by Jodi Thomas
Martha Q shrugged as she passed the bread around. “I thought you might be related to Mrs. Biggs here.”
Brandon looked sad as he faced the thin woman near the stove. “I’m sorry, ma’am. My brother and I are the last of our line. Like I said, my dad died and he didn’t have any kin left.”
The woman nodded her understanding. “I know how you feel.”
Martha Q wasn’t ready to let hope die. “What was your daddy’s name, Brandon? Maybe he’s a relative Mrs. Biggs forgot.”
“My mother rarely talked about him except to say he showed up about as often as a bad cold, but I remember her calling him Andy.”
Mrs. Biggs straightened. “Brice Andrew Biggs.”
“Yeah,” Brandon said. “That’s what’s on my birth certificate. Did you know him?”
Everyone had stopped talking and was listening to the conversation. They all looked at Mrs. Biggs.
The thin woman raised her head and said simply, “He was my son. My only child.”
Then, before anyone could move, she crumbled to the floor.
All the men except Brandon scrambled to help the old lady. They lifted her up as she came to, helped her into a chair, got her water, and asked her questions about how she felt.
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
Finally, Martha Q ordered them all back in their seats so the poor woman could get enough air around her to breathe. While the men went back to their meals, Brandon stood and walked over to Mrs. Biggs.
He got down on one knee and looked at her carefully as if trying to see the truth in her eyes. “Lady,” he said in a whisper, “are you trying to tell me you are my grandmother? My father’s mother?”
Mrs. Biggs touched his cheek lightly. “You look a little like Andy did when he was your age. That was about the time my husband died and he said he never wanted to speak to me again. He was so angry. He blamed me for his dad’s death. I moved away, always planning to come back when he cooled down, but the time never seemed right. The few times I tried calling, he never answered. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry for me.” Brandon shook his head. “I barely remember my old man. He was a drunk with a temper. He never took any time to care about me. My one goal in life is to grow up to be better than him.”
One of the men answered the phone while Brandon stared at the old lady.
Martha Q could see the hurt in both their eyes. As she always did, she stepped in without being invited. “Brandon, maybe you could come to breakfast at the inn tomorrow morning. The two of you could talk.”
“I guess I could do that,” Brandon said. “But, lady, I got to tell you straight out. I never had much luck with relatives, and I’m not looking to add one.”
“I understand,” Mrs. Biggs whispered. “Just breakfast.”
A moment later, the man on the phone yelled, “Hank’s on the line. He says Old Man Truman had a heart attack. They’re taking him into surgery right now. He’ll keep us informed.”
Bob McNabb, the oldest of the volunteers, came farther into the kitchen. “Hank would want us to keep going. With half the men still at the pileup on the interstate, the rest of us have to take the calls. I’ll man the phone and keep in contact with you all. We’ve got to do our job now or people might die.”
Brandon stood. “I need to get to Reagan. We’re friends.”
McNabb shook his head. “You’d only be helping her wait. The old man could be in surgery for hours. We need you here. I’ll phone you the minute I hear something and Willie will drive you out to the hospital. Fair enough?”
Brandon hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right. Rea would probably want me to help out here. She thinks this whole town belongs to her personally.” As the others headed toward their coats, Brandon added to Mrs. Biggs, “Thanks for the meal. We could talk later. I’d like to know what my dad was like. I never heard one good thing from my mom.”
“I’d like that too.” She touched his cheek again with the palm of her hand.
Brandon ran to join the others, and for the first time Martha Q saw Mrs. Biggs smile.
Martha started banging around the room, knowing that if she stopped to think about what just happened she’d probably cry. “Come on, Mrs. Biggs, let’s get this place cleaned up so we can get home and make these boys some cookies.”
Mrs. Biggs nodded.
