It was always good to see her, of course. If it didn’t happen to be eight-oh-two in the dang morning.
She bustled through the living room, tut-tutting at yesterday’s paper he’d left strewn on the couch cushions. Somehow she managed to balance her red basket and cup of coffee while still gathering the sections of newspaper under her arm.
“You look like Little Red Riding Hood, with your sweater and your basket.”
His grandmother humphed. “She didn’t have such a gorgeous sweater.” She touched the embroidered banana proudly. “Did I show you this one?”
“You did. I hadn’t noticed that you’d used glitter yarn for the banana, though.”
“Best invention of the nineties.”
He didn’t bother filling her in that a couple of decades had come and gone since the nineties. She still lived alone, just four blocks away, and while she lived on his grandfather’s life insurance, she made her spending money by teaching knitting classes. She’d somehow gained fame through knitting; Hank didn’t know how she’d pulled that off, but she had tourists coming to town expressly to learn her yarn embroidery techniques. Maureen enjoyed nothing more than creating sweaters that most of the world would call ugly, and wearing them so proudly that he’d seen people in Mabel’s Cafe offer to buy her sweaters right off her back.
His grandmother had to take over being mother and father right at the point he’d been headed into his awful teen years, and she’d done a fine job with limited means. Hank loved her more than he loved anyone in the world. And she loved him even more fiercely. He knew that. He felt it in her grip when she hugged him.
And yet that didn’t ever, ever get him off the hook.
“Heard you were a butthead in Eureka yesterday,” Maureen said.
Hank groaned and reached for the coffee pot. “That’s it. I’m moving.”
Maureen set her knitting basket on the table with a clatter and pulled out her needles. The sweater-in-progress was a toxic green-yellow. “Don’t bother with coffee. I had mine hours and hours ago.”
“I’m sure you did. This is for me.”
“So, what made you so mad you canceled a whole date?”
Hank turned, the pot still in his hand, and stared. He could imagine that Maureen could glean info that included who he’d been on a date with, and perhaps what they’d done, but the fact that he’d canceled it? That he’d been a jerk of the first degree?
“Did you also know that we had sex in the Mustang?”
Maureen waved her hand. “Don’t you try to shock me, young man. I know you smooched and then she left in a huff.”
There were eyes in the trees, spies everywhere. Really, he had enough in savings that he could run off to Mexico and be pretty damn comfortable for at least a few years before he had to figure out a next step. He should just go. But damn, if he’d packed a bag, Maureen would have heard it through the grapevine and would probably show up within minutes of him zipping the suitcase.
“Do you happen to know where I left my spare key?” It was a smart-alec question. His spare hadn’t been on his hook for the last month, and he couldn’t figure out what he’d done with it. There was no reason for Maureen to know where it had gone, though.
She lifted a ring of keys out of her basket and jingled it. “I took it.”
Didn’t that just figure. “Why? You already had one, and you always ring the doorbell anyway.”
“So I could have Eva come in and clean. She needed a key.”
“That’s what I hire Rosamunde to do. Every two weeks.” Hank was terrible at house-cleaning and he knew it. Rosamunde was the daughter of Eva, Maureen's longtime best friend.
“She’s terrible at the baseboards. Eva’s better.”
“You’re too old for the baseboards. For that matter, so’s Eva.” Hank hated to think about someone his grandmother’s age hunched over, wiping the corners of his rooms.
“Ah, I’m just messing with you,” said Maureen. “Rosamunde’s great. I just wanted a key so we could watch your cable TV when you’re at work.”
“And again, what about your key?”
She suddenly became extra invested in something her fingers were doing.
“Gramma?”
“Oh, all right. I dropped it off the pier.”
“Excuse me?”
“I needed something to throw at a seagull that had taken one of my stitch markers.”
Hank shook his head. Sometimes he thought it would be easier talking to a three-year-old than Maureen, even though her faculties were still sharp as her pointy needles.
