"Why should we tell you? You don't have any say over what either of us does with our time. She's the one who raised you, Fiona. Not the other way around. Nothing that happened between us has anything to do with my relationship with Grammie, regardless of how you think about it."
"Cade…"
"Of course, you don't care what I think! You never did! You never even gave me a reason..."
"Stop! Both of you." The intensity of Grammie's voice stops Fiona in the middle of a sentence I really don’t want her to finish. "Look. All this back and forth between the two of you isn't helping anything. It's ridiculous, and the two of you haven't even been in the same house together for an hour yet. Fiona, I need you here to take care of me and help me around the house while I'm stuck in bed. Cade, I need you to help make this house safe and beautiful again like when Gramps was alive. The way it should still be. The two of you have to figure something out to sort through this mess between you, so I can feel confident you'll both be alive at the end of the next three weeks."
"I won't kill him if he doesn't kill me first," Fiona says, her meek expression immediately showing me that she realizes just how absurd she sounds, but is too damn stubborn to back down.
"How exactly do you suggest you kill me if I get you first?" I snap back at her.
"Enough," Grammie says, and my eyes whip back to her, by the volume and sharpness of her voice. "Both of you are acting completely ridiculous. You are grown-ass adults. I have had my fill of listening to you already, and it's been less than an hour. I'm old. I don't know how much time I have left in this world. Could the two of you please, for me, try to be civil? It's only three weeks, and you'll both be busy. Can't you get through that? For me?"
Damn it, she got us.
* * *
Fiona and I walk out of Grammie's bedroom and down the stairs in uncomfortable silence. We wander back into the kitchen, and Fiona walks over to the ancient coffee machine and turns it on. I've been trying to convince Grammie to replace it with something not from the era of green metal thermoses and women in lace-edged aprons and heels at six in the morning when their husbands went off to work, but Rose always brushes me off. There's something about this coffee maker that speaks to her. It may be her spirit animal.
I've already put adding a new one at the top of my repairs list.
"She's right, you know," I say.
Fiona has gone through all the motions of making a pot of coffee and is now moving things around in the pantry, all while completely silent. Finally, she sighs and leans her head against the pantry door.
"I know," she says. "We sound like toddlers. It's ridiculous. We both need to be adults about this."
"Exactly. Grammie needs us, and we need to put everything behind us and do this for her. I think we can handle that much."
I see Fiona stiffen in response to my words, but she doesn't argue.
"The rain has died down some. That'll make it easier for you to find a hotel."
I look at her incredulously.
"Are you serious? You still expect me to go to a hotel because you're uncomfortable?"
"I expect you to get a hotel because it's the decent thing to do."
"Decent? Decent for who? This is Grammie's house, and she doesn't have a problem with me being here. In fact, she wants me to stay. It's not like I've never slept in the same house as you. We’ve slept in the same –"
"Stop," Fiona says, holding her hand up to silence me. "We're not going down that path. That has nothing to do with now. Let's just agree to that. Since it's obvious neither one of us is going anywhere, we're just going to have to figure out how to navigate around each other in the same house for the next three weeks. Like Grammie said, we're going to be busy anyway. You do your thing, I'll do mine, and then we'll go our separate ways." She looks into my eyes, and I see emotion welling up in hers. "Again."
"Why three weeks?" I ask.
"That's how much vacation time I was able to take. I can spend three weeks here with Grammie, and by the end of that, I'm sure she will have recovered enough that she'll be able to take care of herself. If not, then we can discuss alternatives. Maybe I can find a nurse for her."
"I don't think she needs a nurse."
It didn't escape me that Grammie was wearing makeup and her hair was styled when I first stepped into her bedroom, and the weakness in her voice seemed to fade in and out depending on what she was saying. By the condition of the parts of the house I've seen thus far, however, I know she genuinely needs my help. The extent to which she needs Fiona is yet to be seen.