Chapter 44
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
FEBRUARY 22, 2008
LEARY FARM
GABE LEARY WATCHED HIS FRIEND COME INTO THE HOUSE, knowing that he was back far too soon for it to have gone well. Denver went straight to the cabinet, where he stocked a few bottles of whiskey, and poured himself a drink.
Gabe went back to work, ignoring him for a half hour, then said, “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Fine. I’ve got to pack up some pages and get them in the mail.” Gabe had to think of something to do. Even risking his life on icy roads sounded better than sitting around watching his buddy get drunk.
Denver didn’t look like he was listening. He was too busy pouring himself another drink.
“Want to ride along into town with me? That way if I get stuck, I’ll have someone to push.”
“Sure. Why not, better than staying here alone.”
Denver finally looked up. His eyes were already blood-shot. Another hour and his army buddy would be spread out on the floor too drunk to make it to bed.
Gabe reached for his coat. “How bad were the roads?”
“I didn’t notice,” Denver answered.
“Great,” Gabe said, thinking he hadn’t really meant it when he and Elizabeth joked about Claire killing Denver. Apparently, she had.
Five minutes and another drink later, they headed into town. Gabe didn’t break the silence. With the snow, he felt like the whole world was silent. They didn’t see another car on the road.
Denver sat in the Land Rover while Gabe went into the post office. He usually made his trips at night and used the drop box. Interacting with people was not his strong point.
The man behind the counter looked at the envelope being express mailed. “So, any chance you are G. L. Smith, I mean the G. L. Smith, the writer? I’ve seen these envelopes before, but they’re usually dropped in the box.”
“No, I just post his mail.” Gabe didn’t want to talk, but he was trapped.
“Oh, I figured that. You don’t look much like a writer. I’d guess you’re a farmer.” The man smiled, showing a mouth in great need of dental work. “I’m right ninety-nine percent of the time, you know, on guessing people. I can tell an accountant from a bank teller and a librarian from a science teacher, and that’s not easy.”
“That’s me, the farmer. You’re right, you’re very good at guessing,” Gabe said, hating the words. “I have a farm a few miles away.”
“Wouldn’t want to tell me where Smith lives?”
“Not a chance.”
The postmaster finished with all the stamps and Gabe paid with cash.
Gabe didn’t ask until he had his change in hand, “You know of a G. L. Smith, do you?”
The man nodded. “My grandson reads all his work. Says he’s a master. Me, I prefer my novels without pictures, but I got to tell you, my grandson wasn’t reading until he found them graphic novels. I bought him a few comics; now he’s reading every time I see him. If I ever meet the man, I’m going to ask if my grandson could just say hello. A guy like that has no idea what he means to readers. He may only be saving the world in print, but he’s giving people hours of adventure right in the comfort of their home.”
“Thanks.” Gabe backed away. “I’ll tell Smith if I see him.”
“You do that.” The man smiled. “You tell him I’d really like to meet him too.”
Gabe walked out smiling, until he saw Denver sitting in the front seat looking like he was plotting his own death. When he climbed in, Gabe said, “I saw the lights on when we passed the Blue Moon Diner. Wanna stop in for some fried food?”<
br />
Denver looked up. “You’d actually go into a place to eat? Not takeout or drive-through, but a real sit-down meal?”
“Sure, anything to cheer you up.”
Denver nodded. “I’ll buy.” He thought for a moment. “You’re right. It might be the only thing that would help.”
“I was hoping you’d pay.” Gabe pulled away from the post office and headed down the street, wondering how it was possible that he’d picked the worst weather he’d seen in two years to go out to eat. If the fried food didn’t kill him, the icy roads would.
He was surprised how many people were in the diner. They looked to be mostly the unlucky people who had to work even when the weather was bad. He and Denver took the empty table next to a group that all wore scrubs. Denver was busy ordering the left side of the menu while Gabe tried to find one meal that wouldn’t clog his arteries.
After Denver gave his order, he excused himself, leaving Gabe still trying to decide.
“Want me to just make you something, Gabe?” Edith’s low voice asked. “I’m surprised to see you in here.”
