APRIL.
She stared at the screen.
It rang.
Stopped.
A second later, a text.
You okay? Call me.
Then another.
Or I’m coming over, and I WILL bring snacks.
Eleanor stared at the words until they blurred.
She set the phone face down on the counter.
She poured herself a glass of water and took a sip. It felt like it hit an empty place and disappeared.
A knock sounded at the front door.
She closed her eyes for a second.
April wouldn’t knock. She would barge in.
“Ellie-girl,” a familiar voice called quietly. “Open up for an old man.”
Her throat tightened.
She set the glass down and walked back to the door.
Deck O’Rourke stood on the porch in his worn leather jacket, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a paper bag that smelled faintly of takeout.
“Thought that might be you,” she said.
“Aye, and here I am,” he said. “Let an Irishman in before he dies of starvation, will you?”
She stepped aside.
He came in, moving with the easy familiarity of someone who’d been crossing her threshold since Charleston. He set the bag on the counter and glanced at the glass of water, the phone facedown beside it.
“April texting?” he asked.
Eleanor managed a small smile.
“She’s threatening snacks.”
“Monstrous girl,” he said mildly. “You answer?”
“Not yet.”
He nodded like that was the answer he expected.
Deck unpacked the bag without asking—soup, bread, something that smelled like real food and not whatever she’d meant to find in her fridge.
“Sit,” he said. “Before you fall over. You look like you’ve gone three rounds with a Mack truck.”
