CHAPTER 3

Trav

Travis Parker lived his life one moment at a time. He didn’t do it because he was a believer in any weird-ass, meditate-like-a-guru, hinky way of life. He did it because he’d found peace in simplicity. According to Don, his therapist at the Veteran’s Administration, that was a good way to live, especially now that Trav had turned the corner of his long fight with PTSD and was finally starting to feel more like himself.

As the late-afternoon sun slanted down Main Street, Trav rode his motorcycle through town. The roar bounced off the red brick buildings, so loud he could feel it in his chest. His bike might be too loud for some people, but for him the roar was a release. He revved the engine as he rode, the deep-throated rumble as refreshing as a plunge in an icy river.

He turned off the street and headed home, the sun casting shadows through the leafy trees, so different from the grim, sandy vistas he’d seen in Afghanistan. Those, he didn’t miss, but he did miss the men in his unit. He kept in touch with those who’d come home, but it wasn’t the same. Everyone had moved on—they had lives and families. And in a way, so did he.

Fortunately for him, he had good friends, and for now, they were all the family he needed. Trav glanced down at his watch and grimaced. Although it was late in the day, he had to get home so he could change and head to the garage. Another hour under the hood of Joe Baldwin’s slick red Corvette and it would be back in top shape, and Trav had promised Joe the work would be done today.

Growing up, Trav had hated working on cars. Perhaps it was because Dad had owned a garage. If there was one thing a teenage male didn’t like, it was being predictable. Because of that, even though he’d worked in Dad’s garage all through high school, Trav had never once considered becoming a real mechanic. He’d been something of a star in his small universe, the first-string quarterback and valedictorian. So naturally, he’d wanted something bigger, something that didn’t already have his dad’s fingerprints all over it. Instead, Trav had gone to college, where he’d majored in mechanical engineering, imagining himself developing the next fighter jet or working on some other equally exciting project. Later, he’d enlisted, still searching for a life of adventure.

Now, the last thing he wanted was excitement. Working in the garage was peaceful. There was a simple beauty within those cool, concrete walls with their organized bays where broken things came in, he and the other mechanics fixed them, and then they went home. There was no pain involved. No emotions. No fear or blood or sand or anything ugly. There were just cars and trucks, and peace. He worked there five and a half days a week alongside two full-time mechanics, a shop manager, and a part-time bookkeeper. And because he was now the owner, Trav enjoyed an optimum mixture of both control and challenge. Not too much of either.

He benefited from that balance. Gone were the days when he had the urge to drop to the floor every time he heard a loud noise. When his blood boiled because someone accidentally cut him off on the freeway or pushed in front of him at the grocery store. Now, if he could just find a way to sleep, he’d be completely back to normal. Oh God, sleep. That would be nice.

Trav turned his motorcycle down his street and glanced at the Dove house as he drove by, noticing that Sarah’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. She must still be at work, which was no surprise. She was the town librarian, which was the perfect job for her, as no one loved books the way Sarah did. Which is probably healthy for the rest of us.

He pulled into his driveway and parked his bike, noticing Killer lurking in the bushes. Killer had been his dad’s cat and had slept at the foot of the older man’s bed for years. After Dad died, Killer had tried to sleep at the foot of Trav’s bed. But his tendency to toss and turn had irked the cat, who, after that one night, had returned to Dad’s empty bed and stayed there.

Or that was where the cat stayed when he wasn’t out wandering around. There was no keeping that crazy animal indoors and Trav had long ago given up trying.

Trav set his bike on the kickstand and then tugged off his helmet, his too-long hair tangling in the strap.

He muttered under his breath as he tugged his hair free. He knew he should get his hair cut, but sitting in a barber’s chair made him feel tied down, the cape draped around him like a rope, holding him in place while someone he didn’t know stood behind him with a blade. No, thank you. He could cut his own hair well enough to keep it shoulder length, at least. One day Trav would find the peace of mind needed to sit in that damn chair and get his hair cut. But not today.

Trav dropped his helmet into the saddlebag and looked around for Killer, but the cat was nowhere to be seen.

He started to turn back to his house and found his gaze resting on the Phelps house next door. It was quiet today, unusually so. Most days, when he came home, the little girl who lived there would hang over the fence and stare at his bike as if she thought it would stand up and turn into a Transformer. But today, she was nowhere to be seen.