Gabe looked up. Edith Franklin smiled down at him. He didn’t know if it was because he’d never visited with her in the daylight, or if he just took a minute to really look, but this time he saw the years of pain reflected in her eyes. There were scars on her arms: one that looked like a burn, one a cut that had been stitched up haphazardly. When she raised her hand to brush her hair back behind her ear, he saw bruises on her arm. Defensive wounds, he thought.
“How are you?” he said with no hint that he was asking a casual question.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “Had a problem getting here today. My car wouldn’t start and Lloyd fell on the steps when he got out to take me in his van.”
Gabe didn’t know how to make light conversation. “How many times did he hit you?”
She let out a breath and stared at the gray day already darkening into night. “Only twice, but it was my fault. I poured hot water on the porch ice, thinking I’d make it better, but it’s so cold outside the water froze before it could melt down to the wood.”
Gabe calmed his anger. “It wasn’t your fault, Edith.”
Edith smiled. “Lloyd got the brunt of this battle. When he swung the third time, he slipped and hurt his back. He’s over in the emergency room right now hoping they’ll give him some painkillers. The half bottle of whiskey he drank only took the edge off, he said. Hospital workers at the next table say with all the fender benders around town, he may have a four-hour wait. I told him when he dropped me off that I’m leaving him. That kid, Reagan Truman, helped me see the light.”
Gabe had thought of telling her to leave Lloyd. He’d been bad news since the day they married, but Gabe wasn’t in the habit of telling people how to run their lives. He couldn’t even run his own, but he wasn’t surprised Reagan had stepped up to help.
While Edith waited for him to decide, she added, more to herself than Gabe, “You know, funny thing is I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t married to him. It’ll take some getting used to, but I’ve made up my mind. I’m just waiting around for the new girl to get here, then Cass said I could take his truck and go pick up my things.”
Gabe nodded at Edith, silently wishing her well, then ordered a bowl of soup just as Denver returned from the restroom.
“You okay?” Gabe asked as soon as he saw Denver’s pale face.
“Yeah, I threw up the whiskey. Now I feel like I’d have to die and come back as a frog to feel better.”
Claire had clobbered Denver almost as badly as Lloyd had beaten up Edith, but his scars didn’t show. Gabe decided he should go back to life as a hermit. The only person he’d really miss if he moved to the middle of the desert would be Elizabeth.
“I should have never gone over to the Matheson Ranch.” Denver settled into the second verse of his sad song. “Having her never call would have been better than knowing that she used me. I thought she really cared for me deep down and was just acting like she didn’t. Now I know she hated me deep down and was just acting like she liked me. And that woman’s acting like she liked me would never win an Oscar. For a quarter I’d go back out there and tell her what she can do with ...”
Gabe had to stop the rant. “Was Elizabeth at the ranch?” he asked the minute Denver breathed.
Denver looked at him as if he’d interrupted a bar fight going on in his mind. He glared at nothing, then said, “Why don’t you call her Liz? Everyone else does. She even said she likes it, but you have to call her Elizabeth. Half the time I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Gabe saw that he’d just detoured the anger, not cooled it. “I was just wondering if she was there,” he said slowly, knowing his friend was looking for a fight. “I call her Elizabeth because I like to take my time saying her name. Sorry if it confuses you. By the way, how’d you get out of college with all those defective brain cells?”
Denver rolled his eyes but seemed to realize what he’d been doing. “Okay. No, she wasn’t there. The aunts said she’s staying in town.”
Gabe closed his eyes. If he went out the back door and ran a hundred yards along the gully, he could be at the back stairs to her office without having to fight the roads. He could see her. Just for a minute. That’s all he needed. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew he needed to hold her more than he needed food.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said as he stood and tossed his keys on the table. “You’ll still be on the three appetizers you ordered when I get back.”
Denver watched as Gabe stood. “Don’t bring her back. I’m not fit company.”