The pot had almost a full cup of coffee in it now, and he poured it into his mug. He couldn’t wait any longer for it. He needed it.
“So, Gramma, what’s up this morning? Besides knowing more about my life than I do, apparently.”
“I need to tell you not to see that girl anymore.”
Hank blinked. “Samantha?”
“Who else are you seeing, Madonna?”
Someday he’d introduce her to a current pop artist. “I appreciate your concern.”
“But I should butt out.” Maureen clicked her needles and her fingers were moving so fast he could barely tell what she was doing. “I hear you. But I’m not concerned with what you think about this one.”
“You never are.”
Maureen pressed the tip of a needle to her chest and took a breath that would inflate a blimp. “You wound my heart when you say that. Right here is where I feel it. In the middle of the night, all I can think about is my grandson and his happiness. What did I do to deserve—” She reminded Hank of an opera singer, her chest heaving with emotion.
“Before you get all wound up like that, can you please do a man a favor and get to the point?”
Maureen deflated and cheered up. “Okay. Look. That girl’s no good. Never has been. There. I want great-grandkids someday and I don’t want a junkie to give birth to some meth-addled crackbaby.”
“What?”
“You know what I mean. Dump her. You can’t trust a girl like her. And Eva says there’s a new waitress at Mabel’s, and she’s just the kind of girl you like, all skinny and blond.”
“I like a brunette with curves.” Samantha had perfect curves, made for speed.
“You do not.”
“That’s like telling me I don’t like pickles.”
“But you do like pickles. You love them!”
“I know. But if you told me I didn’t like them, it wouldn’t make me like them less. And there’s nothing wrong with Samantha Rowe.”
“She’s not good enough for you.”
Actually, it was just the opposite. Samantha Rowe was way too good for a guy like him.
Hank waited. There would be more. There always was. He watched as Maureen thought—he could almost see the wheels turning inside her head. Gradually, her face dropped, her eyes getting bigger and wetter. Her mouth sagged into sadness, and her lower lip wobbled. Man. His grandmother was good.
Her voice trembled as she said, “It’s just that I’m not getting any younger, my darling. I don’t expect to be around for my next birthday—”
“Are you dying currently? Because your birthday is in three weeks,” Hank pointed out helpfully.
“I know that,” snapped Maureen, breaking character. “Look. Is it so terrible if I want my future great-grandchildren to be healthy and happy?”
“How about your current grandson? Do you care about him?”
“You know you’re my life.”
It wasn’t true. Her life was her knitting and the bridge club that was more like a sorority and her three cats and about a million charity projects. “I love you, too.”
“Will you dump her for me?” Maureen batted her eyelashes, and Hank noticed something different about them. Something odd.
“Are you wearing fake eyelashes?” He leaned closer. “Is that glitter?”
“Oh, honey! Yes! Don’t you love them?” She batted again and one of the eyelashes fell a bit sideways. Now it
looked as if she had a glittery caterpillar flapping from her eyelid, but the old bird was carrying it off somehow.
Caught by the sudden thought that someday, and probably not that very many years from now, Maureen wouldn’t be around to bother him, to ring his doorbell too early, to complain about his life choices, to make him drink tea that he hated, to bug him about taking his vitamins—Hank’s heart constricted painfully. “Gramma.” He held out his hand.
She immediately dropped the end of her knitting needle and tucked her hand in his.
It was colder than he would have thought. Dry, and small. The hand that had given him so much. “I love you, old woman. You know that, right?”
She squinted in suspicion and the eyelash flapped wildly. “Are you moving to Mexico?”
He gave a shout of laugher and released her hand. “Do you have my brain tapped? Is that it? I’m not going anywhere. Not without you, anyway.”
“Good. Because if we go anywhere, I’d rather go somewhere I can speak the language. Boca Raton.” She jabbed a stitch with her needle. “And she’s not coming with us.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re stubborn and closed-minded?”
