One More Summer

by Liz Flaherty

Grace grinned at her. “I know that.” She gave Promise’s insubstantial shoulders a squeeze. “Gotcha.”

  The sparkle was dim, but it was there, lighting the blue eyes in a way that made Grace think maybe the day wasn’t going to be a total loss. “Eat,” she ordered.

  “Yeah,” Steven said, sitting beside Promise, “take in your annual dose of cholesterol. Guaranteed to bring your heart to a dead stop.” He tossed an accusing scowl in his ex-fiancée’s direction before adding pleasantly, “Of course, yours has already stopped, hasn’t it?”

  “Get a life, Steven.” She didn’t look up.

  Grace poured orange juice and wished Faith was there to insert the kind of mood-lifting comment that was her specialty. “You guys want some champagne in this?” she asked. “Add a little decadence to your lives?”

  She was rewarded with a frown from her brother and an expressionless glance from Promise, so she retreated into a sulky silence to obsess over Dillon some more. The morning was shot to hell anyway. Why not take herself down with it?

  The murmur of voices from the back porch preceded the opening of the door, and Faith came in with Dillon. His arm was around her shoulders and they were both laughing.

  “Good morning.” Faith pulled away and distributed kisses indiscriminately, beaming at everyone in sight like she’d just overdosed on St. John’s Wort. “Grant and the boys went on some bonding expedition involving tents, backpacks and arguments over whose sleeping bag had the broken zipper. I decided it was an opportune time to come and beg breakfast.”

  “Glad to have you.” Grace got up so quickly, she knocked her chair into Steven’s. “Take my seat. I’ll get you a plate.”

  She brushed past Dillon, unable to meet his eyes even though he was watching her. Heat rose in her cheeks. “Sit down,” she told him. “The food’s getting cold and Steven burned that bacon especially for you. Something about charcoal not clogging the arteries.”

  He took the plate and glass from her. “You sit down and I will.”

  She couldn’t sit at a table with him like last night hadn’t happened. It was beyond her. How did women who had one-night-stands all the time do this? Especially if those singular trips into ecstasy were with men they’d lov—

  Don’t go there.

  “I hear Jonah on the steps,” she said. “I need to do more bacon and eggs. He can’t digest charcoal.”

  So that was the way she was going to play it, as if they’d been two ships passing in the night. Well, fine. It was just fine with him. He could play any hand he was dealt.

  But, goddamn, the woman had him thinking in clichés. Writers didn’t do that, or they weren’t supposed to, anyway. They thought in profound, poetic prose that adequately described events like last night. Just ask anyone who wasn’t a writer.

  Except there weren’t any words that would do that. The thought made him smile. So what if he appeared smug and satisfied? He was smug and, oh, Lord, was he satisfied. He sat beside Faith and forked a couple of pieces of bacon onto his plate. “Geez, Elliot, what did this pig ever do to you?”

  Jonah came into the room and accepted the cup of coffee Grace handed him. He sat down, wincing. A sign his back was sore. “I heard Maxie moving around in her room, so she’ll be down soon.” He reached for the sugar bowl.

  Dillon took it out of his hand and gave him the smaller dish that held artificial sweetener.

  Grace, approaching the table, gave Dillon a grateful smile, and he felt as if the sun had come out.

  Holy balls, what had she reduced him to?

  Maxie was singing as she came through the dining room and he shot Promise a questioning glance. She responded with a rueful nod, and he braced himself against the back of the chair, prepared to be Rafe again if called upon. He was, he thought, getting good at it, although he would spend the rest of his life flinching every time he smelled Shalimar perfume.

  But the Maxie who entered the kitchen wore neither the pink negligee nor the excessive makeup that had accompanied her previous departures from reality. Her robe was the same nondescript cut as Grace’s gravel-colored one. She wore a hint of blusher, soft lipstick and light mascara on her sparse lashes. Her brown eyes were smiling, holding none of the frenzy Dillon had seen on prior occasions. Her hair was arranged in soft curls around her face. Carol had darkened it on Maxie’s last trip to the salon. It was ash blonde now—a more natural shade that added youth to her face.

