by Terry Odell
The sound of water led him to the bathroom, where Dylan perched on the vanity, letting the Parker woman strip off his soiled shirt. Grinch paused in the doorway. Dylan had stopped crying. She wiped his face with a wet cloth, then ran it down his arms and over his thin chest. The boy had the fair skin that went with his red hair, but it was deathly pale now. His freckles stood out in stark contrast. Over the running water Grinch heard her saying those soothing things that women seemed born knowing. Dylan’s green eyes glistened with fever as they stared at her.
Grinch cleared his throat. “Thanks, ma’am. I can take over.”
She snapped her head around and glared at him. “Why don’t you go do whatever you have to so we can get some hot water? You are capable of that, aren’t you?”
Inwardly, he winced. There was no denying the unspoken words: Since you’re obviously clueless about taking care of a child.
Which was God’s honest truth.
“You okay, sport?” Grinch asked Dylan. The boy nodded, fixated on his new caretaker. Great. He’d been replaced. On his way out of the bathroom, he almost collided with another child. A boy, a few years older than Dylan, Grinch estimated. “Sorry.”
The boy tilted his head up. “Are you Dylan’s dad?”
“Yeah.”
The boy eyed him warily. “Mom’s good at taking care of people. She took good care of me when I was sick. I had an operation. My heart leaked. But I’m fine now.”
The boy had solemn brown eyes that twisted something inside Grinch. “That’s good to know.”
“These are mine, but Dylan can borrow them. I wore them when I was sick.” The boy held up some faded blue pajamas with superheroes flying about. “They’re … comforting.”
Christ, was everyone a better parent than he was? He swallowed to keep his throat open. “Thanks. I’ll go fix your furnace and water heater.”
He wandered through the living area, empty except for a faded green sofa and an assortment of Walmart bags on the floor. He found the stairs, trotted down to what was a partially finished basement. One big space, shabby brown carpet, three doors. He opened the first. Sink, toilet, and a Lilliputian shower stall. The next door led to the garage. He flipped on the light. No second vehicle. Nothing but cold air and a musty smell.
Opening the last door, he found what he needed. He fired up the water heater before tackling the furnace. Dust covered the outside. The filter was well overdue for a change. He crouched, checked the fittings, and turned it on. The Parker woman had better have it serviced it if she wanted an efficient heating system come fall.
Maybe he’d come by in a few days and take care of it. Fair enough, since she was tending to Dylan. Or maybe she’d already made the arrangements. It was her first day here, and her furniture hadn’t been delivered yet. Maybe her husband was on his way.
What difference did it make? And why did he care? He had enough on his plate right now.
He straightened from his crouch, wiped his hands on his shorts. He’d thank the woman, take Dylan, and get on with straightening out his life.
Gentle footfalls thumped on the stairs. Dylan? Grinch rushed to the base of the staircase. The Parker kid stopped midway down. “Mom wants you.”
Chapter 2
Elizabeth gripped the knife she was using to trim the green beans when Grinch appeared at the top of the stairs. The panic on his face eased some of her fear.
“Dylan? Is he—?” Grinch’s gaze shot around the room.
“He’s asleep,” she said. “In Will’s room. It’s probably better if you let him rest for a bit. Until we know he isn’t going to throw up again.”
“I threw up seven times once,” Will said, in a tone that was neither boasting nor complaining.
Grinch glanced toward the couch where Will sat, hunched over a drawing tablet.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll go sit with Dylan,” Grinch said to Elizabeth.
She nodded toward the hall. “On the left. There’s a bowl by the bed in case he throws up.”
Once he’d gone, she returned to her cooking. Not long ago, she’d trusted everyone to be as honest as she was. Okay, maybe Victor wasn’t honest, but at least she knew what to expect from him. Could she go through life not trusting anyone? Surely the man wouldn’t have brought a child with him if he was going to hurt her.
He might be checking you out. Reporting your whereabouts to Victor. What if he set your water heater or furnace to blow up in the middle of the night?
