Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  “Want to tell me why she had a caretaker?” Ben interrupts, his voice is menacingly soft. His eyes are narrowed on his dad.

  Catherine turns from me, still holding my arm. “I promise, Ben, we didn’t know how sick she was.”

  Guilt slides across my skin like a hot iron. I pray keeping Rose’s secret was the right thing to do, but seeing this family in so much pain gives me pause.

  “We don’t need to explain ourselves to him!” Mark explodes. His neck turns red, veins popping as he slams the empty glass down on the console table, rattling the many brass picture frames.

  “The fuck you don’t,” Ben growls, pushing off the wall, taking a step toward him, “I get a phone call two days ago from some fucking attorney, telling me Grandma Rose died last fucking week—”

  “When’s the last time you took my call?” Mark spits back, taking an angry step toward his son. The two towering men stand eye-to-eye. One, just a younger rougher-looking version of the other.

  I turn to Dale, hoping he’ll step in, but he just shakes his head and runs his hand through his thick silver hair.

  My guilt dissipates. I’m starting to see why Rose kept her failing health to herself.

  Catherine lets go of my arm and walks into the fire. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear it in a message, Benny, so we asked Mr. Wellington to call.” Her words are rushed as she moves to her husband’s side.

  Ben holds up the medication, looking at Catherine. “You telling me you didn’t notice the fucking pharmacy by her bed, Catherine.”

  He says her name like it’s an insult.

  Mark turns to his wife. “Take the meds when we leave.” His voice is cold and condescending. “Wouldn’t want him getting any ideas,” he finishes, his brows raised pointedly at Ben.

  Umm… Can you please clarify “ideas?”

  White-hot anger flashes in Ben’s eyes, his nostrils flare, his fists clench and unclench. “Watch it, old man.” His voice is low and deadly.

  “Or what?” Mark says in an invitation to make the first move, and takes a step forward.

  Just great.

  Ben grins at his question, and I’ve never seen anything so unnerving in my life.

  I realize that’s what hate looks like.

  A shiver runs along the back of my neck.

  It was always hard for me to reconcile the pictures of the baseball-cap-wearing, clean-cut boy with the soldier version of the Sweet Benny Rose often talked about, but this guy… this guy I have no problem picturing charging into battle wearing the same unnerving grin.

  “I don’t have time for this shit,” Dale hisses as he brings out his phone, walking toward the front door. He stops at my side, looks at me like he’s going to say something, but instead continues out the door.

  My thigh muscles tense, urging me to follow him. The fact that I want to follow Dirty Dale anywhere speaks volumes.

  “Please, Mark! Just stop!” Catherine pleads, her words choked with tears as she grabs her husband’s arm.

  Whatever’s going on between this family happened long before Rose died. I’ve learned that death has a way of breathing new life into old wounds.

  My feet itch, now prompting me to intervene, but I don’t move. I’d broken up more than one fight between grieving family members, but without my scrubs on I feel like the Clark Kent version of my Superman self.

  “Go wait in the car,” Mark orders Catherine with his eyes locked on his son, his voice steel.

  “Yeah, better run along.” Ben’s voice is gravelly and dismissive as fuck. The lean, corded muscles of his arms tighten reflexively as he looks at his dad.

  If there’s even a small chance Rose is looking down on us, the thought of her seeing this shit-show breaks my heart, and pisses me the hell off.

  “Enough!” I blurt out and instantly regret it as all eyes turn on me. I straighten my spine and force my resolve—in for a penny, in for a pound and all that.

  “Rose didn’t want anyone to know she was so sick.” I look to Catherine and continue, “I wanted to tell you guys, but she made me promise her I wouldn’t. I’m so sorry.” I swallow back my emotions and look to Ben, “I know it would kill her if she saw you guys like this.” I inwardly grimace at my stupid choice of words. My face feels red hot.

  I’m probably giving them the same look the to die for saleswoman gave me.

  Karma’s a bitch.