Good. I hope she stays away. He didn’t have time for little girls who stared, or for their cranky mothers who excelled at giving side-eye as if they thought he was a serial murderer. Scowling, he grabbed his keys and headed for the porch. Trav’d just stepped onto the sidewalk when a loud bang came from the garage, followed by a muted whisper.

Instantly, his heart raced and he crouched, his hands open at his sides, ready for the coming fray. He remembered the large wrench in his tool kit and wondered if he should get it. He was just getting ready to run to his bike when he heard a child’s giggle.

Good God. He straightened, his heart thudding sickly against his ribs, his palms damp. He took a deep breath and then went to the garage, grabbed the door by the handle, and raised it.

The little girl from next door stood in the center of the garage, a small, waiflike figure holding a broom, an inexpertly swept pile of dirt in front of her. She wore a T-shirt with a sparkly picture of a pink pony on it, her muddy sneakers untied. Behind her, at the back of the garage, cleaning one of the windows, was her tiny, fragile-looking grandmother.

The old lady squinted at him as if trying to remember his name.

“What are you doing here?” His voice, still rough from the scare he’d had, boomed around the garage.

The old woman flinched as if he’d hit her, and instantly, he was contrite. He hadn’t meant to startle her.

But Daisy was made of stronger stuff. She pointed to her broom. “What’s it look like we’re doing? We’re cleaning.”

She didn’t call him stupid but it was there in her voice.

Trav didn’t think he’d ever heard that much dry sarcasm from such a tiny person, and he had to fight a grin, which dispelled the lingering, unpleasant effect of being surprised. “I can see that you’re cleaning, imp. Who let you into my house?”

He half expected the old lady to speak, but without saying a word, she’d turned back to the window she’d been washing.

“You’ll have to ask Mama G,” Daisy said. “She was already in here when I found her.” She was little, this girl, smaller than she should be. Her blond hair was mussed and half falling out of a pink rubber band, as if she’d put it up herself and hadn’t combed it first, which made her seem vulnerable somehow.

He crossed to where she stood. “However you got in, you should go home.”

“Don’t you want your garage cleaned?”

“No, thank you. Go home, Daisy.”

Her smile was more of a smirk. “You know my name.”

“I’ve heard your mom yell it about a hundred times now.”

Daisy’s smile disappeared. “Aunt Grace is not my mom.” The words were sharp, tight, filled with meaning.

He shrugged, unable to delve into the feelings of a little kid when he was struggling to contain his own. “Just take your grandma and go. I—”

“Robert Parker? Is that you?” The old woman peered at him from across his garage, her dark eyes bright. “I haven’t seen you in so long!”

Robert was Trav’s father’s name. “I’m sorry, but I’m not—”

“Don’t you remember me? I’m Inna Phelps Giano.” She put down the window cleaner and, damp rag still in hand, made her way to him, edging her way around his weight bench and weights.

As she moved, Trav’s soul sank. She shuffled rather than walked, as if uncertain where her feet might land. He knew that walk. His father had walked like that the last year of his life, before dementia had stolen him away. Oh, Dad. You deserved so much more from life.

It still hurt a year later—even more than the explosion that had left Travis a cinder of his former self. Dementia was an unforgiving illness, one that stole hope and crumbled pride. And it was beyond sad to know that this tiny, elf-like, kind-looking old lady was suffering from it.

She beamed up at him now, as if she thought he could walk on water. “Oh, the fun we had when I babysat you.”

Daisy frowned. “Mama G, you couldn’t have babysat him.”

“Oh, but I did. He was only this tall then.” She put her hand even with her shoulder, her smiling gaze still fixed on Trav. “You remember me, don’t you?”

Trav raked a hand through his hair. Damn it, but he couldn’t let this poor woman down. After an awkward pause, he said shortly, “Yes.”

Daisy stared at him, but he ignored her.

Mrs. Giano chuckled. “Oh, Daisy! Robert and his brother and I had such fun! I watched them after school in the afternoons and we played cards and rode bikes and, oh, all sorts of things.” She gazed at him as if he were an angel. “You were such a good boy, and not nearly as mischievous as your brother.”

People didn’t usually look at Trav the way she was looking at him, trusting and amused, especially after he’d returned from the war with the angry red scars that marred his cheek and neck.

“Lord love you, you had such a good sense of humor.” Mrs. Giano laughed softly. “I remember that cow. Do you?”