She smiled beatifically. “Thank you. I love you, too, you big ridiculous child.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THREE WEEKS LATER, Samantha finally agreed to meet her sister for a juice.
A juice.
If you’d told Samantha when she was twenty-five that she’d ever make a date to meet Grace for a drink that didn’t include alcohol, she would have fallen right off her barstool.
But Juice Blaster was the newest venture in town, and Grace had apparently already made best friends with the woman who owned it.
“Yay! You came!” Grace got off the seat that actually did resemble many a barstool Samantha had occupied during her drinking life. “I was worried you wouldn’t be able to handle the fumes.”
Samantha’s nose twitched. “What is that?”
“Wheatgrass.” Grace eyes were bright with excitement. “And guess what else? Roxie agreed to make a big batch of it for me every day in the morning, so my patients can have it before their acupuncture sessions. Here, I got you a shot, too.”
The painful irony was that it was in a shot glass. Grace hadn’t held a shooter in a long, long time, but the weight of the glass felt just right in her hand. “One gulp?”
“I like to sip mine, but most people shoot it, yeah.” Grace held up her own. “To your health.”
Samantha drank the bright green liquid.
Then she was pretty sure she was going to die.
“Liquid health.”
“No, that was the worst thing that was ever in my mouth, and once I woke up in an alley with my mouth lying in a puddle of something I couldn’t identify.”
Samantha had been mostly kidding—the puddle had been rainwater—but Grace suddenly looked like she was going to cry. “That’s awful.”
“Oh, honey, I was just teasing.”
“No.” Grace set her barely-tasted wheatgrass on the bar and sat back down on her stool. “That’s where you where. In an alley. All those years when I couldn’t find you—”
“Oh, sweetie…I always made it home for Christmas…”
“Except for that one year you didn’t.” Grace looked up at the menu board, blinking rapidly. “I’m glad you’re home.”
Samantha shook her head, but she got it. She did. “I’m glad I am, too.” She leaned her shoulder against her sister’s and looked up at the towering menu. “So what should I get?”
“The Green Giant is what I always get.”
“Does that really say kale and beets?”
“It’s delicious. Refreshing. She puts just a touch of fresh lemon, and you wouldn’t believe—”
“Is there anything with ice cream?” Samantha asked with rising panic. She needed to get the wheatgrass taste out of her mouth, ASAP. Her teeth felt like they were wearing sweaters made of mud.
“Yes, but that’s not why we’re here.”
Samantha smiled at Grace and said, “I’m here for sugar. If there’s a sugar option, I’m taking it. You should know that by now.”
“Fine. But get a booster, would you?”
Once they’d slid the straws into their huge drinks and opened the bag that held gluten-free chocolate-chip cookies, Samantha waited for Grace to ask.
“So,” her sister said. “How’s the apartment? Now that it’s really cold, are those windows thick enough? Or are they letting in the draft like I thought they would? Because I’ve had this window guy coming in to see me, and he’s super nice, and if you need to ask Johannes for better insulation, I’ll help you do it.”
Samantha stared at her. “You’re not going to ask me about Hank?”
Grace gave her an innocent look. “What about him?”
“How the training is going?”
“Okay. How’s it going?”
The training was amazing. Hank and she hadn’t said a single word about the kiss in the car—they’d just worked. For three weeks now, Hank had been training with her every day he had off from the fire department. He was a natural. His physicality seemed to be an extension of his intelligence—she told him one thing, and he remembered it, incorporating what she said into the maneuver they were working on. After four sessions, she deemed him ready to shadow Wally Atkins, her other attacker, and in three of those training sessions, Hank was almost better than Wally was. He was quick, light on his feet, but he was absolutely committed to bringing his full body weight to bear when needed.