"Why don't we agree that you can handle the house, and I will handle Grammie? Both of us made promises to her, so we'll suck it up and go through with it. Right now, I'm going to try to get to work on laundry and figuring out something for Grammie for supper later. OK?"
The coffee has finally finished brewing, and I watch as Fiona pours herself a mug. She pauses for a second, staring at the few inches of opaque liquid still sloshing around in the round glass pot, before taking another mug out of the cabinet and pouring some coffee into it. She pushes it to the edge of the counter behind her and walks over to the refrigerator to get cream. I note she didn't bother to rinse the mug like she did her own before pouring the coffee into it, but it's at least a friendly gesture.
Fiona reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a small container of cream. A two-second pour of heavy cream and a scoop of sugar. It's barely coffee by the time Fiona is finished with it, but that's how she’s always taken it. From the time Gramps made her a cup when she was twelve years old, and we were heading out before the sun came up to help the Harrison's at the farm to pick an early harvest of corn, that was how she drank it. Somehow, seeing that she still drinks it that way, is reassuring.
Opening the little blue and white cardboard pint, Fiona brings it to her nose to sniff. Her face immediately contorts in disgust, and she carries it over to the sink, silently retching.
"Grocery shopping. First, I'll go grocery shopping."
After pouring the contents of the container down the drain and chasing it with several liberal squirts of green apple-scented dishwashing soap, she heads toward the front door. An unexpected crash of thunder and a rush of new rain makes her step back.
"Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will go grocery shopping."
"What about your coffee?" I ask.
She looks down into the mug still sitting on the counter. Her expression is cautious, but firm, like she's trying to intimidate the brew into being drinkable.
"I can drink it black," she says.
"Oh, you can?" I ask, a hint of laughter in my voice.
"Yes, Cade, I can," she retorts sharply. She snatches the cup off the counter and takes a swig. Immediately, the mug hits the counter again, and she grimaces. "Hot. So hot and bitter," she chokes out. "Why the fuck would anybody drink that?"
I take a sip of my coffee, hoping to not taste any dust, and start out of the room.
"Nice to see that finishing school program Grammie made you do is still sticking with you.”
I can feel Fiona's eyes boring into my back, and I stifle a laugh against the lip of my mug as I sip on my coffee. Walking up the stairs, I head toward the bedroom I used when I was younger. This is a familiar route I've taken countless times before, but when I get to the end and look in the room, it’s completely different than I remember.
Rather than being a simple bedroom with a dresser on one side, and a bed set against the wall opposite the window, I find myself staring into a storage closet. The entire room has tilted furniture, boxes, crates, and a variety of other things piled on top of each other, nearly to the ceiling. I reach in and flip the light switch in an attempt to illuminate the space, but barely any light filters through the junk piled up around the fixture.
"Wow," Fiona says as she steps up beside me. "This looks welcoming. You might want to get started heading toward the bed. Looks like it might take you a few days to slither your way in."
I turn the light off
in the room and head toward Grammie’s bedroom again.
"What happened to the guest room?" I ask, stepping into the room.
"The guest room?" she asks. I nod and point in the direction of the room. "Oh, you mean your room."
Hearing Grammie say that sets off an untold number of emotions inside me, but it's hard to feel warm and fuzzy about a room that looks like a garage sale threw up in it.
"Yeah," I say. "It's... full."
"I'm sorry, I forgot to mention that. One of the storage buildings outside got damaged in a storm a few months back. When Leslie called to tell me, he offered to take care of it for me, so I didn't have to come all the way out here. I just told him to go ahead and take everything out and put it inside. Since that was the smallest bedroom, they thought it would be best to put everything there."
"Why didn't they just put it in the attic or basement?"
"The attic is far too full to store anything else," Grammie says. "And that basement scares anyone who tries to get near it. I haven't been down there in years."
"You haven't been in your own basement?"