He didn’t, of course, but he knew better than to argue. “Oh yes. The cow.”

“You and your brother were always up to something. Daisy, I wish you could have been there the time they stole Preacher Landon’s cow and rode it up the steps of the church. It was during a service, too, and the cow got so startled by all the people laughing at it that it ran right down the aisle, and then up the steps to the choir loft. It took eight of us to get her out of there.”

Daisy eyed Trav with newfound respect. “Cool.”

“Not really,” he said shortly.

Mrs. Giano patted Trav’s arm. “You had us all worried, thinking you might not grow up at all, what with your wildness, but look at you now! Although . . .” She frowned and put her fingers on his cheek. “What happened here?”

He jerked away. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing, and he noticed how Daisy stared at his scar where it disappeared under his shirt, curiosity flickering over her face. Trav could already hear the questions—What happened? Does it hurt? How far does your scar go?

Dad had asked all of those questions and more after Trav returned from the burn hospital in Texas, and Trav—still bitter and hurting from more than his physical injuries—had refused to talk about it. Now it seemed stupid not to have at least let him know the basics. That wouldn’t have been too much to ask.

God, he had so many regrets. Hundreds of them. Perhaps the biggest one was that he hadn’t spent enough time with Dad. Trav wished for the millionth time that after college he’d stayed home for a while before rushing into the service. But like most young men, he’d been desperate to prove himself. He’d wanted a real challenge and by God, that’s what he’d gotten.

After sailing through basic training and officer school, he’d been assigned to active duty in Afghanistan. There he’d commanded a squadron that oversaw crucial repairs to the war-torn electric grid. It had been a difficult, tough assignment, but he’d thrived on it. And when the time came to re-up for deployment, he’d signed back up without a second thought.

Maybe he should have given it a second thought, because ten months later, the week after Christmas, he and his squadron had just returned to the base after a week out running lines through some hard-won areas, when they were hit by an insider attack. One moment, he was walking toward the mess tent with a few members of his squad, all of them dirty and tired and ridiculously happy to be back on the base. And the next, there was shouting, gunfire, and an explosion that sent Trav and his men flying through the air. After that, all Trav remembered was the deep sear of pain and loss.

The memories came when he least expected them—when he least wished to remember them. And right now, even though he stood in the garage of the beautiful house he’d grown up in, the summer sun beaming through the branches and making patterns on the concrete leading into the garage, he saw very little of it. Instead, his mind bounced like a wrecking ball from bloody memory to bloody memory. He gritted his teeth and tried to stop his thoughts.

You’re doing it right, living in the present, one minute at a time, Don had said not a half hour ago. And you’re healing, so don’t rush yourself. When it’s time to move forward, you’ll do it without thinking. Trav believed that. He trusted Don, who understood more than most. The counselor had lost both legs in Iraq and knew the fight well.

“Where did you get the scars?” Daisy’s voice broke the silence.

“Daisy! That’s not a polite question,” Mrs. Giano said, although a flicker of warmth lit her eyes. She reached up and brushed the hair from his forehead as if he were a child. “You might not be able to fix a scar, but you could get that mop cut.”

“I like his hair,” Daisy said. “Whenever she sees him, Aunt Grace calls him ‘Khal Drogo.’ I think she’s right. That’s exactly who he looks like.” Daisy shot a quick glance at her grandmother. “I mean, from what I’ve seen from pictures. I’ve never watched that show.”

Trav knew a lie when he heard one, but he didn’t say anything. She wasn’t his kid, after all, so if she wanted to sneak-watch a forbidden show, who was he to say otherwise?

“Evelyn Kilgore used to do my hair.” Mrs. Giano left his hair alone and patted her own mussed white curls. “She was such a kind lady and I was so sad when she died, although she’d been sick for such a long time. I—” Mrs. Giano’s gaze locked on the rag in her hand and the words faded away. Her brows knit. “Why am I carrying this? Was I . . . What was I doing?” She looked around her as if suddenly unsure who or where she was.

Trav recognized the signs and said softly, “You were cleaning the window.”

Her gaze locked with his, as if she were seeking an anchor. “Was I?”

“And doing a fine job, too.”

Daisy pointed to the back of the garage. “You said the windows were dirty and that you wouldn’t go home until they were clean.”

Mrs. Giano looked at the window she’d just left and, now that she had a purpose, the confusion faded. “I’d better finish then, hadn’t I?” She turned and shuffled back to the window, completely forgetting Trav’s too-long hair and ugly scars.