Somehow, that didn’t ring true. For now, she’d take the man at face value. Someone who’d done a stupid thing and seemed to regret it.
And if she was going to live here, she might as well start working on creating the right image. A single mother, neighborly, but not too outgoing. An image absolutely nothing like the one she’d projected as Julie Ann. Or even Jillian. Grace and Miri had both stressed how important it was. Elizabeth fingered her plain, do-it-yourself dyed boring brown hair, growing out into a plain non-style.
It’s more than changing your appearance. Find new hobbies. Cultivate new interests.
Not that Victor knew much about her interests. He’d always dictated what she could or couldn’t do. He’d assumed she enjoyed entertaining his friends, going to parties. Playing bridge with the wives while the men played poker. Schmoozing at the country club, playing tennis or golf. If that’s where he’d be looking, he’d have a hard time finding her.
No, Victor couldn’t have sent this guy. It was too soon. Things had been quiet while she was staying with Grace, and Elizabeth trusted that the former intelligence agent would have known if her and Will’s cover had been blown. The arrangements for this house had been made after Grace had procured Elizabeth’s new identity documentation. Elizabeth never asked how she got the paperwork, and frankly, she didn’t want to know.
The sound of the pot lid jiggling focused her attention where it needed to be. On being a mom, cooking dinner. She sighed. Victor had let her take cooking classes. She’d miss those. She’d have to settle for expanding her culinary horizons via television and cookbooks.
She removed the lid and poured the macaroni into the rapidly boiling water, giving it a stir and adjusting the gas. Which seemed to be working perfectly. Her confidence in her assessment of Grinch rose a notch.
Once the green beans were simmering, she figured she might as well start working on that neighborly image. After setting the timer, she dried her hands and headed for Will’s room.
Sounds of retching and coughing floated down the hall. She quickened her pace. Dylan’s head hovered over the bowl. Grinch’s large hand braced the boy’s head, and he uttered reassurances as Dylan brought up whatever was left in his stomach.
She hurried to the hall bathroom and dampened a washcloth. When she returned, the retching had stopped, but the boy sobbed. He hid his face from his father, more fear than misery in his expression. As if he was afraid of being punished. The same look she’d seen too often in Will’s eyes when he was trying so hard to please Victor. The look that had been the final straw, giving her the nerve to pick up and run.
Wordlessly, she stepped to the bedside and wiped Dylan’s forehead. She hadn’t noticed any evidence of physical abuse when she’d changed him into Will’s pajamas, but you didn’t have to hit a kid to hurt him. “Not much fun being sick, is it? But it happens to everyone. Nothing you can do about it.”
Grinch stood and took the bowl out of the room. The toilet flushed, water ran. He reappeared with the empty bowl.
“My mouth tastes ucky,” Dylan said. “Can I have some Coke?”
“Not yet, sport,” Grinch said.
The boy’s face fell. “Mom gave me Coke.”
Elizabeth wiped Dylan’s mouth with the cloth. “Tell you what. In a bit, I’ll get you some water, but you have to spit it out. It’s not good to add anything to an upset tummy right away, or it might get sick again.” She didn’t mention that there wasn’t a soft drink of any sort in the house.
“Okay,” Dylan s
aid, settling down and closing his eyes.
Grinch handed Elizabeth the bowl. His lips flattened. “Dylan said he was sick in the truck. I’d better go clean it up. And check on Chester. We’ll be out of your hair soon.”
Dylan’s quivering chin melted her heart. She couldn’t turn him over to Grinch yet. “There’s no hurry. Dylan should rest. I was going to ask you to stay for dinner. That is, if you can tolerate hot dogs and mac and cheese. Will’s menu.”
He gave a noncommittal shrug and tromped out of the room.
She perched on the edge of the bed and stroked Dylan’s hair. From the kitchen, the timer dinged. “You rest, slugger. I have to check on dinner, but I’ll be right back.”
His eyes popped open and he grabbed her hand.
