by Cheryl Wyatt
What was he doing here?
She rolled over to listen to the cozy male banter.
Grandpa harrumphed. “Well, it’s not over until the Good Lord says so.”
“Hate to say this, Lem, but she gets her iron will from you.” Mitch chuckled. The invigorating sound lilted down the hall and lifted Lauren’s head from the pillow.
She rubbed at scratchiness that the sleepless night had left in her eyes. If only she could rub away how raw his being here scraped her inside.
Who were those hooligans talking about anyway? Her? Sounded like it. In that case, she’d best be up and ready to defend herself. Grandpa’s robust coffee should do it.
Lauren lifted her robe from the bedpost and snuggled her feet into pure comfort that Lem left beside her bed. Sentimental slippers she’d used here every summer since age ten. Ones that warmed her heart as well as her toes.
She traced fingers across calico star patterns embedded in the last quilt Grandma Bates made before she died. Lauren pulled it up, pressed it to her face and drew a sustained breath.
It smelled like home.
Lauren smiled, glad Lem left the quilt in “her” room. She felt touched that he remembered how she, Grandma and Mom toiled over the pattern together with lots of tangled thread and laughter. The quilt and its cozy memories tucked aside for later, she stepped toward her door.
“So if her stubborn streak came from you, who’d she get the luscious red hair and gorgeous green eyes from?” Mitch asked.
Lauren skidded to a halt and held her breath to hear.
“My daughter, her mama,” Grandpa proudly answered.
“She must have been a looker. Lauren is beyond beautiful.”
Mitch’s heartwarming words washed through her. He thought she was beautiful? She pattered over, peered at herself in the mirror…and laughed.
Her unruly blaze of hair looked plugged into a live socket. Illinois’s humidity poofed it out like mops-gone-wild. It was a crimson entity all its own today.
“No matter.” Lauren wrinkled her nose at her reflection.
A handsome hunk thought she was pretty.
Despite the irksome fact that he was hogging her grandpa, Lauren stood what felt a foot taller. Which would still barely bring her nose to nose with Mitch.
His unwitting compliment melted off last night’s stress and sleeplessness. Hours full of trauma images that had stalked her deep into dreams.
Worse was waking to find out that she’d actually experienced gladness and felt useful again caring for patients.
She remembered the respect that had multiplied in Mitch’s eyes every time he’d sought her out last night, which had been often. She’d felt unequivocally in her element. Ian had even commented so in a hurried hallway. Kate, too, in surgery, said Lauren looked to be doing what she was uniquely gifted for. Was she?
Lauren shook off the notion. It was nothing more than an acute case of memories or a major manifestation of jet lag.
Why was Mitch here anyway? She shuffled into the kitchen.
“Look who’s awake!” Grandpa’s explosive grin pushed tears to her eyes. He greeted her with a flurry of hugs that felt like five years’ worth rolled into one.
When had anyone been this genuinely happy to see her? How she’d missed him, and the closeness they shared!
Which he now seemed to share with Mitch. The moment soured.
“Morning, Grandpa.” She helped him to his chair and avoided Mitch’s assessing gaze. Eyes that said he knew she struggled.
“Hope we didn’t wake you.” Mitch pulled out a chair for her at Grandpa’s table, covered in a crisp red gingham cloth and place mats she’d made as a child. Homesickness overloaded Lauren’s emotions.
As always, his kitchen smelled of cinnamon, her favorite toast. The kind she’d made for her parents that fateful morning.
She’d been so excited to show them that Grandpa had taught her how. Same toast she’d clutched in that irrevocable instant when she’d found the two most important people in her life barely breathing.
Life as she knew it had suddenly crumbled and fallen through fragile fingers.
Today the smell didn’t repel because she equated it with Lem, her lifeline after her parents had died. In those days, Lem talked unceasingly about how heaven was the promise that she’d see her parents again. He told stories of what Jesus had to go through in order to whisper that promise to mankind.