“Did you really ride a cow into your church?” Daisy asked.

He sent her an impatient look. “No, but apparently my dad did. His name is—was—Robert. That’s who Mrs. Giano thinks I am.”

“Oh.” Daisy glanced at Mrs. Giano, who was humming as she cleaned the window, before turning back to Trav. “If your name isn’t Robert, then what is it?”

“Trav. Look, you guys need to go home to your aunt.”

The little girl’s brows snapped down, the line of her mouth suddenly sharp. He felt sorry for her and whatever struggle she might be having, but he didn’t have the energy or the knowledge to get involved.

Daisy said shortly, “Aunt Grace is still at work.”

“Then who is keeping an eye on you?”

“Ms. Jane is watching us this week. She’s only temporary until Ms. Linda can start on Monday.”

“Linda Robinson?” At Daisy’s nod, he said, “She’s nice.” He had no idea who Ms. Jane was, but Linda was a professional caretaker and had helped with his father during his last months. “I bet Ms. Jane is looking all over for you.”

“No. She’s having a fight with her sister, so she’s on the back porch on the phone, arguing.”

Trav took a step back so he could see out one of the garage windows. Sure enough, an elderly woman he now recognized as Jane Lewis, the organist at the Methodist church, was on the porch, talking on the phone and pacing back and forth, gesturing wildly. “That looks like some fight,” he admitted.

“Her sister Louisa ate all their leftovers. Jane wanted to bring them here for lunch, but late last night, Louisa snuck into their refrigerator and ate them. Jane’s mad because she didn’t get any, plus Louisa’s supposed to be on a diet.”

Daisy spoke in the weirdly mature way that children who speak mainly to adults have. And yet, as mature as she sounded, she looked far too young to be standing here in his garage without a capable parent at her side.

Trav ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve got to change and get to work. Can you get Mrs. Giano home?”

“Nope,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Why not?”

Daisy sent him an impatient look. “If I tell Mama G we have to go before she’s done, it’ll upset her and she’ll cry. I can’t stand it when she cries.”

Trav looked over to where Mrs. Giano was scrubbing a once-dingy pane of glass. There were four windows in total. She’d already cleaned two of them, and she was about halfway through one of the remaining two. “Surely she won’t mind leaving one for me to do?” But even as he said it, he knew it was unlikely. If Mrs. Giano’s illness was anything like his dad’s, she was becoming more stubborn as the days went by. That was how Dad had been, as determined as heck to hang on to his opinions when he could no longer hold on to his memories.

Trav sighed. He didn’t know Mrs. Giano, but he knew he’d hate it if she cried. “I guess we’ll have to wait until she’s done. I have to change, anyway. When I get back, I’ll help you get her home.”

Daisy shrugged. “Okay.”

He started to go inside but stopped at the door. “Why are you all cleaning my garage, anyway?”

“I don’t know. She was doing it when I got here.” Daisy leaned on her broom, looking far too cool for her age. “I jumped in because I figured it’d get her out of here quicker.”

The kid had a point. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

She eyed him as if he’d just said the most unoriginal thing in the world. Then she pointed behind him. “There’s another broom by the door. Feel free to join in.”

He had to quell the urge to remind her that it was his house, so he damn well knew where the brooms were. “I’m late for work, so you’re on your own. Just finish up as soon as you can, okay?”

“Okay.” Daisy’s gaze wandered back to her grandmother. “She’s not well, you know. She’s sick, which makes her confused.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. “My dad had the same thing.”

The little girl looked at him, her eyes the bluest of blue and as innocent as a kitten’s. “Where is your dad now?”

Trav rubbed his neck where his scars pulled. Damn it, this was why he hated talking to people. Because then they needed things—answers, thoughts, help, stuff—and he was in no position to offer any of those. He supposed the only thing he could do was tell her the truth. After a long silence, Trav said shortly, “He died.”

Daisy nodded as if she’d suspected as much. “Mama G won’t die from this. She’s going to get better.”

No, she wasn’t, but this wasn’t his war to fight, so Trav just shrugged, wishing it didn’t make him feel guilty. “I’ll be right back. If she gets done before then, feel free to leave. I’ll lock up.”

Daisy went back to sweeping. “We won’t be too long. She only has one window left now.”

