“It’s okay,” I toldhim, forcing my emotions down and away from my tone. “I understand. Everybodyneeds to vent sometimes.”
“Well, thanks forlistening,” he replied, and there was that friendliness again, the one I hadknown when we first met. It was back, working its way into his pleasantly deepvoice.
“No problem. So, um …listen, if you didn’t want me to come back—”
“I’m off tomorrow, soI’ll see you Wednesday, Tess,” he interjected, and now, I heard the smile inhis voice. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Iparroted. My voice was barely a ghost of itself, as it hit the phone and theline went dead.
***
Grandma was asleep, snoring in herrecliner instead of her bed. I turned off the lights in the kitchen and livingroom and covered her with a quilt she’d had since I was a little girl.
Before leaving theroom, I let my gaze travel, and watched the shadows of her life flicker before myeyes. Framed prints of her book covers. Memories frozen behind paned glass.Awards sitting proudly on the mantel and shelves.
She had lived a life ofliterary greatness, and now, I found it difficult to understand how all of thathad led to this old, wrinkled woman in a recliner. Always donning her trademarkElvis t-shirt, watching herFamily Feudreruns, and with that damn cat asleep in her lap. She could barely remember tolock the front door, let alone string together memorable prose.
A single tear prickedmy eye, and I turned to leave the room.
It’sso hard. I nodded to myself, remembering Jon’s words. It was—hard. It felt like yesterday, whenGrandma’s and my relationship was still strictly that of a granddaughter andher grandmother. We would often go on adventures together. Trips into the cityfor book premieres, to the salon before one of her appearances, and once, sheeven took me to San Francisco, to attend one of her book signings. I hadwatched her in awe, knowing in my heart of hearts that I wanted to be exactlylike her when I grew up.
And now, I barelyrecognized that woman in there, and I was only just now finding the drive towrite my first book.
Some days, I couldn’tremember why I had agreed to living with her.
I closed my door mostof the way, leaving it open a crack.Justin case. I flopped onto my bed in a pair of plaid pajama pants and a SoulAsylum t-shirt and laid there in thenear-darkness,staring at the ceiling and the dancing shadows from the branches outside mywindow. There was a loneliness in the silence, a sadness in the formlessfingers stretching out across the blank ceiling, and I thought about Jon.
The truth of his lifemade my own troubles seem so petty in comparison. The man had lost his wife,and to what, it didn’t matter. She was gone, leaving him with three littlegirls to care for on his own. I quickly did the math in my head and was struckdumbfounded and teary-eyed when I realized that Annabel would have been a babywhen her mother passed away. Six months old, I guessed, and I clutched my handsto my chest.
Sure, I was single.Sure, I was the primary caretaker for my crotchety, old grandmother. Sure, Ihad absolutely no idea if my writing career would ever take off. But I hadnever suffered the type of heartbreak that man must carry with him every singleday of his life.
As I sat up in bed, Iturned on the bedside lamp and headed for my desk, knowing sleep wasn’t cominganytime soon.
CHAPTER NINE
JON
“Daddy! Annabel tookmy cookie!”
Closing my eyes to the keys, I pulled in a calming breath and held itfor a couple seconds before pushing away from the keyboard. I followed thescreeching to the kitchen, where my two youngest daughters were supposed to beeating their snack peacefully.
Clearly, that wasn’t happening.
Both pig-tailed girls sneered at the other. Shelly looked like she wasabout to pounce on her little sister, while Annabel held an Oreo tightly in herchubby little fist. And at the sight of them, I sighed exhaustedly.
“Okay, Annabel,” I muttered, slumping into my place at the table. “Whydid you take Shelly’s cookie?”
Annabel’s glare shifted from Shelly to me. “Sheeatedmine,” she stated angrily.
Looking at Shelly, I challenged her with a lift of my brows. “Is thattrue? Did you eat Annabel’s cookie?”
“Yes.” She emphasized theword with an aggressive nod, herpig-tailsbobbing andwhipping against her face.
I propped my chin in the palm of my hand. “And why would you do that?”
“Because she tookmine!”
“O-kay,” I drawled, andturned back to Annabel. “And why—”
