Charlie’s hands shook on the wheel as she backed Granddad’s old green beast of a truck, ironically named Progress, away from the Old Barn. The rip in the ancient vinyl seat next to her exposed its mildewy stuffing.
What a perfect metaphor; her own stuffing felt exposed. And she was surprised it hadn’t exploded out of her when she’d hit Jake Braddock like an asteroid. Charlie squirmed again at the memory as she put Progress into gear and rumbled forward, kicking up gravel as she gained speed. Grouchy joined her as she passed the main house, where Declan lived. The dog escorted her off the property, barking and wagging his tail when she turned onto the main road.
She headed toward Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, where Granddad was recovering very slowly from hip replacement surgery. Complications because of arthritis, infections, and blood clots were keeping him there longer than normal, and he wasn’t happy about it. Neither was the insurance company, but Kingston Nash was a VIP in Silverlake, and the hospital wasn’t about to give him the bum’s rush.
Charlie swerved to avoid an armadillo and took a sharper left onto the parkway than she’d intended. A small cooler full of Granddad’s contraband vanilla pudding packs flew off the back seat and onto the floor, ice rattling.
She’d allowed the encounter with Jake to rattle her. There was something about the way his eyes had assessed her. And he’d shoved her away so quickly it made her ache inside. He still felt betrayed after all these years. He was still hurt.
That’s what had her hands trembling. That was all. Charlie hated for people to be angry with her. She was a pleaser . . . and when she didn’t please, it upset her, even though she knew that it was impossible to please everyone all the time. Eventually, she found herself in a no-win situation, stuck between two people who wanted or needed opposite things from her.
As she got up to speed on the parkway, the crisp autumn air billowed through the open windows and blew through her hair. The sun warmed her face and neck and she felt like a kid on a bicycle again, pedaling furiously into the countryside to escape her homework or chores. For a few moments she felt free, happy, and . . . home. A gust of wind somehow blew a smile onto her face, dissipating her anxiety.
And then as the parkway segued into Main Street and she slowed to make the turn onto Elm, she saw it: the site of the old Nash mansion. The blackened and burned-out foundation an eyesore, the peeling white posts of the onetime picket fence bitter, bony middle fingers extended like Granddad’s gesture to fate.
He’d gotten countless offers on the land—from private citizens, from two different churches, from the local bank. Even Mayor Fisk had sat him down to discuss creating a park or a new city hall there. But Kingston Nash refused to sell or donate or repurpose the land. And though he was still sitting on a pile of insurance money from the fire, he wouldn’t even consider rebuilding.
Charlie pulled up parallel to the front “lawn,” which consisted of a tangle of crabgrass, dandelions, and weeds. Babe Nash would be fit to be tied if she could see it. She’d always had giant pots of colorful geraniums or mums on either side of the wide steps that led up to the wraparound veranda. There had been other flowers, herbs, and vines flowing out of hanging baskets; Good Housekeeping and Family Circle magazines stacked on the wicker coffee table; Laura Ashley–print cushions on the comfortable wicker chairs and sofa.
Unlike some of its brick ranch neighbors, the house itself had been a pristine white three-storied Colonial, with dark green shutters and dormer attic windows. The hardwood floors inside shone with polish and set off Oriental area rugs to perfection. Grandma Babe’s Queen Anne dining set was well used but still elegant.
What Charlie remembered most vividly were the aromas of bacon and eggs, pancakes, and cinnamon rolls in the morning, cookies or spice cake or apple pie in the afternoon. She remembered the simmering spaghetti sauce, beef stew, or chicken and dumplings in the evenings, along with the low background noise of Granddad’s baseball or football games.
There, along that far blackened ridge, had been Babe Nash’s kitchen. Charlie remembered watching it burn as she knelt in the grass, shaking in the arms of her brother, Brandon. And that adjoining area, now full of broken glass and debris, had been the dining room—backdrop to countless family dinners and holiday meals. Grandma Babe had cooked and served them in an actual apron, one with rustic roosters on it.
Charlie didn’t realize that she was crying until tears silently streamed into the corners of her mouth and plopped from there into her lap. She couldn’t bear to think about that apron; her grandmother had still been wearing it that night when Jake came through the flames and out of the house with her on his back. Grandma Babe had been wearing it when he laid her down on the lawn and collapsed, coughing, while Mom and Granddad gave her CPR. And when Mom, sobbing, had screamed at her to wake up: Mama, please, God, just wake up . . .
Charlie, openly sobbing now, slammed old Progress into gear and shuddered away from the curb. It was so painful to see the old place like this; she either needed to remember to stay away, or . . .
Or what, Charlie? Nothing would ever dull the pain or fade the memories or solve the mystery of how the fire had started, but maybe something new could be built. A new house. A garden. Anything but this festering wound in the ground.