Memories flooded back through a river of time and nearly swept Lauren off her feet. Every coloring page she’d perfected at this table, every dish she’d set and every summer meal she’d eaten. All with Grandpa. He’d become her mom and dad rolled into one.
How could she have abandoned him all these years? Yet hadn’t he encouraged her nursing dream?
She swallowed a hard lump and ran her hands across the country tablecloth. How could one forget a rickety table meant for six, yet set for two, that housed a million happy memories?
“Never get rid of this, Grandpa,” she whispered hoarsely.
Mitch looked up, eyes sharpening. Grandpa paused, and unlike Mitch, his gaze seemed to fade back in years. Perhaps to meet hers at a time and place where their memories mingled and played. Toys. Crafts. Food. Games. Baking. Devotions. Love. Life. Loss. Hard times. Happy times. Tears. Fun. Stories. Laughter. Learning. Faith. Family. A bond no two others shared.
Until Mitch.
And that upended Lauren’s world more than he could know.
Slowly, Lem set a steaming plate of sausage and eggs in front of her. “Still like ’em scrambled best?” Gentle remembrance and solid knowing seeped into Lem’s life-and-loss-wizened eyes. He’d been through everything she had and more.
He knew every tear she’d cried, every boy she’d liked, every stunt she’d tried and every piece of toast she’d ever burned. An unfortunate many.
No one knew her like Grandpa. In fact, no one knew her at all except Grandpa. Not even her Texas friends. Life suddenly felt very lonely. Yet had Mitch come to know her through Grandpa’s gift—the power of story?
Suddenly Grandpa’s vast love for books and storytelling held greater meaning. He loved words so much, he’d used Grandma’s life insurance money to found and fund the local library, something Grandma had always wanted yet never lived to see.
What would become of Lauren if Grandpa died at seventy? Irrational or not, fear welled. Lauren had a tough time quelling it, even as Mitch and Grandpa eyed her with growing concern. Panic pulsed through her. She took deep breaths to calm down.
Didn’t help.
“Yep, still—” For some reason, her throat clogged.
They’d shared so much. She and Grandpa.
No two people possessed the treasure of memories they cherished. Not even Mitch, who studied them gently now.
Yet Mitch and Grandpa had undoubtedly made their own trove of memories. Suddenly and without warning, she wanted in.
Back into Grandpa’s life.
Grandpa shuffled contentedly to the stove to continue his domestic dance of eclectic hospitality. As his comforting and familiar clatter of pans resumed, Lauren sized up her foe.
Mitch stared at her with precision, proving he’d picked up on her envious vibes. Hopefully he’d see her need to resume her rightful place in Grandpa’s heart and life and back off a bit.
If she thought she was determined, it was no match for the titanium will steeling his liquid silver eyes and chiseling stony angles in the jaw he tenaciously jutted.
Instinctually she knew he’d been a rock for Grandpa to lean on in her absence. Who was she to interfere or tear that down?
They needed to find a middle ground. Problem was, his devotion toward Lem made her feel even more irate. At Mitch, yes, but more at herself for letting things like her emotional distance with G
randpa get this way to begin with.
They continued to stare at one another silently but by no means quietly. His breathtaking eyes spoke of loyalty and love as he rose and took a territorial stance next to Lem. Hip reclined against the counter, Mitch’s muscle-thickened arms folded across his broad chest. Not breaking eye contact, he leaned toward Grandpa with undeterred aplomb. Mitch’s massive height and build morphed into a force of protective nature.
He was clearly afraid she’d run off and hurt Grandpa again.
Their challenge-wrapped exchange was protected from Lem only because his back was to them as he whistled over sumptuous chocolate gravy bubbling in the pan. Lem was the only person Lauren knew who served dessert at every meal, including breakfast.
She doubted even Grandpa’s sugary gravy could sweeten Mitch up this moment or erase the resolve on his face. It blared his thoughts. He wasn’t about to lose ground just so she could gain it. He’d not alter his friendship with Lem for anyone. She knew this for certain, because he made no attempt to hide his expressive countenance and protective body language from her. Mitch’s gaze drifted to Grandpa and softened in such a way to pierce her heart with a two-pronged spear of remorse and regret.