He mumbled an agreement and went inside. Once he reached his room, he quickly changed into his coveralls and work boots. As soon as he finished, he headed down the hall on his way to the garage but found himself stopping at his dad’s bedroom door.

Although Dad had been gone for over a year, Trav hadn’t touched the room. He should have, because this was the master bedroom and it had a large private bath, which would be more convenient than staying in his old, smaller room and using the bathroom down the hall. But the thought of going through his dad’s personal things seemed wrong somehow. I don’t have to do anything now. I’ll do it when the time is right.

Still, he felt guilty, because Dad had been a stickler about neatness. He’d drilled his own habits into Trav’s head, which had made Trav’s move into the army far more effortless than it might have been. Dad had kept his shop the same way he’d kept the house—so clean and organized that the mechanics used to joke about being able to eat off the shiny concrete floor. But all that had changed when Dad had gotten sick.

After the explosion that had torched him, Trav had been assigned to a burn hospital in Texas. After eight long months, he’d finally been released. He’d arrived home a hollow shell of himself, barely able to stand upright, the puckered skin on his back and shoulder aching as if still on fire, the pain medications leaving him numb and out of touch. But even through all of those distractions, he’d been shocked at the condition of Dad’s house. The dishes were undone, the beds unmade, piles of mail sat forgotten on tables and in chairs. But more astounding were the Post-it notes.

There were dozens.

Pink, blue, and yellow, they were all over the house, labeling everything from the food in the fridge, to which buttons on the remote adjusted the sound, to when various medicines were due. Dad had even written notes to remind him to feed Killer. There were Post-its on the bathroom mirror, the refrigerator door, the doorframe near the key hook, and just about everywhere else.

Some of the Post-its had lost their adhesion and had drifted to the floor and lay abandoned under chairs and tables and in corners, where they’d faded and curled, collecting dust, their duties forgotten along with them. Yet despite the Post-its, Killer’s water bowl was still empty, food still rotted in the fridge, and Dad’s important medicine sat untouched in labeled vials in his bathroom cabinet.

Other things had changed, too—Dad’s walk had become less certain, just like Mrs. Giano’s. He shuffled slowly, almost as if he were a thousand years old instead of fifty-six.

But Trav didn’t fully understand the depth of Dad’s illness until they went to the shop one brisk morning. Trav had hoped that things would be better there, that perhaps Dad was just depressed, living at home alone. But things were worse at the shop. The place was devoid of customers, dirty rags and buckets of grimy oil sat in the corners of the once-pristine garage, the office was stacked with unfiled papers and unpaid bills, and the shelves in the parts room were empty. Shop manager Arnie Gonzalez was the only employee left, as the other two mechanics had moved on after Dad had repeatedly forgotten to pay them. According to Arnie, most of Dad’s prized customers were now taking their cars thirty minutes away to a repair shop in Swannanoa.

It took almost two weeks, but Trav had finally convinced Dad to see his physician, Doc Bolton. Trav would never forget the exact instant Doc said the word dementia. He could still see the deep, genuine sadness in Doc’s worn face, and the stubborn denial in Dad’s. That had been a horrible day, just one of many more horrible days that were yet to come.

Trav rubbed his face and turned away from Dad’s bedroom, trying to silence the crackling feel of loneliness the room left him with. Just one day at a time, he told himself. Just one fricking day at a time.

He’d just reached the kitchen when he heard a noise in the living room. Frowning, he made his way there.

Mrs. Giano stood in front of the shelf beside the TV, a dust rag in her hand, one of Dad’s trophies in the other.

She looked up as Trav came into the room. “Ah, there you are. I was looking at your trophies. So you’re a bowler.”

“Those are my dad’s.”

“Your dad’s?”

“Robert Parker. He was my dad.” Trav waited, wishing he knew her well enough to know when she was lucid. “He used to live here, remember? You used to babysit him.”

A startled look came over her face and her gaze moved over him and then down to the trophy she held. “Robert was your father,” she murmured, as if trying to comprehend that fact. After a moment, she looked back at him with a faintly embarrassed smile. “Well, then, I never knew your father was a bowler.”

Relief swamped him as he realized she’d understood him. “Dad didn’t start bowling until I was in college, but he must have been pretty good, as he was on the premier league.”

She put the trophy back and looked at the other awards. “Are any of these yours?”

“No.”

“Well.” She finished dusting the shelves. “You deserve some trophies, too. You should find a way to get some.”

