Page 4

“Okay,” she whispered. “I just…”

I waited, driving steady.

“I just worry that you won’t come back.”

Like Mom.

The words weren’t spoken, but they were understood. And her fear crystallized to me.

“I understand your fear, peanut. And I promise you, I will reassure you as much as I possibly can when I get dangerous calls, okay?”

She nodded her head, but I could see her eyes were luminous with tears.

“I love you, baby. Thank you for telling me.”

She nodded and seemed to shift directions. She launched into a statement about the birds that wouldn’t get out of the road.

Our house sat at the end of a gravel drive—pine trees standing guard, the ridge beyond still scarred black. Remy ran toward the porch. My mother stood in the doorway, silver hair in its usual low bun.

“Grandma! Miss Jo let me take her picture home!”

Mom crouched down. “That must mean you had a good day.”

“She drew a dog with its butt in the air.”

Mom pressed her lips together, but humor danced in her eyes. “How... artistic.”

I stepped inside. The house smelled like spices. Three years ago, this place had echoed with emptiness and pain. Now, with my mother here, it felt lived in again.

She’d shown up two days after the accident with two suitcases, and that look that meant I didn’t get a vote. She’d taken care of the every day while I’d fought to find myself again.

“Boots,” she reminded me.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dinner was quiet, but comfortable. Remy did most of the talking—purple markers and feelings charts between bites. She seemed more animated today than she had been for the past couple of weeks. Since the fire. Maybe they were getting over the hump.

“Miss Jo says my brain thinks it’s helping me when I can’t sleep. It’s trying to protect me. Like Daddy does.”

Mom nodded thoughtfully. “Our brains are strong, tangled things. But they need help sometimes. That’s why we talk about the hard stuff—to straighten out the knots.”

After dinner, Remy insisted on displaying the drawing. I lingered in the doorway while Mom helped her mount it on her cork board.

A simple picture had sparked more reaction than other things over the past couple of weeks.

Mom stepped back into the hallway. “She seems lighter tonight.”

“She does.”

“That counselor is good for her.”

A picture of Josephine jumped into my mind, and a zing of awareness coursed through me. She was a full-figured, voluptuous woman, and she seemed confident in her skin. She was a behavioral health therapist, which meant she was incredibly intelligent, as well as being beautiful. Her hair was a thick honey gold, her eyes a pale green, and when she looked at me, my brain threatened to short out. She was the first woman who’d roused any interest in me since my wife passed.

I realized Mom was waiting for a response. “Yeah.”

Mom studied me. “And is she good for you?”

I exhaled. “She’s Remy’s counselor.”