“You’re telling me.” Gabe started toward the back. “Don’t worry. If I’m not back soon, I’ll call you.”
“If you take more than an hour, I’ll be across the street wasting my time drinking again.”
“Fair enough.” A moment later Gabe heard the cook yell at him as the back door slammed.
He crossed the gully and was at Elizabeth’s office before he had a chance to feel the cold. Her light was on.
He climbed the stairs but heard her voice a second before he knocked.
“I understand,” she yelled. “I could come over. I know, but my car could make it. Don’t worry, Hank, I’ll get there.”
Silence.
Gabe guessed she’d been talking on the phone. He hesitated, afraid he’d be intruding.
Just as he was about to turn around, Elizabeth opened the door.
“Gabe,” she whispered, and a moment later was in his arms.
He hugged her tightly, asking, “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Jeremiah Truman had a heart attack. Hank took him to the hospital and they operated a few hours ago. The doctor says he’s got the old guy stable, but it doesn’t look good.”
Gabe stared down at her, loving the way she cared about people. “Where’s Reagan?”
“She’s at the hospital alone. That’s why Hank called. He and Alex have been with her, but they were pulled away to a bad wreck. He said she’s there alone now. He’s afraid the old man will die and she won’t have someone to lean on.” A tear rolled over Elizabeth’s cheek. “There’s no one to call. Reagan has no other family.”
“She has us,” he whispered. “I’ll drive. You call Hank and tell him we’re on our way.”
They ran down icy stairs and climbed into Elizabeth’s tiny car. Gabe gunned the engine as he adjusted the seat to accommodate his long legs. “I agree with Hank,” he yelled at Liz. “You shouldn’t be driving this thing in weather like this. I’ve seen go-carts that look like they’d get more traction.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, and Gabe almost ran off the road wishing he could kiss her.
It took twenty minutes to get the two miles to the hospital. The place was packed with people. Gabe decided half the town must have been playing bumper cars and the other half, over sixty mostly, had tried ice skating without skates. What made it worse, every injured person had a half dozen fa
mily members circled around them.
As they moved through the crowd looking for Reagan, Gabe glanced around trying to see a man who looked like
Edith’s husband. He remembered someone saying Lloyd was big, but nothing more. Funny thing, men who beat their wives don’t always look the part.
He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he saw Lloyd. Maybe walk up and give him a little taste of what he liked to hand out. Not that it mattered any longer. By the time Lloyd worked his way through this mess and made it back to his trailer, Edith would be gone for good.
While they waited for a nurse to look up what room Truman had been taken to, Gabe leaned over to Elizabeth and whispered, “Do you know what Lloyd Franklin looks like?”
“Of course,” she answered. “Dumb, potbellied, and dead if his wife had her way.”
“I thought he was the one beating on her?”
“He is, but I think she’s plotting. And if she kills him, I’ve already decided I’ll take the case. Why are you looking for him?”
Gabe smiled. “Edith said he had an accident on the ice. Said he’s here trying to get painkillers. He claimed he hurt his back.” Gabe hesitated and added, “She also said she told him she was leaving him for good. She said he was so drunk, he didn’t even try to argue. He just stared at her and laughed.”
“Did she have anything to do with him being hurt in the first place?”
“Not that I know of,” Gabe said finding it hard to believe that kindhearted Edith would ever try to kill someone, but everyone has a breaking point, he guessed, and she did smooth out the porch with hot water.
“Miss Matheson.” A nurse caught their attention. “Mr. Truman was moved to ICU.” She pointed with her pen.
“Thanks,” Elizabeth said, and started rushing down the hallway.
“You know that nurse?” Gabe asked.
“At some point, if you live here long enough, you know everyone, or more precisely, everyone knows you.”
The intensive care unit was closed, with posted visiting hours for fifteen minutes every two hours. Liz crossed the hall. The small waiting room that served both the operating room and ICU was empty.