Although he was glad she was feeling better, he wished she would leave. He was used to being alone when he was here, and he was just now realizing how much he prized his privacy. He rubbed his neck where the scar pulled, suddenly tired. “Look, Mrs. Giano, I appreciate your help but—”

Daisy popped her head around the front door. She looked from Mrs. Giano to him and then back. “What’s going on?”

“I was just telling Mrs. Giano that it’s time she left, as I have to go to work.”

Daisy came inside and shut the door. She looked around, her glance touching on every item in sight.

“You should both go home, right?” he said impatiently.

She dragged her gaze from the pictures of him when he was a kid that Dad had arranged along one shelf and shrugged. “Sure.” She wandered to where Mrs. Giano stood and touched one of the trophies. “Do you bowl?”

It was obvious he was going to get no help from Daisy, the imp. “No. As much as I’d like you both to stay, I’ve got to get to work.”

“Then go,” Mrs. Giano said. “We’ll lock up when we leave. I— Oh dear. That mirror is smudged.” She went into the hallway, where a mirror hung on the wall over a low table where Dad used to drop his wallet and keys when he came home.

“We’ll go as soon as she’s done,” Daisy announced.

Trav turned to find her sitting on the big leather recliner that dominated the room. “Don’t sit there. That was my dad’s chair.”

“So?”

“So get out of it,” he snapped.

Her eyes ablaze, Daisy locked her gaze with his and deliberately reached down and popped up the footrest.

“Dam— I mean, stop that!” He went to the chair and lowered the footrest. “Get up.”

The little girl glared at him, but after a hostile moment, she stood. “You’re sort of a pain.”

“You don’t even know.” He put his hand on her shoulder and directed her toward the door. “Go home and take your grandmother with you. You’ll be missed soon, and I don’t want your aunt marching over here thinking I’ve kidnapped you or worse.”

Daisy looked interested. “You think she’d do that?”

“Yes, and I wouldn’t blame her. No one is going to believe you all showed up just to clean an already clean house.”

“The windows in the garage were—”

“I know, I know. The garage was dirty, I’ll grant you that. But the house is clean.”

“Cleaner than ours,” Daisy admitted. She tilted her head to one side. “Are you afraid of Aunt Grace?”

“No.”

“You should be. She can be mean. Sometimes she yells.”

“I yell too. More than I should.”

Daisy leaned against the chair. “You don’t have any friends, do you?”

He frowned. “I have friends. Lots.”

“You have one,” she said. “In all the time we’ve lived beside you, I’ve only seen you talk to Sarah Dove.”

“You’ve only lived beside me for two weeks,” he pointed out, and then felt like a fool for even engaging her in this conversation. Still, he couldn’t help but add, “I meet most of my friends away from the house at a place called Po Dunks, where they don’t allow kids.” Which wasn’t exactly true, although he’d never seen any there. “Besides, you can’t really be alone when you live in Dove Pond. If I sneezed outside this house in the morning, by lunchtime at least seven people would have heard I was catching a cold.”

She grinned. “Sounds like a pain.”

“It can be.” He realized Daisy was watching him, so he asked, “How come you don’t have any friends?”

“We’re not staying, so why would I bother? Aunt Grace says that as soon as we can afford it, we’re going to move to Charlotte, where she used to live and—”

A staccato knock sounded at the door.

Travis could feel the irritation in each rap. “There’s your aunt.”

“That was an angry knock,” Daisy noticed.

“Great.”

Daisy never moved from where she stood leaning on the forbidden chair. “You’d better let her in or she’ll yell.”

Of course she would. He went to open the door.

Grace stood at the threshold, Jane standing behind her, looking sheepish.

He’d seen Grace before, usually marching to or from her house. She was small, like her mother and niece, but she made up for her lack of size by walking as if she were at the head of a very large, very aggressive army.

She didn’t even bother with a greeting. “Have you seen—” Her gaze had already moved past him and locked onto Daisy. “There you are!” Relief and irritation flashed across Grace’s face. “What are you doing here?”

“Mama G wandered over, so I figured I’d better keep an eye on her.”

“I can’t believe you—” Grace stopped and looked at Trav. “Excuse me, but would you mind stepping out of the way? I can’t speak to her with you in the middle.”

“Sure. It’s my house, but—yeah. Do whatever you want.” Trav stood back. “You might as well come in. Everyone else has.”