  Ben holds my gaze, letting me know just what an idiot I am, tosses the pills onto the couch, saunters past me, like he hadn’t almost come to blows with this dad, and disappears down the hall.

  Mark storms from the room, with a string of harsh expletives, leaving Catherine and me in his turbulent wake.

  The slam of the front door shakes the house.

  The Crawford men seem like complete assholes, but I remind myself that people grieve in different ways. I watched Netflix, spending months on my couch at a time. A couch Derek had to literally drag me from, forcing me to move with him across the country, so who am I to judge?

  Catherine exhales. Her delicate hand trembles as she smooths back her hair, an action that seems to have more to do with nerves than vanity.

  “Are you alright?” I say, closing the distance between us.

  She nods and tries to give me a reassuring smile, but it looks weary and sad. “I’m sorry… they’re both in a lot of pain and aren’t… at their best right now.” She takes in a shaky breath.

  “I totally understand.” I place a hand on her arm. “No need to apologize.”

  She puts her hand over mine, her eyes pleading. “Will you please stay here? I know with Rose gone, you’ve likely made other arrangements, but I can pay you whatever you want,” she says, her voice tinged with desperation.

  “Stay here?”

  “I’d feel better knowing Ben wasn’t alone.” Her eyes turn down the hall. “This is so hard for him.” It’s obvious she cares about Ben, though I’m pretty sure the feeling isn’t mutual.

  A car horn blares from outside, and we both jump.

  It’s official: Mark is a bona fide prick.

  “Just for a few days until I figure something out,” she says, her words rushed, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. This lady is breaking my heart.

  “Of course, I’ll stay. Don’t worry. Okay?” I rub her frail arm.

  Guess I can add biker babysitter to my resume.

  “I can write you a check,” she says, fumbling to open her purse.

  I reach out and still her actions. “It’s fine, really.” I give her a reassuring smile. “My new place won’t be ready until the end of the week anyway.” Do I really have a new place besides Derek’s old couch? Nope.

  Lies. Lies. Lies.

  The horn blares again in an obnoxious punctuation to how this day is going.

  I flip Mark Crawford off in my mind and feel a little better, but not much. “You better go before Mrs. Baker calls the police,” I say, half-joking.

  She smiles. It’s genuine and truly stunning.

  “Good ole’ Mrs. Baker,” she says, with a small chuckle. “Guess, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She gives me a quick hug.

  “See you then,” I say as she turns and heads for the door.

  After the front door softly shuts, I exhale a long, pent-up breath, feeling relieved it’s over. Then I remember there’s a possible pill-popping, broody biker in the house.

  Alone.

  With me.

  2

  The Purple Perpetrator

  My body hums with a burst of nervous energy. I decide to make good use of it for the rest of the afternoon and do what I should have done last week… clean.

  Starting with the kitchen.

  After scrubbing the dishes for almost an hour, because Rose drilled into me that dishwashers are for “special occasions,” I head down the hall to clean her room.

  A barrage of family pictures and portraits line the walls. I guess if you go back far enough in any dysfunctional family, you’ll find the before. And if you�
��re lucky you can capture it. I have no pictures from my before. Only fading memories.

  Gentle light seeps from her bedroom doorway, casting shadows in the hallway. The sight replaces my waning energy with a hollow sadness. If it weren’t for the fact she would never want people to see her room in such disarray, I don’t think I’d be able to go in there, let alone touch her things. Not yet.

  I step inside, and what I see steals my breath and causes my stomach to drop.

  Her bed is made.

  Perfectly.

  The corners of her mauve duvet are creased, pillows sit under a smooth mound, just like she did it every morning.

  I look at the nightstand to see the medication is gone. Everything is put away the way she liked it. My eyes sting, and my heart feels heavy.

  Ben must’ve cleaned.

  I feel guilty knowing he made her bed. And embarrassed that he had to.

  Closing her door behind me, I slowly head to my room, which is down the hall and around the corner from Rose’s, needing to take a moment to digest it all.

