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And then there were those jeans and boots, already worn in since they were the only pair he had. Somehow he’d turned into a guy who wore the same pair of jeans every day rather than the sort who wore a pair of khakis once before he probably just threw them away for a new pair.
The same guy who, after rescuing Priscilla from the roof of the old five-and-dime, had been the recipient of half a dozen pies, a couple of casseroles, and a pile of cookies taller than me. The whole town had known his name for weeks, but now they spoke it with a smiling pride I never thought I’d hear in conjunction with those two strong syllables that made up his name.
“Did Melba make you her snickerdoodles?” Poppy asked, nodding to the mass of sweets he’d brought over.
“Which one is Melba again?”
“She’s the one who dyed her hair pink so nobody’d call her a blue-hair,” I answered.
He chuckled, his eyes on his hands as he chopped a carrot, click, click, click. “That’s right. I don’t think I’ve ever had a cookie so soft. Thing fell apart in my hands.”
Poppy dropped her knife and was off to dig around in the mish-mash of cookies. “I live my life for those cookies.”
Daisy chuckled. “We call them crack cookies around here.”
“Oh my god, there are brownies in here,” Poppy breathed.
“Good thing Mama’s bringing Bluebell,” I said.
“She’s bringing back flowers?” Grant asked. “What’s that have to do with brownies?”
The three of us stopped and stared at him.
“The ice cream? Bluebell?” I half asked.
“Oh, I think I’ve heard of that.”
“You’re about to have your mind blown, Mr. Stone,” Poppy said, shaking her head as she popped the rest of her cookie in her mouth and started up with the celery again.
“This has become a regular thing when I’m around Blums.”
I smiled up at him from his side, and smiling back, he leaned in for a quick little kiss.
“Ugh, you guys are gross,” Poppy noted, pointing the tip of her knife at him from the other side of the island. “If you weren’t leaving, I’d never let you near my sister.”
My heart squeezed at the reminder that he was temporary. I kept forgetting. He’d fit himself into my life a little too perfectly, a little too comfortably. And I was liking the thought of him leaving less and less by the day.
It’s for the best.
I wondered if I said it to myself enough times, I’d believe it.
“Oh, leave him alone,” Daisy said. “For the record, Grant, I was on your side from the beginning.”
“Because she’s a sucker,” I noted.
She gave me a look. “I’m a sucker? What about—” Daisy’s face changed into something unreadable when the door opened behind us.
Frowning, I turned to find Mama making her way in.
With a man behind her.
A man in a suit who looked an awful lot like Grant. I looked to the latter for confirmation, and on finding his face as dark and dangerous as it had been the day I threw an egg at him, I knew.
Mama was all smiles as she walked into the kitchen to set down her haul, talking. “Look at who I ran into. Y’all, this is Grant’s dad! He just got to town, had his cart half full, found me picking up boxes of Rice-A-Roni I’d knocked over in aisle four like a klutz.”
“Merrick Stone,” he said with a smile I didn’t trust. “Pleasure to meet you. Hello, son.”
Grant’s expression didn’t change. He muttered hello and got back to chopping, his eyes shielded by the brim of his cap.
The power shift was unnerving. Grant had the gravity of a star, holding everything around him in orbit by sheer force. But his father was a world eater, a black hole capable of consuming a star whole without even making a dent in its appetite.
And he was smiling at my mother.
Worse—she was smiling back.
Grant’s eyes were trained on his hands as he kept working.
“Anyway,” Mama was saying, “I thought it’d be nice if we all had dinner, seeing as how you two are … what do you kids say now? Hanging out?”
Grant and I shared a look.
“Mama, can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked, setting my knife down and taking her arm before she answered.
“Do I have a choice?” she joked as I hauled her away. “Excuse me, Merrick.”
My sisters followed silently until we were around the corner and out of earshot.
“What are you doin’, Mama?” I hissed when I let her go.
She had that mom look on her face, all stern and indignant. “What do you mean what am I doin’? Same thing as you’re doin’, as far as I can see.”
“What is he doing here?” Poppy whispered at me.
“I don’t know.”
“Grant didn’t tell you?” Daisy asked.
“No, but that’s a whole other problem,” I said. “Mama, he can’t have good intentions. He just can’t.”