"No. Don't you remember how you and Fiona would dare each other to go down there when you were kids? Now, I'm not a superstitious woman, but there is something about that basement I'm just not sure about. I don't remember it being like that when Gramps and I first got married. Maybe it moved in later."
A contemplative look settles on her face, and I get the sense she won't be coming back out of it anytime soon.
"I'll just stay in the other room," I say.
"What other room?" Fiona asks as I start to cross the hallway.
"This one," I say, pointing at the room positioned on one side of the bathroom.
"The one next to mine?" she asks.
"No. The one next to the bathroom next to yours."
She gives me a look that tells me she isn’t actually ready to act like an adult, and starts back downstairs, a basket of laundry balanced on her hip. When I follow after her a minute or two later, I find Fiona standing in the laundry room, staring at the washer and dryer. Definitely not original to the old house, the room had been carved out of the large storage room at the back of the kitchen, creating a somewhat strange set of dimensions. The washer and dryer shoved into the leftover space amongst shelves of varying lengths are ancient. They look like the same ones that were here when I was a young teenager.
"Do these even work?" she asks.
"I have no idea," I answer. I'm about to say 'I have someone who does my laundry for me' but stop myself. "Even if they do still run, they definitely should be replaced."
"I don't understand her," Fiona says, dropping the basket down to her feet. "It's not like they were extravagantly wealthy, but Gramps always made sure Grammie was comfortable. She has enough money to keep both houses and is always up to something. But she doesn't stop to think she might want to make sure her laundry machines won't disintegrate during the next wash cycle."
"Maybe she likes the uncertainty," I say. "She never knows what's going to happen when she tosses in a load of whites. She could get nice, fluffy towels, or she could get a room full of water. It's a mystery."
Fiona's eyes slice sideways at me.
"Somehow I don't think that's Grammie's idea of a thrill."
"Well, maybe I'll see what I can do about them during the repairs. Right now, I'm going to unload my luggage. It looks like those few minutes were the only reprieve we're going to get from this storm, so there's no point in waiting. Then I'm going to take a shower."
"Thank you so much for the rundown."
I don't bother to respond. Pulling my collar up higher on my neck, I duck out onto the front porch and sprint to my truck. Feeling glad I didn't leave my luggage in the uncovered bed, I pull my suitcase out of the backseat of the cab and rush back into the house. Barely leaving that bag just inside, I run back out for the other. The rain seems to have increased in intensity just to spite me, and by the time I've gotten my bags inside, I'm completely soaked. Peeling off my shirt and throwing it into the laundry room, I carry my bags upstairs and into my bedroom. Not wanting to get the bedding wet, I leave the suitcases sitting on the wooden floor. Shutting the door, I manage to wrestle my jeans off and tuck them away in a corner when I hear water from the other side of the wall. It takes me a few seconds to realize the shower is running.
"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter.
Tossing the damp socks in my hand on the floor, wearing nothing but my boxers and a white undershirt, I stomp toward the bathroom. I knock rapidly.
"What?" Fiona's voice rings out from inside the bathroom.
I grab the doorknob and push the door open, expecting Fiona to be in the shower. Instead, she's standing in the middle of the room, completely naked, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders and back. She screams and grabs the towel from the counter in front of her, pulling it around to cover as much of herself as she can.
"What the fuck are you doing?" she shrieks. "Don't you knock?"
"I did knock!"
"I didn't tell you to come in!"
"I thought you were in the shower. How was I supposed to know you were standing in the middle of the bathroom?"
"Because the door was closed?"
"The water is on! How many people turn the shower on and then just stand around naked in the middle of the bathroom?"
"I forgot to bring my body wash in with me," she says, a rosy blush coloring her freckled cheeks. "Not that it's any of your business. What are you doing?"
"I told you I was going to take a shower."
"Yes, when you finished getting your stuff out of the car."
"So, you just hopped right in?" I ask. "Exactly how much stuff do you think I brought with me?"