In their last session, Wally had to leave early, leaving Hank and Samantha to finish their work. Hank had taken her to the ground, almost pinning her. Samantha had been startled, then pleased he was doing so well. He was on top of her, and something had shifted. Something different and darker. Hotter. The feel of his body wasn’t something she was fighting against, it was something she wanted. Again. For one heart-stopping moment, she laid under him and wondered what he would do if she took off his mask and arched up to kiss him.
Then she’d twisted her way out and had brought her foot down on top of his padded headgear in an attacker-stopping blow.
“It’s great,” she said to her sister.
“Is he going to be able to work with your next class?”
It started on Monday, her new group of eight women. “I think so. Wally can make most of the sessions, and Hank will be there for as many as he can, too, but there are a couple of times when it’s just going to be Hank. I think he’s going to do just fine.”
“That’s awesome.” Her sister sucked up something just as green as the wheatgrass had been. “How’s your smoothie?”
“I’ve never been so grateful for ice cream in my whole life.” Why wasn’t her sister digging for info on Hank? “I kissed him.”
“I know,” said Grace equanimously.
“Excuse me?”
“You know Darling Bay. If one person sees you necking in a Mustang, then it’s common knowledge at Mabel’s in the morning. I heard the next day.”
“That was three weeks ago. You spent three weeks hiding this knowledge from me?”
“Me?” squeaked Grace. “You’re the one who hid it! You didn’t tell me, so I didn’t ask. I figured if you wanted to give your old boyfriend a blast from the past, it was none of my business.”
Samantha stared. “Who are you?”
Grace looked down. “I’ve been trying.”
They’d gone rounds and rounds over the years. For long years, Grace had been the one to pick Samantha back up after the inevitable crash-landing, and she’d gotten in the habit. Samantha had made it crystal clear that she didn’t need her older sister picking up after her any more. Her life was hers, to screw up or to fix, and she’d asked Grace to back off and let her fly with her own wings.
Grace had done a great job at letting go, and Samantha knew it hadn’t been easy on her.
“I guess…” Samantha started.
Grace kept her
eyes down, focused on the straw she was bending back and forth. “Yeah?”
“Maybe you could pry a little.”
Exhaling loudly, Grace moved her smoothie and thumped her body forward onto the table. “Thank goodness. I’ve been dying. Do you know how much I’ve been dying over this? Not asking you? Are you kidding me? Oh, man. I did good. Give me a sip of that ice cream thingie.”
Laughing, Samantha handed over her not-so-healthy smoothie.
“Ahhh. Now tell me about the kiss. Have there been more?”
Samantha shook her head. “Strictly business.”
“Why?”
It felt good to trust her sister with this, to lean on her. “Maybe it was the emotional whiplash of firing and rehiring him in the space of seven seconds or something, but I needed him as an attacker.”
“And you’re scared it might be more than just business?”
Samantha scanned the very light freckles across Grace’s nose, knowing she had the same kind across her own. “What if I don’t…what if I can’t stay?”
Her voice suddenly tight, Grace said, “When?”
“No, as far as I know, I’m not going anywhere. But…” The world was big. Samantha had seen so little of it. Her mother had seen even less.
“You don’t want to hurt him again.”
Samantha just nodded, feeling sick to her stomach.
“But you want to kiss him again.”
Sighing, Samantha leaned on her elbows. “Have you seen him? Of course I do. And he’s wonderful. The other day he brought me six extension cords.”
“And that’s…the wonderful part?”
“He noticed the extension cords in my apartment weren’t surge protectors, so he brought me better ones.”
Grace twisted in her chair.
“What?” Samantha knew her sister was trying not to say something.
“What would you have said if I’d given you six extension cords?”
Huh. If Grace had tried to upgrade something in her apartment, she would have accused her sister of meddling. “I would have called you bossy.”
“So why don’t you think that about him?”
“I do, a little. I was a tiny bit annoyed that he thought I wouldn’t buy the cords for myself.”
Flame (The Firefighters of Darling Bay Book 3) Page 7
