Page 76 of The Hometown Heartbreaker

Gio clapped his hands in approval. “Good choice.”

I smiled, and Buddy caught my eye in the mirrored elevator door. For a second, his expression softened. He looked tired—older and smaller than the man I held in my memory—but there was a defiance to the tilt of his chin, a glint in his eye that reminded me of the Buddy who was invincible.

When the elevator chimed, Gio wheeled Buddy out so fast his shoes squeaked on the linoleum. He made a show of popping a wheelie at the exit, which made the volunteers at reception giggle.

Outside, the air was wet with late-morning fog, and the hospital parking lot shimmered like a mirage. When we got to the truck, Gio braced the wheelchair, and Buddy used the frame of the car to pull himself up. His legs wobbled for a second, but he gritted his teeth and made it into the seat without a word. I slid his bag in after him and tried to assist him by buckling him in, but he fought me on it, insisting he do it himself.

I walked around to the driver’s side and before we pulled away, Gio set the wheelchair off to the side and leaned in the open passenger window. “Listen to your granddaughter,” he said, voice warm but insistent. “If she tells you to do your exercises, do ’em. ’Cause I don’t want to see you back here.”

Gio smacked the door twice, then stepped away from the truck. As I prepared to drive away I saw that he got distracted, looked down and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He typed on his screen, then his brow creased and confusion clouded his expression.

I was pulling out of the parking lot as Gio lifted his head and called out to Buddy, “Nonna says to answer your messages.” Gio lifted his phone, as if it was evidence. “Why is Nonna texting you?”

“Tell her my battery died,” Buddy shouted back. “My charger wasn’t workin’.”

It was working, it just hadn’t been plugged in correctly. Gio looked like he had a lot more questions for Buddy as we pulled out of the parking lot. I was sure Nonna would be getting the third degree, not that he would get any information out of her. I had a feeling no one knew anything about Nonna’s life she didn’t want to reveal.

I thought about asking my own follow-ups, since the subject had been broached, but I figured he would tell me about her when and if he wanted to. Buddy Shepard was a private man. It was something that he and Dawson always had in common. Neither one of them liked people in their business, which in this town was pretty unavoidable.

Buddy was quiet for the first five minutes of the drive, arms folded tight, jaw set. I kept my eyes on the road, the hospital receding in the rear view, replaced by rolling green hills and downtown Valentine Bay. The silence made the clatter of the old truck’s engine seem louder, and I wondered if I should say something to fill it. But Buddy beat me to it.

“Y’know, you can just drop me at the farm and get back to your business.” His eyes fixed on the marshy fields rolling past. “Don’t need a babysitter.”

“Nobody’s babysitting. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

He muttered something under his breath. It sounded like, “Don’t need anyone making a fuss.”

My heart rate ticked up. I wanted to tell him that it was okay to accept help, that he’d done more than his fair share for the town, for my mom, for me. But I’d learned long ago that Buddy Shepard was a one-way street when it came to giving and receiving.

Silence returned, and I could see, in the harsh light of day, the dark circles under Buddy’s eyes. I knew he wanted to be home, but I worried, once again, if it was too soon.

He’d drifted off to sleep by the time we turned onto the long gravel drive. The stones popping under the tires stirred him from his slumber. When his eyes opened, Buddy’s head tilted, his brows stitching together as he took in the property. The grass was mowed in crisp, even stripes, running parallel to the drive like the outfield at a major league stadium. Both the house and barn had fresh coats of paint. The battered fence that had been held together with baling wire and prayer for the last decade was now taut, the posts set true and plumb. Even the battered mailbox at the end of the lane stood upright, the flag gleaming with new enamel.

Buddy whistled. “You been mowing the grass?”

“That would be Dawson,” I admitted.

He craned his neck to look at the house. “New porch light?” he asked, suspicion sharpening his words.

I kept my tone neutral. “Dawson put it in last week. The old one broke during that bad storm a few weeks ago,” I explained as I pulled the truck to a stop.

Buddy grunted, but I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smile in hiding, maybe. He didn’t say anything else as I parked the truck near the ramp that now led to the side door. He stared out the window for a long minute, like he was trying to memorize every detail that had changed or maybe trying to find fault with them.

I got out, circled to his side, and opened the door. Buddy made a theater of refusing help, but when he swung his legs out of the truck, he wobbled, and for a split second, his hand landed on my shoulder. He groaned from either pain or effort, and I quickly looked away, pretending I hadn’t noticed.

The ramp had been Dawson’s idea. He’d built it himself, after a long night of reading ADA guidelines and watching YouTube tutorials. I knew Buddy would hate it—would see it as an admission of weakness—but as he shuffled up the new planks, he didn’t say a word. He paused at the landing, put a hand on the polished newel post, and took a moment to scan the entire porch. The flowers, the newly patched screen, the gleaming copper lantern.

He shook his head, but I couldn’t read the expression. “Since when is this place a Bed and Breakfast?” he muttered.

If he thought those were changes, I braced myself for his reaction to the interior.

I unlocked the door and held my breath as we walked inside. The kitchen, once a museum of grease and outdated appliances, was now pristine. Every surface gleamed. The farmhouse table was scrubbed clean, a mason jar of wildflowers in the center. The outdated fridge had been replaced with a gleaming, modern stainless steel behemoth, covered in magnets spelling out “WELCOME HOME” and “SHEPARD STRONG.” The walls, which had once been a yellowed nicotine color, now glowed with a fresh coat of white paint.

Buddy hovered on the threshold, surveying the alien world within. His gaze darted to the recliner, the only piece of furniture Dawson hadn’t replaced or reupholstered. The whole house was set up for his comfort—low-slung handles, grab bars, every possible tripping hazard removed.

He gave me a look, half-accusation, half-bafflement. “Who did all this?”

“Dawson. Well, Dawson did most of it, and Damon pitched in,” I said, keeping my voice light. “I helped where I could.”