"I have no idea. I figured you'd at least have some things with you to do the repairs. Like… hammers or something."
"I didn't bring my tools with me," I say. "I didn't know the extent of the issues with the house. I still don't know."
"If you don't have any tools with you, how do you expect to fix the house?"
" I assumed there were still tools around here I could use while I make a list of what I need. Perhaps in one of those toolsheds outside. Those were always full of tools and equipment. I don't see why that would have changed. I'd hate to think those sheds aren't living up to their name and are just trying to slide by on their looks alone."
"Hilarious," she replies dryly. "That doesn't explain why you are standing here, half-naked."
"I'm soaking wet, muddy from running across the front yard with my luggage, and I want a shower. Now."
"Well, I'm using the shower right now. Sorry."
"No, you aren't. You're standing outside of the shower right now."
"And I fully intend on getting back in as soon as you leave."
I glare at her for a few seconds. There's something about being soaked in the hot summer rain that leaves me feeling disgusting, and I'm not interested in waiting any longer to get into the shower. She knew I wanted to get in, and she decided to push her way in first. That's fine. She had her chance.
I take off my shirt and drop it as I shrug, looking back and forth between her and the shower. Fiona's eyes linger on my naked chest for a few seconds.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"I'm getting in the shower," I say.
Her mouth opens and her eyes narrow.
"No, you aren't. I'm taking a shower."
"See, you say that, but, again, it doesn't look like you are. It looks like you were taking a shower, but you stopped. So that makes it my turn."
"It is not your turn," she says. "I'm not done with my shower. I still have conditioner in my hair. I haven't even washed my makeup off."
I notice. Dear god, I notice. It's taking everything in me not to openly stare at the swell of her breasts spilling over the towel she's wrapped tightly around her, or notice how sexy her damp hair looks as it clings to her curves.
"Maybe you should have planned your appro
ach better."
I grab hold of the waistband of my boxers as Fiona watches. Our eyes meet, and she narrows hers slightly like she's provoking me to follow through with her unspoken dare.
OK, then. You asked for it.
The second I yank my trunks down, Fiona covers her eyes with her hand and screams.
"Cade! What the fuck! Put your boxers back on!"
"As much as I think it would be good for the washer to take a bit of a break, I'm not interested in multitasking this afternoon. Shower and laundry are just going to have to be separate."
I take the few steps to the tub and push back the curtain, walking through it into the steaming shower.
"What are you doing? I’m taking a shower, Cade!"
"You just keep saying that, but from where I'm standing, quite literally, it seems I'm the one taking a shower."
I suddenly realize I didn't bring any of my own toiletries with me into the bathroom. Shit. I have staked my claim on the shower itself, but it's not doing me much good. Grammie has a large, luxurious bathroom attached to her master bedroom, so her products aren’t here either. My eyes scan the shower around me, and I see Fiona's shampoo and conditioner sitting on the small corner shelf beside me. The pink flowers tumbling down a technicolor waterfall on the front don't give me high hopes of feeling very masculine by the time this is all over, but I'm already here. I grab the bottle of shampoo and squeeze a small amount into my palm. As soon as it hits my hair and starts to lather, a sweet, flowery smell spreads through the room.
Fiona gasps. "Are you using my shampoo?"
"Yes."
Suddenly the curtain beside me shifts. I expect it to fly open, but instead, it pushes further into the shower, creating a flimsy wall. Through it I see the silhouette of Fiona step into the shower behind me. The angle of the curtain reveals the bottoms of her legs and her feet as it pulls from the rod holding it in place.
"If you're going to use my shampoo, I'm using some of the water, too."
The water from the shower head hits the top of the curtain-wall, breaking the stream so it barely sprays on either side. I try to rinse the shampoo out of my hair, but there's not enough of the water to do it. I reach up and adjust the angle of the head so the water streams down just on my side of the curtain.
Unexpected Daddies Page 30