  She looked like—

  He didn’t even finish the thought, but when he met Steven’s startled gaze, he knew he wasn’t the only one who had noticed the resemblance.

  “Hi, Maxie,” Faith said cheerfully and stopped dead, all the color draining from her face.

  “Good morning, all.”

  Even her voice sounded younger, with a husky quality that was shockingly familiar when considered along with her altered appearance. Jonah set his cup on the table with a little thud. Promise half-rose before Steven caught her hand and drew her back to her chair.

  Grace was still on her feet, putting more food on the table. She placed a glass of juice at Maxie’s plate. “I’ll have your tea in a minute. Sleep well?” If she felt the undercurrent that permeated the room, she hid it. Of course, Grace was a champion at hiding things.

  “Um. Like a log.” Maxie lifted her glass and smiled around the table. Puzzled yet vague eyes added anxiety to her expression.

  Dillon had seen the look before. Maxie knew who and where she was, but she didn’t understand why there were strangers all around her. Sympathy tugged at him.

  Her confused gaze stopped when it reached Steven, and Dillon felt a sense of foreboding that came near to being a physical pain. He’d only had that sensation one other time, as he stood waiting on a street corner in Iraq. He’d seen the car coming and even as he’d lifted his hand to wave a greeting to its passengers, he had known beyond all doubt that life as he knew it was coming to an end.

  Old horror and new trepidation filled him. Still watching Maxie and seeing the puzzlement in her eyes turn to something dark and ugly as she centered on Steven, Dillon got up and moved toward Grace. If he could just get to her in time, he could save her. Maybe this time, he could—

  “You filthy, lowdown son of a bitch! How dare you sit there like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, Robert Elliot. How many women have you fucked while your wife lies up there dying? How many besides me have given birth to your bastards?”

  Maxie’s voice reminded Dillon of fireworks, its huskiness cracking and popping as it grew louder. The comparison made him think of explosions, and he shuddered involuntarily as he reached Grace and wrapped his arms around her from behind.

  She felt stiff, neither leaning into his touch nor drawing away from it. He folded her hands into his and tried to warm them. How could they be so cold on a day in August when the mercury threatened to break the century mark on the thermometer?

  Maxie’s body was rigid with rage, her shoulders drawn back with one lifted higher in a position of defiance.

  How familiar that position was, and how blind they all were not to have seen it before. He tugged Grace closer and watched with a kind of morbid fascination as Steven rose to his considerable height and extended a hand toward Maxie.

  “Sit down,” he invited, his low voice conciliatory. “Whatever the problem is, we can talk about it. We can fix it.”

  But Maxie wasn’t paying attention to Steven anymore. Her gaze had moved to Faith. Her expression had softened, the fire in her eyes gentled to a mere glimmer. She hurried around the table, her arthritic gait a macabre bump and grind as she walked faster than she should have.

  “Debbie.” Maxie slipped into Dillon’s empty chair and gathered Faith’s unresisting body close. “What are you doing out of bed? Was that bastard beating on Gracie again?”

  After a moment of hesitation that seemed to go on for hours, Faith spoke. “No, no. As a matter of fact, Maxie, I’m feeling tired. Would you help me upstairs? You could probably use a little lie-down yoursel
f.”

  “Of course, dear. You come right along with me.”

  They went up the back stairs, moving slowly to accommodate Maxie’s arthritis. Faith met Dillon’s eyes over her shoulder. You take care of her! She mouthed the words, but he couldn’t have heard them more clearly if she’d shouted.

  He drew Grace closer and looked past her to Steven.

  “I didn’t know.” Steven answered his silent question. “I didn’t know at all. Prom?”

  She shook her head slowly, but she was looking at Jonah.

  The sight of Jonah’s ashen face stirred Grace from Dillon’s arms. She shook her hands free of his and went to her boarder. “Jonah, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, honey, but I think you should sit down. When Faith comes back down, I’ll tell you all what I know.”

  “Know about what?” Grace didn’t wait for an answer, but began to clear the table, her movements jerky and angry. What on earth had made her think—for even the brief moment when Promise’s eyes had shone—that today wasn’t going to be awful? Because it was. Promise was sick, Maxie was weird, Faith looked better than any thirty-five-year-old woman had a right to and Grace was pretty sure Jonah would keel over if the air conditioner fan blew too hard.

