the light on as he opened the door.
Grace blinked up at him. She’d thrown on jeans and a T-shirt, her dark hair unbrushed. He’d never seen her so casually dressed and she looked younger and more vulnerable than he’d imagined she could.
Killer meowed and then rushed outside as if afraid he’d be tackled on the way, disappearing into the bushes.
Grace watched him and then turned back to Trav. “Where is she?”
“In the kitchen. I just got her to sit down.”
“I’m so sorry.” Grace shook her head, her brow creased with worry. “I didn’t even know she was gone. I closed up everything when I went to bed, and she can’t reach the lock because it’s high, but somehow she did.” Grace grimaced, obviously frustrated. “I’ll take her home.”
He stood to one side and pointed in the direction of his kitchen.
She brushed past him, and it was as if he could feel every step she took. Sparks raced through the floor and up through the soles of his feet.
I’m losing my mind, he decided. Sarah would be so proud.
He closed the door and followed Grace.
She stood near Mama G, who was still at the table.
Mama G smiled brightly. “There you are! I made spaghetti for Robert.”
Ah. We are back to Robert.
Grace frowned. “It’s very nice of you to cook, but we should let Trav—”
“Robert,” Trav interrupted.
Grace’s gaze flew to him.
“Robert already set the table,” Mama G said, looking at the table with satisfaction. “We should eat while it’s hot.”
“Mama G, we should—”
“Grace.” It was all he said, but it was enough. Her gaze locked with his and he was astonished at the depths of her deep brown eyes. He could fall into those eyes, he thought, and never surface. “We should eat.”
“Of course we should eat,” Mama G said, a touch testily. “I didn’t do all of this work for nothing.”
Grace opened
her mouth but then closed it. “No arguing,” she muttered under her breath. “Fine. We’ll eat and then we’ll go home.”
“Of course we’ll go home after we eat,” Mama G said. “We can’t stay here, in the Parker house, can we, Robert?”
“Not unless you’re willing to do the laundry, too.”
Mama G chuckled. “Dinner is all you’re getting.”
“You did all the work, so you stay right there and I’ll serve.” He picked up three plates and carried them to the stove.
Mama G opened her napkin and put it in her lap. “Grace, fix everyone a drink. I’ll just have water. The doctor says I should drink more.”
“Yes, you should.” Grace looked at Trav. “Water?”
“Yes, please.” While he filled the plates, Grace found the cupboard holding the glasses, and filled three of them with water and carried them to the table.
Soon, they were sitting, plates of spaghetti steaming in front of them. The light over the table streamed a round, golden beam over them and Trav wondered if they looked like a Norman Rockwell painting.
Mama G picked up her fork. “Isn’t this cozy?”
The whole thing felt ridiculously strange. He’d eaten at this table by himself for over a year now. A long, lonely year. An emotion he didn’t want to name rose up in his throat.
Grace, obviously determined to keep her time in his house short, twisted spaghetti onto her fork with brisk efficiency. “Eat, Mama G.”
Mama G’s gaze moved from Grace to Trav, and then to the plates he’d set out earlier that were empty.
The elderly lady’s smile began to waver.
Trav cleared his throat and spun his fork in his spaghetti. “The Phelpses have always been friends of the Parkers.”
Mama G’s gaze turned back to him and her gaze refocused. “Our families have always been close. And oh, how I enjoyed your father.”
Your father. Now she knows I’m not Dad. “You knew my dad well.” God, but this was good spaghetti. He tried to find a comfortable topic that would occupy Mama G. “How did you come to babysit him?”
She pursed her lips. “How did I? Let me see . . . Oh yes! His mother knew mine. They set it up between them. Robert could be a terror and he and his brother had chased off more than one sitter. But he was good when I watched him. I’ve always known how to deal with troubled children.”
The Book Charmer Page 23