“You want me to stay until your dad gets here?”
He nodded. She trickled her fingertips across his forehead. It felt cooler, but was that because she’d rubbed him down? “Will,” she called. “Please turn off the macaroni. But be careful.”
Her son’s upbeat voice carried down the hall. “Sure, Mom.”
Seconds later, he called out again. “I don’t know how.”
She weighed the options. Gummy macaroni or a frightened child? No brainer. Will could sit with Dylan, but why expose him to whatever bug Dylan carried? Then again, he’d already been exposed, and if she caught it, he was bound to get it from her anyway. “It’s okay, Will. Come in here for a sec.”
She squeezed Dylan’s hand. “Will’s going to sit with you. I won’t be long. Promise.”
In the kitchen, she tested the macaroni, which was bubbling away, but not near done. It should be tender by now, not crunchy-chewy. She raised the heat a bit, stirred it, set the timer for two more minutes and went to check on Dylan.
“He’s asleep,” Will whispered. “He didn’t throw up again.”
“That’s good. Now go wash your hands,” she said. “Then go back to the couch.”
He scooted past her, and she watched with pride at the way he’d shown himself to be a helpful, compassionate kid. Growing up. She sighed. Leaving the door open, she went to the kitchen.
Dinner was not going well. The pasta wasn’t done, and the green beans weren’t tender either. She sliced the hot dogs, ready to add to the macaroni once it made up its mind to cooperate. She inhaled the smoky scent, reminiscent of budget meals at the Galloway House Shelter. Where she’d turned her life around.
There was a quick rap on the door. Grinch came in, arms raised in an apologetic gesture. “I’m ripe,” he said. “Mind if I clean up?”
“Go right ahead. Dinner’s taking a little longer than I expected.”
“Altitude,” he said, flashing that crooked grin. A much more relaxed smile. And much more disarming. She tried to ignore the way the t-shirt hugged his chest, and the shape of his muscular legs below his black cargo shorts.
She scraped the sliced hot dogs into a neat array on the cutting board. “What does that have to do with making a box of macaroni and cheese?”
“The water boils at a lower temperature. So things take longer to cook.”
“You cook?”
His smile widened. “Survival only.”
Was that why Dylan was so skinny? “Your wife doesn’t cook?”
He shook his head. “It’s just me and Dylan.”
She dropped it. If she asked too many questions, he’d expect answers from her in return.
Eventually, the meal was ready. As she portioned out the food, barely crossing into edible territory, she thought of the gourmet meals she’d served as Julie Ann, and heat rushed to her face. She made a mental note to buy a cookbook with recipes designed for eight thousand feet.
A few moments later, Grinch returned, smelling like bathroom hand soap instead of sweat and vomit. “Dylan’s sleeping. Can I help?”
She spread a blanket on the living room floor. “It’ll have to be picnic style until I get more furniture.”
Edible or not, Grinch didn’t seem to notice. He shoveled food into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Will ate without complaint or comment, peering up from his plate at their guest from time to time. What was he thinking? They’d had conversations about why Victor couldn’t be part of their lives. Will had never said anything about wanting to go home, or missing his father, but did he miss having a male around? She hadn’t dated since she’d run away. Hadn’t even considered expanding her family to include a man. But was she hurting Will?
This was not the time to worry about it. He’d start school in the fall, and they’d have an expanded social life. But if he was going to eye every male they met as potential father material, she’d have to put a stop to that. Disarming grin or not, Grinch definitely had serious shortcomings in that department.
After throwing his plastic plate into the trash—real dishes were on her list—Grinch smiled. “Thanks for everything. I think Dylan’s okay to travel. We’re only about fifteen minutes away.”
She couldn’t find a reason to object. She had no cause to keep the boy here—not without his father staying, and that was out of the question. She nodded her agreement. “I can give you a plastic bag—you know, in case he gets sick again.”
Will jumped up and went to the drawer. “I’ve got it.” He handed it to Grinch with a grin. Then he raced over to his drawing pad and tore off a sheet of paper. “Here. I drew this for Dylan.”