  I’m thankful for the numbness that starts to take hold. There are just so many emotions your body can handle, and, it seems, I’ve hit my quota.

  As I reach my room, the bathroom door at the end of the hall swings open. Ben emerges, shirtless, wearing low-slung jeans and holding a small towel. Or maybe it just looks small compared to his hand. He’s looking down as he dries his hair, walking my way.

  I must make a sound because his eyes slice to mine, stealing my breath.

  I should say something.

  I should apologize for earlier.

  I should at least stop staring…

  He continues drying his hair, causing perfectly cut stomach muscles to tighten and move under olive skin, and my words are lost.

  I quickly snap my eyes back to his. My face goes red hot for the second time today. It’s official: I’m going to hell for ogling Rose’s grandson.

  He stops at my front, so close I have to crane my neck back to maintain eye contact. He smells like my vanilla body wash and glorious man.

  The musk-spiced scent wakes my long-dormant body. My traitorous, highly inappropriate body, that is. I blame grief for my out-of-control hormones because I’ve never acted like this before. I don’t ogle men. I discreetly sneak a peek here and there because I’m classy like that. Or at least I used to be.

  “You done?” he says, his baritone voice thick with annoyance.

  “Excuse me?” I say, afraid I might have actually sniffed him.

  “You done checking me out, so I can get dressed.”

  Yep. Straight to hell.

  “What?” I say, taking a step back, against the door. “I wasn’t… I mean… I wasn’t looking at you in that way…”

  He moves a step closer, and my eyes widen at the invasion of my personal space. My brain scrambles from the heat radiating from his body.

  “Move, please.” It’s not a request. He reaches around me and pushes the door open.

  I manage to shuffle to the side as he stalks into my bedroom. My bedroom. With the growing distance between us, my senses start to clear.

  “Umm, I’m sorry, but this is my room,” I say, trying to inject a bit of force into my voice while still being nice.

  “Yeah?” he says, tossing the towel on my bed, walking to the dresser, opening the bottom drawer. “You always keep other people’s shit in your room?” He pulls out a T-shirt, turns to me and slips it on, punctuating his point.

  Suddenly all the masculine furniture jumps out at me. The clothes in the dresser and hanging in the far closet shine like a beacon. Rose insisted I use this bedroom because it had the most privacy, so I agreed.

  It felt like a bad omen to move or box her grandson’s things while he was fighting overseas, so I left it all exactly where it was.

  I hardly noticed it anymore.

  Until now.

  “Right. Sorry, I’ll grab my stuff and change rooms.”

  I walk to the closet for my suitcase, noticing the barrage of dirty clothes scattered around as I go.

  Well, isn’t that just lovely.

  “Why are you still even here?”

  I pull out the suitcase and turn back to him, trying not to show on my face how unnerved he makes me.

  “My new place isn’t ready yet.” God, I wish that were true.

  He lies on my unmade bed, casually folding his thickly muscled forearm under his head as he peers at me from under heavy lids.

  “Can you give me a minute to gather my things?” I ask, my patience quickly running out.

  “Yup.” He closes his eyes.

  “I meant… alone.”

  Take a hint, asshole.

  “Already saw all your shit. Been on the road ten hours. Not moving until morning.”

  “Fine,” I huff, purposely slinging the suitcase onto the bed and opening it. “If it’s too difficult for you to give me some privacy—”

  “Stop. Talking.”

  “You don’t have to act like such a… jerk.” I want to say asshole, but I don’t.

  He cracks open his tired eyes. “You got a problem with how I’m acting, leave.”

  The sound of the front door slamming echoes through the house and steals my attention. In a house this old, everything echoes and creaks. Rose said it was better than any alarm system on the market.

  “Hey, Em!” Derek’s deep voice calls out from the end of the hallway.

  Ain’t life grand. Not.

  “Be right there!” I yell to him, sounding flustered because I am.