If one picture could say a thousand words, Mitch’s face was a photo montage. Tenderness scrolled across masculine planes, and deep care swept into the valleys. Grandpa’s incessant Mitch stories afforded her the ability to ascertain that Mitch’s will to fight for a hold on Lem’s heart stemmed purely from admiration, loyalty and love.
No doubt a by-product of Lem’s reaching into Mitch’s desolate childhood and pulling him, a broken little smudge-faced boy, out of the ashes of poverty and hardship and teaching him how to live and love, work and pray, play and laugh like a man.
So what was her excuse? Why were her feelings so unruly?
She returned her attention to Grandpa. Had he the slightest inkling that he was the invisible rope in this unspoken, territorial tug of warring hearts?
Mitch probably thought she was a flake and that she’d end up hurting Grandpa by leaving and not staying in touch. But he had no right to insert himself into her business. Unfortunately, Grandpa had given Mitch full right to insert himself into Lem’s.
There was nothing she could do about that, but she could do her best to make up for lost time with Grandpa, with or without Mitch. Preferably without. He was a multifaceted distraction, and one she could not afford in any fashion.
Grandpa set a gravy dish of cocoa goodness in the middle of the table. Mitch served them, starting with her. He ladled a heap of chocolate gravy over one of Grandpa’s homemade biscuits she’d torn into quarter-size chunks over her plate.
She tried not to soften at Mitch’s sweet Southern manners. Or notice the way his well-muscled forearm moved with motion that mesmerized. How many broken soldiers had those careful and caring hands mended? How many lonely days had Mitch’s smile and presence brightened for Grandpa, who struggled with loneliness?
Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked vehemently.
She felt Mitch’s militant intentional gaze on her again and remembered she hadn’t brushed her crazy hair. Or finished answering Grandpa’s question of many awkward moments ago.
Self-consciousness flitted through her. “What’d you ask?”
“You never did tell me if you still like your eggs scrambled best,” Grandpa repeated with a spirit of patience.
She patted her head. “Yep. Scrambled like my hair this morning.” She slid a sideways glance at Mitch. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the big red mop.
Oh, he noticed, all right—because he stared right at it.
Mitch cleared his throat. “You have nice hair, Lauren.”
Lauren wasn’t sure Lem, fiddling again at the stove, heard. She also wasn’t sure she liked Mitch being nice, or the merry way his flattery made her feel.
She leaned back and eyed herself in a shiny toaster. An out-of-nowhere laugh came from the back of Lauren’s throat.
Grandpa turned faster than a man half his age. Mitch looked up with the most adorably confused expression.
“Nice?” Lauren held out her unruly hair. “Now I know he’s as adept at fibbing as he is at interfering.” She directed her comment to Mitch. His face colored as Grandpa chuckled and rejoined them at the table.
“Well, when you brush it it’s nice.” Mitch poked at his eggs. Had she offended him? Maybe he’d get a clue and get away from Grandpa. At least while she was here. She didn’t need anyone distracting her from the reason she came to visit: to make up for lost time.
She refused to sit idly by while Mitch picked up where he left off before deployment—taking her place in Grandpa’s heart.
Unfortunately, Mitch was the kind of man who was effective at whatever he attempted, which justified her jealousy. A little.
She studied Mitch. He still pushed his fork around his plate. Perhaps he’d cued in on her struggle with ill feelings.
Grandpa nodded toward Mitch’s well-massacred eggs. “Uh, son, those are already scrambled.”
Both men grinned. Lauren’s faded.
Grandpa called Mitch “son.” Dismay and fear disarmed her. Her heart thumped as though it wanted to be let out of her chest. Her stomach clenched and unclenched like a raw-knuckled fist.
Mitch and Grandpa were closer than she ever imagined.
What bothered her most was that she envied Grandpa this morning almost as much as she envied Mitch. Almost.
Thankfully her emotions came quickly to their senses.
