“For Goldie, not you.”
My words are delivered a little harsher than I intended because she flinches. I immediately feel like a giant tool for saying it that way. But it’s the truth. This woman hasn’t given me any reason to be overly nice to her. The only reason she’s getting what I’m offering is because of who her grandmother was to me. The only reason. Plus, my do-gooder cop best friend guilted me into it.
I climb out of the truck and then stride around to open her door. She’s still sitting with her jaw slightly unhinged, empty brown paper sack in hand. “We’re wasting daylight, woman.”
She curls her lip up and shoots me a scathing look. “I have a name.”
“Get your bike out of the bed of my truck,Nora, and I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”
I ignore the hissed insults when she realizes her bike wasn’t stolen in the traditional sense of the word. I knew if she had a getaway vehicle, she’d have used it to leave me back at the inn. And, if I’m going to have to be a Good Samaritan, I’m going to make my job easier on myself.
The wind chimes sing cheerily as if pleased we’ve returned. While Nora fusses with getting her bike out, I make my way to the backyard to free my little friend. Clo flies out and onto my shoulder the second I open the door. Once I’ve checked on the others and made sure everyone is happy, we lock up and head back toward the house. Nora is standing in the yard beside her bike, arms crossed over her chest, and glowering.
“What?” I say, smirking. “You look like one of those strong, independent types. Figured you had it handled.”
I study the purse hanging off her arm and then gesture next door. “You have more than that bag over there? If so, go get it.”
A flash of panic chases away her anger. “I, uh…” Her face pinches like she might cry again.
I’d like to avoid that at all costs. I. Don’t. Like. Criers.
“I’ll grab your stuff,” I grumble. “Clo, keep her company.”
My bird, happy for a new friend, flaps over to her. Though Nora tries to hide it, I don’t miss the small smile that creeps over her face when he lands on her arm.
On the way to Goldie’s next door, my phone buzzes. I pull it out to see a text from my brother.
Corbin: Heard there was a bar brawl over Trudy. I miss everything.
Me: Give up the fireman life and join the rest of us Coves. Fixing up houses leaves plenty of time for bar room gossip.
We go back and forth a bit, teasing like usual, as I open up the front door to Goldie’s house. The ease at which I text with my brother is replaced by dread at seeing the inside. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been in her house. One of those was last year when Goldie asked me for help. I remember the complete and utter shock of when I went in and saw the mess, the clutter, the disrepair.
She wouldn’t let me fix any of it.
I know she was embarrassed.
What I could do, and did, was build the aviary out back so I could take the burden of budgie responsibility off the aging woman’s hands. Once that was established, she moved in with me shortly after. And, though I wanted to, Goldie strictly forbade me from “cleaning up her mess.” The house sat untouched ever since.
As expected, the place is falling apart. Since the power is off, it’s unbearably hot inside and smells like cooked bird crap. I snatch up the shiny, clean luggage that’s sorely out of place, and hightail it out of the dusty home.
Nora is waiting on my porch, Clo chilling in the palm of her hand, as I stride across the yard. For just a moment, I’m struck by how frail and vulnerable she is right now, reminding me very much of her grandma. So often I’d come back from work or doing chores in the yard to see Goldie on the porch with her little bird, anticipating my arrival.
That thought is a kick to my chest, and I’m forced to suck in a sharp breath. She’ll never be waiting on me ever again. She’s gone.
My mood sours once more and it’s easy to take it out on Nora. Who wouldn’t be angry with her? She abandoned that sweet old lady. It irritates me to no end.
I let go of her suitcase handle long enough to wrench open my front door for her to go inside. As if she’s stepping into a lion’s den, she hesitates, and peeks past the threshold like something’s waiting to snatch her up.
“Everyone speculates I’m a serial killer,” I tell her unhelpfully.
She whips her head around and curls her lip up. “Do people actually think you’re funny?”
My mom does. Oh, and my sister’s kids, Maxton and Mallory. They think I’m hilarious.
“Are you staying or not?” I grumble, indicating for her to move her tiny butt into my cottage.
“Just so you know, I’ve sent a location pin to my best friend and my boyfriend. If you try anything weird, they’ll know it was you.” With those words, she stomps into the house. “Plus, I know self-defense.”