  Damn air conditioner, anyway. This was all Dillon’s fault. If she’d just stayed home last night and cleaned the oven or learned to make omelets that didn’t stick and make a mess on the stove, she’d have been better off. They’d have all been better off.

  Steven wore concern like it was something too tight—the big brother billboard again—and Promise’s eyes were watchful, like she knew she was going to have to pick up the pieces when Grace tumbled off the wall.

  Promise didn’t have that kind of strength right now.

  Grace set dishes in the sink and stood still, gripping the metal-wrapped edge of the old countertop. She breathed deeply. In and out. In and out. Lots of oxygen to the brain. Wasn’t that what kept a person calm?

  She tried not to think about Maxie or the scene that had transpired. It meant nothing. A manifestation of Maxie’s flair for the dramatic was all. Good heavens, she was probably playing out a scene from the soap opera she’d been on. Or practicing dialogue for one of the confession stories she wrote. It had been pretty effective. Grace would tell her that when she woke. She’d fix some herbal tea and serve it to her in the parlor. Maxie liked things like that.

  “I have to—” was that shaky voice really hers? “—go to Mrs. Willard’s. Jonah, will you sit with Maxie after Faith comes down?”

  “Gracie…” Steven moved toward her, but Dillon intercepted him, shaking his head.

  “I’ll drive you over. My car’s behind yours anyway. You know, you’re going to have to expand the driveway somehow when you make this a bed and breakfast.”

  She forced herself to concentrate on his words. That was good. It kept her from thinking about Maxie’s. “I know. I’ve considered ripping off the kitchen and just making it a ‘bed and wine’ inn.”

  Promise did as she’d always done. She picked up the ball. “Not with the kind of wine you buy. You’d have to name it ‘Grace’s Bed and Vinegar.’”

  “Or ‘Elliot’s Rack and Rotgut,’” Steven suggested. “Mrs. Willard’s clothes in the laundry room? I’ll help you load them, Dill.”

  Grace rummaged under the sink for her plastic carryall of cleaning supplies. “Prom, rest up this morning, okay?”

  Promise brought more dishes to the sink. “I’m feeling a little better. Don’t worry about me.” Her hand rested lightly on Grace’s arm.

  Grace nodded, then nearly bumped into Jonah when she headed toward the door. He had his pipe in one hand and he took the carryall in the other. “I’ll just walk you out.”

  He opened the passenger door of Dillon’s Mazda for her and set the carryall on the floor. “Things aren’t always what they seem,” he said finally. “Doesn’t necessarily mean they’re bad. People do things they’re sorry for that hurt other folks, but pretty soon the sun sets and when you get up the next day, it rises again. It happens whether you know about things or not, but the sun shines prettier when the air’s clear.”

  It was the longest speech she’d ever heard from the reticent man. Grace hesitated, then said, “I used to pretend Jimmy Stewart was my dad. I think now I’ll pretend you are.” Just like I’m pretending Maxie didn’t say the things she did. That’s okay. Pretending’s good.

  When Dillon got into the driver’s seat, she wanted to crawl across the console and into his arms. It wasn’t passion that stirred her heart and clenched her stomach—she figured one glorious night was her lifetime allotment of that—but need of a different kind.

  He reached to cup the side of her face, his thumb rubbing lightly over her cheekbone.

  “How many more scars?” he muttered, and leaned to kiss where he had touched.

  As he drove away from Elliot House, she looked back at it. The secrets behind the lace-curtained windows seemed to taunt her. She balled her hands into fists in her lap, her short nails digging into her palms. She welcomed the pain.

  Dillon took her left hand in his, forcing it open and soothing her palm with his fingertips.

  He helped her carry Mrs. Willard’s laundry into the house, called a greeting to the wheelchair-bound woman, and turned to Grace. “I’ll pick you up in…what, two hours?”

  “I’ll be done cleaning by then, but I’ll need to go and get her groceries after that.”

  “Do you have a list? I can get them.”

  “It’s my job, Dillon. I can do it.”