Jealousy, she could contend with. Feelings for Mitch? No way. That would be the second stupidest thing she could do. Entertaining the annoying attraction had been her first.
The three ate in introspective silence. Lem looked from one to the other. His eyes circled Lauren’s face.
The last thing she wanted to do was worry Grandpa. So how to wrestle her jealousy under a rug and remedy this? She needed to try to compromise. Be more understanding. Easier said than done, though. One solution was to strive to spend time with Grandpa when Mitch wasn’t here. That meant rising before the crack of dawn and staying up late, like Grandpa-the-night-owl liked to, but so be it.
Whatever it took to regain the bond and have more time to cherish with him, like old times. Before Mitch.
“What’s today’s agenda?” Lauren asked politely to break the tension, ease Mitch’s embarrassment and Grandpa’s concern.
Mitch wiped his mouth. “I’m driving to the trauma center to check on last night’s patients. Then returning to knock out some stuff on Lem’s summer to-do list.”
“For which I’m glad.” Lem’s arm draped over Mitch’s chair.
Just great. More Mitch and less Grandpa.
She clenched her teeth until her jaw hurt.
Mitch stood. His height always took her by surprise. He carried plates to the sink. Grandpa nudged Lauren. She rose to help Mitch with dishes, even though she wanted to be nowhere near him.
Grandpa also tried to help. Mitch waved him back. “You cook, I clean, remember? That’s the deal.” Mitch grinned and shooed Lem to the living room.
It galled her all the more. Why hadn’t she thought of giving Grandpa a break?
Lauren found herself glaring at Mitch before she could stop. Thankfully her back was to Grandpa. She peeked to be sure.
Lem eyed the television and didn’t offer a clue that he’d picked up on Lauren’s struggle. In fact, he looked overjoyed at the prospect of retreating without an ounce of argument.
Highly unusual for Grandpa, whose work ethic wouldn’t let him see someone else working without stepping in to help.
Rather, he grinned all the way to his easy chair and appeared perfectly content to leave the two of them alone.
Keyword: alone.
His suddenly sturdy countenance depict
ed an inner well-being that left Lauren with a distinct impression. Perhaps Lem’s fear of perishing at seventy had more to do with worry over her than himself? That made sense. Especially in light of Grandpa’s grounded faith and trademark talk of the hope of heaven.
Dread gave way to a sick feeling inside Lauren. Did Grandpa hope she and Mitch had a future together? And did that hope seem to invigorate and enliven Grandpa?
She studied Mitch and dearly hoped Grandpa’s trust hadn’t been sorely misplaced.
Chapter Five
What was she thinking?
Mitch would really like to know. He watched Lauren with magnified interest for the third chore day in a row after breakfast at Lem’s.
“We got a lot done yesterday. Thanks for your help.”
She shrugged. “No reason for me not to.”
He eyed her attire and grinned. “Not many women can rock a vintage pair of farmer’s ratty denim overalls. But you do.”
Cheeks tinged, she quickly spooned scraps into the trash. Mitch was glad to know she became embarrassed as easily as him. Or maybe her skin was rosy because she was riled. He’d been here so much, chipping away at Lem’s chore list before the trauma center got too busy for him to manage both.
Also for Lem’s sake, he needed to keep peace with Lauren. She obviously had a problem with his friendship with Lem. Humor might defuse the situation. At least the immediate tension.
Wordlessly, she joined him at the sink. Her bracelet jangled as she slid it off and set it on the windowsill. Sunlight swept through the panes and painted a golden shine to her hair, woven in a loose, classy braid coiled over one shoulder. She batted and blew at flyaways curling into her face.
He turned on the water. “For the record, I like your hair even when it’s misbehaving.”
She paused while setting a dish in his soapy water. Met his gaze and smiled in a drawn-out way that made Mitch see a sharp resemblance to one of Lem’s ornery impending grins.
“You don’t expect me or my hair to stop misbehaving just because you’re here this week, do you?”
Mitch chuckled and began scrubbing dishes. Fresh citrus scents permeated the air. “Hardly.”
