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Bree dismissed him completely—a fate worse than death by houseboat—and instead asked Terry to keep an eye on her grandmother before falling into step with me as we walked a few extra paces away from the din of the slot machines.
I wished I could say that my chest didn’t puff out in pride, but I was no liar.
We stopped in a little alcove and turned toward each other with her back to the casino—and to the glare aimed our way. I was giving Alexander a flat, warning look as Bree spoke.
“What happened?”
I broke my stare off and moved my attention to a much better view—stormy eyes, fiery hair, and much more than a smattering of freckles—and relayed the important information as concisely as possible, watching her face carefully as I did. Her gaze fell from mine as I described the particulars of her grandmother’s erratic behavior. She did her best to hold it together, only flashes of emotion showing on her face— confusion, worry, and irritation among the strongest.
The last was likely more for the father-and-son duo than for her grandmother.
She wrung her hands as she thought it all over, eyes fixed on her glittery black shoes.
“What should I do?” she whispered so quietly that it was clearly meant for herself, revealing something about her life. About her.
She was used to handling things on her own, and not by choice. By necessity.
With that in mind, I pulled the emergency brake on the bulldozer I’d been prepared to drive through this problem and chose my next words carefully. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
She glanced over her shoulder to check on her grandmother, who seemed calm, and didn’t spare as much as a glance for the other two before turning back. “I think something is going on with her. She has always been…. Ugh!” She ran her hands through her hair and pulled off her red bandana, retying it as she spoke. “There aren’t any correct words for how she is. But lately… it has been different than her usual brand of… whatever.” She waved her hand vaguely toward the casino behind her and pressed her lips together before kicking at the patterned carpet with her shoe. “I sound both immature and nuts.”
Pure instinct brought my hand to her face—without hesitation this time—and I lifted her chin in a gentle demand for her gaze. One that she granted.
“You don’t. You couldn’t,” I assured her, hoping my expression communicated the sentiment as much as my words. A blush swept up her throat, branching out to her cheeks and ears, and I brushed my thumb along her flushed cheek, feeling the muscle move as she smiled. “Plus, you didn’t even smile when you said ‘nuts,’ so you are clearly mature beyond your years.”
She let out a small laugh, and I smiled in return before dropping my hand, careful to not push it. This was certainly not the time or the place.
“Do you think we should get her to a doctor?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle.
She seemed to shake herself before sighing and wrapping her arms around her middle. “Yes, but I don’t know how to convince her to go. She has always refused to go in the past. She has some quack doctor she calls for everything. I honestly don’t know how she does it. How she does a lot of things, really.”
“What if we took them up on their offer and brought her to a room and arranged for a doctor to see her there?”
She angled her head, considering. “That might work, if we can find one to do that and… and how to pay for it. I have no idea of her insurance situation or how that would work.”
Alexander had apparently decided he was done waiting and was walking over to us. Bree must have sensed it, because she immediately tensed and turned around, her arms dropping to her sides as she shed her vulnerability in favor of armor.
“Is there a paramedic or EMT on the premises today?” she asked him.
“No, sweetheart. We don’t typically need one on a Monday.”
I mentally caressed the imaginary bulldozer’s brake but let the impulse pass when Terry approached us with Miss Barb on his arm. She mostly just looked tired now, the manic glint in her eyes gone and her coloring back to normal beneath her thick layer of makeup.
Bree approached her cautiously. “Grandmother?”
Miss Barb looked up at Terry. “It’s getting late, and I’m feeling a little worn out.” Terry patted her hand, not unkindly, as she continued, “I think Mr. Arthur is ready for me to have a rest too.”
I leaned close to Bree’s ear, speaking softly so only she could hear. “That’s the second time she has called Terry something else.” When I’d recapped events to Bree, I’d left out the part about Miss Barb calling him “Big Daddy.”
She furrowed her brows, replaying what her grandmother said before whispering back, “She calls her arthritis ‘Mr. Arthur.’ It’s a thing.”
“Miss Barb, why don’t we head up to the room for the night? I’ll arrange for some dinner to be sent up too. Comped, of course. We have to make sure we take care of our favorite VIP,” Alexander crooned, as if speaking to a toddler.
Only a slight tightening of her mouth hinted that Miss Barb had clocked the tone, but she took in her audience and straightened her shoulders before responding, “That would be lovely.”
“How about we head there now, Grandmother? What room were you thinking?” She directed the second question at Terry.
“Her usual will be fine,” he replied as Miss Barb dropped Terry’s arm in favor of Bree’s.