The best tribute they could pay to Babe Nash’s memory would be to rebuild the house exactly as it was. It deserved a fresh start.
A fresh start. Jake Braddock’s face flashed into Charlie’s mind. They’d once imagined living in that house together.
Charlie gripped the steering wheel. After her family had abruptly moved to Dallas, she’d never imagined coming home to Silverlake was possible. Now for some odd reason—even with Jake Braddock in town—the idea didn’t feel as ridiculous as maybe it should have before she’d watched a grown-up Jake and Lila laughing their butts off like old times.
Because this wasn’t about the past. This was about the future. This was about Granddad and his happiness and turning something dark and troubling into something fresh and joyous. Lord knew, the old man could use some of that.
She was going to bring up the subject to Granddad during her visit. Surely enough time had gone by? And the old man needed a purpose in life, a bigger one than driving his nurses crazy and annoying the town council. This was it. Charlie would bring him both pudding and a purpose.
Charlie parked outside Mercy Hospital and killed Progress’s engine. She climbed out, opened the cooler, and fished out two wet, cold vanilla puddings. She dried them with the dish towel she’d stuffed in the cooler pocket, then dropped the treats into her Tory Burch handbag, along with Granddad’s monster set of keys.
Our Lady of Mercy Hospital was an uninspired block of a building that stretched six stories high and was in dire need of an update. The linoleum tiles were a shade of depressive beige; the walls, a sickly green; the artwork, sporadic and unoriginal. The elevator groaned more than the patients, and the few live plants reached desperately for the windows and doors as if trying to escape.
Charlie couldn’t blame Granddad for not wanting to be here.
“Cook,” she heard him say from all the way down the hall. “It’s a verb! It means that someone does more than open a can or a box and slop the contents onto a tray.”
Oh, yikes. He was not enjoying his lunch. Charlie thought guiltily about the vanilla pudding in her bag. She certainly hadn’t made it from scratch. But she wasn’t her grandmother, and this wasn’t 1959.
“The hospital kitchen staff does the best it can, Mr. Nash,” the nurse said. “But you know as well as I do that we don’t have the budget for Kristina’s triple-chocolate mousse at Piece A Cake.”
Charlie stepped into the room in time to see Granddad poke at a rectangle of neon green Jell-O. He gave it a withering glare as it jiggled. “Not. Food.”
She almost felt sorry for the Jell-O, but she felt sorrier for the nurse, a young blonde who was wearing a fixed, too-bright smile and a name tag that said BRIANNE. Charlie nodded at her.
Brianne nodded back.
“Nothing in nature is that color,” Granddad growled. “Nothing. That was scraped out of an alien’s bedpan.”
“Hi, Granddad!” Charlie sang. “How are you doing today?” She kissed his wrinkled, red-veined cheek, getting a snootful of Listerine.
“Peachy,” he growled. “Couldn’t be better.” He stabbed the Jell-O again. “’Cept they’re still trying to poison me. Look at those weird yellow shreds in there!”
“I think that’s pineapple,” Charlie said in a soothing tone.
“That ain’t pineapple, girlie. It’s—” He searched among the ghoulish recesses of his brain. “It’s probably chicken beaks.”
Ugh. “I seriously doubt that, Granddad.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put anything past ’em. If it ain’t beaks, it’s old number two pencils!”
Brianne sidled to the door. “I’m just going to . . . check on another patient. You need anything else, Mr. Nash?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, but it’d get my face slapped.”
The nurse fled as Charlie choked. “Granddad!”
He shrugged. “I’m a hundred and seventy, not dead.”
“You’re only eighty-one, you old liar. Now, if you won’t eat the Jell-O, then how about that meatloaf?”
He pushed the tray away. “That ain’t beef. It’s probably ground sewer rat.”
Charlie sighed. “Yep, I think you’re right. You’ll probably get the tails as spaghetti tomorrow, cleverly disguised under a thick blanket of red sauce.”
“Ha!” Granddad winked at her. “Good one. What’d you bring me?”
If she didn’t give him the pudding, he was going to starve. Charlie pulled the two containers out of her bag and peeled the top off one, handing it to him with a spoon.
“Thank you. It’s not your grandmother’s, but it’ll do.”
“You’re welcome.” Charlie let him take a couple of bites. “So, speaking of Grandma Babe, I went by the old—” She broke off, not knowing what to call it. House? There was none.
Granddad fixed a beady eye on her, continuing to spoon pudding into his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Place. Well, it’s . . . sad. Awful.”
He said nothing.
Charlie took a deep breath. “And I know it didn’t seem right for a long time. But I think we should rebuild.”
Total silence.
“You know, rebuild the house, exactly as it was.”
Granddad set down the empty pudding cup with a snap. The spoon knocked it over immediately and clattered onto his tray. “No.”