  “Who’s that?” Ben asks, his body is still relaxed, but his darker-than-brown eyes are on alert.

  Ever feel like the universe is some greasy forty-year-old online troll living in his mother’s basement with his Cheeto-dusted fingers hovering the keyboard, just waiting for the perfect time to fuck with you? Yeah, me too.

  “I’ll get my stuff later. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” What the hell am I saying? My words trip over themselves as I push my suitcase under the bed. Why do I hide my suitcase? I have no idea. I do weird shit.

  I make a mad dash to the bedroom door.

  For some reason, I don’t want the two of them to meet.

  Derek fills the doorway, blocking my escape, pizza box in hand. His moss-green eyes quickly jump from me to Ben. His bright smile dulls some around the edges.

  Too late.

  “Hey, D,” I say, then wave hello in an attempt to regain his attention.

  I go to my tiptoes. Derek continues to look right over my head, his hand running through his wavy auburn hair.

  He gives Ben a chin lift. “How’s it goin’?” Is his voice deeper? His eyes sharper?

  I glance back, to see Ben stand from the bed, and not looking happy about it.

  “Could be better.” His reply is curt, his brows pulled together. He’s not even trying to hide his annoyance.

  They face each other for an awkward beat. Ben’s taller but not by much. Bulkier but not by much. Guess it’s time for the introductions. Yay me!

  I step aside and face them both.

  “Derek, this is Rose’s grandson, Ben.”

  Derek’s sharp edge softens as he hands off the pizza to me and closes the distance to Ben.

  “Hey, I’m really sorry for your loss.” He holds out his hand, his voice threaded with sincerity. “Rose was one of a kind.”

  They shake hands.

  Ben nods.

  “You hungry?” Derek’s head tilts to the box in my hand.

  I hold it up with a gameshow smile, like the dork that I am. Behind door number one, a brand-new car!

  “Nah, I’m gonna turn in.” Ben’s head motions to my bed.

  Derek’s posture stiffens as he looks to my rumpled sheets. His friendly demeanor is edged with something not-so-friendly. Most people wouldn’t notice the shift. Ben’s not one of those people.

  “Is there a problem?” Ben asks, folding his arms over his chest, the tightly corded muscles
of his arms saying you probably don’t wanna go there, bud.

  “You’re staying here?” Derek asks, a brow cocked.

  “Yup.”

  “In Emmy’s room?”

  “That’s right.”

  Why me, Lord?

  I step forward, “Actually, this is—”

  “Maybe you’d be more comfortable in another room.” Derek gives him a relaxed, easy smile, saying he gives two shits about the muscles Ben’s trying to intimidate him with.

  “Don’t remember asking your opinion.” Ben casually lies back down on my bed and turns his devil gaze to me. “You in the habit of bringing your guys into my grandmother’s house?”

  I’m about to tell him that Derek is my step-cousin, not “my guy,” wiping that smug look off his face.

  “Just me,” Derek says before I can get a triumphant word in. His arm possessively snakes around my shoulders and brings me to his side. Umm…

  “If you’re worried, feel free to take your girl with you when you go,” Ben challenges, like he’s talking about an X-box and not a human being.

  “Alright. Well, this was fun,” I interject, turning in Derek’s arms, pushing him back toward the door with the pizza box.

  “I’m not worried.” Derek shoots him a cocky grin.

  Who knew Derek could do cocky so well?

  “Well, good night,” I call over my shoulder.

  “Night, sweetheart.” Ben gives me a white-toothed smile and a flirtatious wink.

  He just had to do it.

  I give the solid wall that is Derek, his murderous eyes fixed on Ben, a final shove out the door. I quickly shut it behind me and point down the hall. “Go.”

  Derek’s eyes narrow. His jaw’s set in hard lines as we walk through the living room to the kitchen.

  He’s pissed.

  Join the freaking club, buddy.

  “I wasn’t sure how my day could get any worse. Now I know. Thanks,” I say, injecting copious amounts of sarcasm in my words.