Without giving him a second glance, Grace walked past him. “Where’s Mama G?” she asked Daisy.

“In the hallway,” the little girl said sourly.

“Thank God you’re both okay. Why did she come here?”

“She said the garage windows were dirty and they were bothering her, so she came over to clean them.”

“To be fair,” Trav inserted, “Mrs. Giano did a great job on those windows.”

He was rewarded with a look of chilly disdain from Ms. Grace. For some reason, that made him happy, so he grinned in return.

Mrs. Giano, hearing her name, poked her head into the living room. “Grace! You’re home early.”

“It’s not early. Why did you leave the house without letting Ms. Jane know where you were going? We’ve been so worried about you!”

Jane, who’d stayed on the porch, waved weakly at Trav. “I’m so sorry about this. I was outside for only a few minutes, and when I came back, they were gone.”

She looked as if she might cry, so Trav said, “It’s fine. Really it is. I was giving them time to finish whatever they thought needed doing. Next time I’ll just come and get you.”

Mrs. Giano folded the dust rag into a neat square and placed it on the coffee table. “I suppose we’re done now.”

“Mama G, why—” Grace caught herself and took a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice was smooth and silky, not a trace of stress in it. “It’s time to come home. Dinner will be ready soon.”

“I hope we’re having biscuits.” As Mrs. Giano walked past Trav, she stopped and looked up at him. “I’ll leave the rest of the cleaning to you.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Clean this first.” She placed her hand over his heart, her hand surprisingly warm through his coveralls.

He stared down at her, not knowing what to say. He was six feet three inches tall, and she was barely five feet flat, if that, and he easily weighed twice what she did, if not more. And yet at that moment, he felt as if he were a child of three, and she a giantess with dark eyes that could see into his very soul. “I need to clean my heart?”

“There’s too much worry in there. It clouds things.” She chuckled. “Sometimes you just have to scrub out all the silliness and let the sun in.”

“Life isn’t that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” She patted his chest. “Think about it, will you? But not too much.”

“Mama G,” Grace said, embarrassment obvious in her voice.

Jane slipped her arm through Mama G’s and led her out the door to the porch. “Time to go home.”

With a final smile at Trav, Mrs. Giano allowed Jane to lead her away.

Daisy rubbed her nose as she eyed her aunt. “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

“You know it. You shouldn’t have left the house without telling Ms. Jane where you were.”

“I didn’t have time. Besides, she was on the phone and—”

“Daisy.” Grace’s voice cracked sharply. She cast a self-conscious glance at Trav and then said in a tight voice, “We’ll talk about this at home. Let’s go.”

“But I—”

“Now.”

Daisy hunched her shoulders. “Fine. But I’m not going to say I’m sorry. I was helping.” With that, she marched out of the door after Mama G.

Grace turned back to Trav and said stiffly, “I’m sorry for the intrusion.”

“It was no problem,” he lied.

“I’m sure it was. I don’t know what got into Mama G. She doesn’t usually wander off like that and I—” Her voice broke, a sob caught in her throat.

Her gaze flew to his and he recognized every emotion that flickered through her brown eyes—fear, sadness, and embarrassment that she’d let her feelings show. He knew all three of those emotions and knew them well.

This rigid-seeming woman wasn’t nearly as icily cool as she liked to project. For some reason, he found that reassuring. He rubbed his neck where his scar tugged. “My dad had the same thing as your Mama G. Or something like it.”

She swiped at her eyes, her cheeks pink. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It wasn’t easy. Look, I don’t know you or Mrs. Giano or Daisy, but . . . I know things are tough right now. But they’ll get better and you’ll find a way to handle them. Not completely, but some.” He wished he could offer something more comforting than that, but he couldn’t lie. It was a piss-poor way to make someone feel better, to promise that things wouldn’t be quite as bad as they were now, but it was all he had.

She nodded once and then set her shoulders back, and just like that, the softness he’d glimpsed was gone. “Thank you,” she said in a cool tone. “I appreciate you taking care of my family. I’ll make sure they don’t bother you again.”

“It was nothing,” he repeated.

She proffered her polite smile and then turned on her heel and left, walking as swiftly as she could without actually running.

Trav stood in the doorway and watched her go, wishing he knew what to say, but nothing came to him. Not one damn thing.

His visitors were gone and he was free to go to work. And yet he stood where he was and watched until they were all safely back inside their house.