The single syllable contained enough hostility and anguish that she should have backed off. But she didn’t. “She would hate having it look that way,” Charlie said quietly. “The yard all scarred and ugly. She’d want her house back.”
“Yeah? Well, I want her back. Ain’t gonna happen.” His face settled into bitter old lines.
Charlie opened the second container of pudding and set it on his tray. “Isn’t it time to let the past go? Haven’t we grieved long enough? Isn’t it time to move on?” She hesitated and then said, “I was with Lila this morning, and Jake stopped by.”
Granddad turned to face her full-on, his rheumy eyes overflowing with resentment. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His whole body seized with tension. Then he picked up the second container of pudding and threw it at the wall. White goop splattered everywhere.
A couple of long moments went by as Charlie stared at it, stunned. She thought about yelling at him or stomping out of the room. But then they’d both be acting like five-year-olds. She took a deep breath; then she got up. “Really? Couldn’t you have thrown the bird-beak Jell-O? Now you have nothing to eat.”
Granddad hunched his shoulders and turned away from her. His ropy, veiny hands clenched the sheets. “Sorry,” he muttered under his breath.
“Hey,” she said, and moved to his side. “Hey.” She put her arms around him. “It’s okay.”
He was unyielding; he couldn’t or wouldn’t respond to the physical touch. “Ain’t never gonna be okay.”
Charlie bit her lip and then took a chance: “Just listen for a second. Please. They’re still broken, Granddad. Jake is still broken. Lila’s still broken. From what I’ve heard over the years, all the Braddocks are broken. My brother is broken. You’re definitely broken,” she added with a wan smile, gesturing to his hip. “And I am, too.”
“The Braddocks have been broken for as long as I can remember,” Granddad said, his eyes narrowed. “Only one of them worth my spit is Declan there, and building on the land never did nothin’ to make his demons go away. Not my problem, never was.”
“What I’m trying to get at is that there’s one broken thing I know we can fix. Grandma’s house.” Charlie gave Granddad a squeeze, then straightened. “You need a purpose anyway. Let’s rebuild the house. What do you say?”
“I’ve got a purpose,” he said. “If the Silverlake Town Council will just listen to me. We have got to balance the budget in this burg. We’ve been running at a deficit for years now, and it’s plain to see what needs to be done: get rid of that useless paid fire department!”
Charlie’s heart sank. Not this again. Every time she swooped in for a visit, she got an earful of Granddad’s plan to “get rid of that useless paid fire department.” Thankfully, it never went anywhere. She got up and moved to the paper towel dispenser, intent on cleaning up the mess.
“If I could get out of bed,” Granddad said, “I’d be going to the next town council meeting and have this handled in a jiffy.”
“Uh-huh,” Charlie murmured, her face to the wall as she scrubbed. It never did any good to argue with him.
“You listening to me, Charlie-Girl? I’ve done a lot of talking. Now it’s time to do something. But I’m gonna need your help.”
Something in Granddad’s manner and in the tone of his voice made Charlie pause and give him her full attention this time. Something that made her more than a little uneasy. “Don’t even think about what I think you’re thinking about, Granddad,” she pleaded. There was no way she’d out and ask, no way she’d take a chance on busting those old wounds wide open, not even in the middle of a hospital. But was that a hint of revenge in Granddad’s voice?
Charlie let out a shaky breath, marveling at how fast her heart was beating. She loved her Granddad more than anything, but Jake loved the firehouse more than anything. She didn’t want to be part of anything that took even more away from him than he’d already lost.
“I have been lobbying the council for a decade,” Granddad ranted, “and they turn a deaf ear. But now I have statistics. Numbers that prove that every town around here of this size has a volunteer-only fire squad. This year, I will win. Imagine: seven guys in free lodgings, with benefits, on salary to lie around in their skivvies with their thumbs up their bums! It’s not just offensive; it’s criminal.”
A cough came from behind her, and she whirled to see Jake Braddock standing there. In an instant, a familiar heat infused her cheeks. Oh God. How much had he heard?
He stood there, an ironic smile playing over his lips as he stared at Granddad. It didn’t reach his dark eyes. His shoulders filled the doorway, and he seemed to suck all of the oxygen out of the room.
“Hi, Kingston,” said Jake calmly. “How you doin’? I’ve, uh, temporarily gotten dressed and removed my thumb from my bum. I’m here for your physical therapy.”
Jake’s gaze moved to Charlie’s face, and their eyes locked. For a split second, she imagined that the steel in his gaze had softened, and she thought her knees might buckle without them exchanging even a word.
The hot blush that had started in her cheeks began to spread over every inch of her skin. Her pulse kicked up, and her heart took a dive for her stomach.
Help, thought Charlie. Granddad may need physical therapy, but if I keep running into Jake, I’m going to need the other kind before long.
“You should probably close your mouth now, darlin’,” Jake said, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “Unless you want me to take your temperature? You look a little flushed.”