Grinch’s eyebrows lifted. “You drew this?”
Will nodded. “Yes.”
“It’s very good.”
Will beamed. “Those are the deer we saw this afternoon. Maybe when Dylan’s better he can come see them. Mom said if this was a favorite place, they’d come again.”
“He’d like that,” Grinch said, but his tone said he wasn’t exactly excited about the idea.
Neither was she. Although she’d be happy to host Dylan. Alone. Give the kid some quality attention.
Grinch went to the bedroom and returned with a sleepy Dylan cradled in his arms.
“Wait,” Elizabeth said, plucking their makeshift table from the floor. “Take the blanket. You can leave it by the door the next time you’re by.”
“Thanks again, Ms. Parker. We do appreciate it.”
She draped the blanket over the child. “It’s Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth.” He smiled at her.
Why did she feel like she’d just stripped naked?
* * * * *
Grinch settled Dylan into bed, then poured Chester’s dinner into his bowl in the mudroom. The dog gave him a “took you long enough” stare before digging in. After making sure Chester’s water dish was filled, Grinch went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of beer. He cracked the top and let the sip of the cool liquid trickle down his throat. He took off his boots, sank onto the couch and stretched his legs out in front of him. He should never have stopped at the Parker house. Should have told Rhonda to find someone else.
He stretched aching muscles. After a day and a half on a mountain rescue, what he needed was a steaming hot shower, something more substantial than the pseudo-meal Elizabeth had fixed, and about twelve hours of rack time. Whimpering from the bedroom put a damper on all three. He scraped his hands across his eyes. He left the beer on the end table. Remembering what had happened at the Parker house, he grabbed a bowl from a kitchen cabinet before rushing to see what Dylan was crying about. Again.
Have a little sympathy. The kid’s sick. And he didn’t ask for any of this either.
Grinch stopped in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. In lieu of a night light, he’d left the bathroom door ajar. Dylan tossed restlessly, eyes closed. Grinch crept into the room and sat on the edge of Dylan’s twin bed. He set the bowl on the floor and stroked Dylan’s head. Dry and warm, not hot. Maybe this was going to be a quick bug. One he hoped he wouldn’t catch too.
“Hey, Dylan,” he whispered. “I’m here.”
The boy’s eyes didn’t open, but a hand snaked out from under the covers. Grinch took it in
his, and something inside turned to mush. He pulled the child onto his lap and rocked him, not sure who was comforting whom.
Dylan’s eyes opened, blinked, then shut. He rested his head against Grinch’s chest. “Spaghetti?”
“You want spaghetti? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“No. Sing,” Dylan mumbled.
“You want me to sing?”
Grinch felt the nod. Good Lord, had the kid remembered? Grinch hadn’t been much at lullabies, and the only kid song he’d known when Dylan was an infant was “On Top of Spaghetti.” But he hadn’t seen Dylan since he was eighteen months old. Had he remembered?
Christ, his tongue thickened. Whispering was a remote possibility. Forget singing. He cleared his throat. Dylan snuggled closer. Grinch hummed at first, then slowly the words returned, as if it had been a day, not five years.
He felt the boy go dead weight in his arms. Singing softly, Grinch carried him down the hall to his own bedroom. He laid Dylan on the king-sized bed, rumpled from when he’d been called out on the rescue two days ago. He flopped down beside him, drew him close, and was out.
An ear-splitting tone ratcheted his heart rate. He leaped from the bed and grabbed the phone, leaving Dylan to sleep—he hoped.
“‘Lo,” he mumbled into the phone.
“Busy night? Hope she was worth it.”
It took a moment to place the voice. Not Life Flight’s dispatcher, which was a good thing. Jinx. Blackthorne’s controller. What the—? Grinch squinted at daylight. Seven? He flopped onto the couch. “What do you want? I’m on leave. Indefinite leave, remember?” He gave an involuntary glance toward his bedroom, the reason for that leave.