  “I know you can.” He plucked a piece of paper from the front pocket of her overalls. “Is this it? She have any special diet needs?”

  “She loves fresh fruit,” Grace said, shrugging defeat in the face of his obstinacy. And people said she was stubborn. “But only buy what’s in season and on sale. She has a fixed income and is very proud she’s able to live within its boundaries. I don’t like messing with her pride.”

  He smiled at her. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

  The relief of seeing someone smile on this horrendous day was enormous, and she grinned back at him, not even caring that her cheeks trembled with the effort.

  Dillon grasped the straps of her overalls and hauled her to him, dipping his head to kiss her. When he let her go, after a nice long time, she met his eyes, searching for and finding silver glints. Familiar heat radiated through her belly.

  One night had not been enough, and the light in his eyes promised more. But Grace didn’t know if she could respond to that promise, if she would ever again feel the heat inside ignite into flame at his seeking touch.

  Chapter 17

  “Grace has to know.” Steven’s voice was flat. He tossed Dillon a cantaloupe.

  Dillon caught the fruit and stared at it in consternation. How were you supposed to figure out if it was ripe or not? “Does she have to know or do you have to know?” He thumped on the melon, then held it close to his ear and shook it. “And, for that matter, what is it we’re talking about? For all we know, Maxie was rehearsing for a part. Her trips into the past don’t come with itineraries, so we aren’t actually sure what time of her life she was in this morning.”

  “Check the stem end. If it’s soft or not determines whether the melon’s good,” Steven said.

  “Which way means it’s good?”

  “Beats me.”

  “You’re a lot of help.” Dillon dropped the melon gently into the bottom of the shopping cart and moved on to the strawberries. “They put all the red ones on top, don’t they?”

  Steven pulled a plastic bag off a roll and struggled to separate its open edges. “I don’t need to know anything. Grace is my little sister. End of story. How in the hell do you open these things?”

  Dillon took the bag from him and rubbed it firmly between his hands. “So, why does she need to know if she doesn’t want to? Doesn’t she have enough to deal with right now?” He added a container of strawberri
es to the cart. If the ones on the bottom were bad, Mrs. Willard could feed them to the birds.

  “You suppose she likes kumquats?” Carrying his bag of grapes, Steven paused before the fruit in question. “You’ve seen Grace at the library.”

  “Yeah.” Dillon stared blindly at grapefruit, remembering the husky sound of Grace’s uninhibited laughter, the joy in her dance with a giggling two-year-old, the ease of her usually tense body as she sat in the oversize rocking chair.

  Thinking about her body changed the direction of his thoughts altogether. Well, no, not altogether, because the Grace he’d held in his arms the night before had been the woman from the library. She’d taunted and teased and bathed them both in pleasure. The fear he’d seen in her eyes had given way to wonder and delight.

  “Maybe if she knows, if the secrets in her life aren’t secrets anymore, she can let the real Grace out into the open all the time instead of just when she’s telling stories.” Steven put the grapes, some kumquats, and a bag of oranges into the cart. “Nobody really likes grapefruit, do they?”

  “I don’t think so.” But Dillon got two and moved on to the bins of apples. Why were there a hundred varieties of apples? What was wrong with just red and…not? “And what if knowing sends that Grace into hiding forever?”

  Steven shrugged—good God, what was it with Elliots and shrugging? “Like I said, she’s my little sister. I’ll accept her any way she is. So will Faith.” He grinned, although his eyes remained solemn. “I think Grant would be disappointed if she changed. He loves fighting with her.”

  Dillon glared at him over the apples. “Is it absolutely necessary for you to be moronically, endlessly, consummately selfish?” He’d just used up at least a year’s quota of adverbs and was pleased for having done so without stumbling over the spate of words.

  “Selfish?” Steven fought with another plastic bag.

  “Yes, selfish.” Dillon jerked the bag out of his hands, opened it and dropped an apple from each variety into it. “I don’t give a rat’s ass how you, Faith and Grant feel about the disclosure of these secrets. I’m worried about how it will affect Grace. Remember her? The ‘little sister’ you condescend to love when you remember to and merely accept the rest of the time? She has, after all, made it mighty easy for you three to live your lives entirely to your own liking.”