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“Let’s go with Sheldon to the duck pond,” Lucas said to his niece.
Charlotte looked over at the boy who wore paper bunny ears and hadn’t stopped chowing down on his cotton candy and said, “This kid wooks weird.”
Sheldon dropped his cotton candy cone on the ground and slapped Charlotte right in the face. “You’re an asshole!”
Tara gasped, her eye going wide. “Sheldon! No, sir.” She yanked him back toward her.
Charlotte’s face crumpled before issuing a scream.
Then both kids started wailing.
And that’s how Lucas ended up not having to worry about Tara clinging to his arm. Because the woman took a screeching Sheldon home, and Lucas ended up spending another forty dollars to have his face painted—a tiger—and played games for an hour longer than he planned. They also ate sno-balls. Thankfully, a tired Charlotte did not throw up in his truck on the way home. His niece also didn’t tremble once the whole afternoon. Especially not after her “Uncle Wucas saved her from that weird kid.”
Addy tried to concentrate on the computer screen where the accounting program was doing its best to defeat her, but it was no use. She wasn’t in the mood to reconcile her bank statement… but then again who was ever in the mood to reconcile a bank statement? A psycho, that’s who.
Her mind kept tripping back to the day before and the strange intimacy she’d established with Lucas. Such an unexpected and somewhat exciting turn of events. Not to mention, the time she’d spent with the Finlay children had lessened the chokehold fear had on her. Charlotte had glowed from the attention, Chris had laughed and entertained, and even Michael had smiled… once. And that very afternoon, while Lucas had taken Charlotte to her school fair, working with the boys had filled her with an odd contentment.
The image of Lucas holding Charlotte’s hand at the school fair popped into her mind. He’d come to her house with a painted tiger face, and Charlotte fast asleep on his shoulder. Addy’s heart swelled and her ovaries may have exploded. Such a tough man creating such a tender moment.
Something about him reminded her of the sheriff in the naughty erotic romance she started reading the night before. She’d set aside the book with the sheik and helpless English virgin for the Western knowing she shouldn’t play with fire. But something about those wranglers and boots, about the hard line of his mouth she wanted to feel against hers, had her cracking open the new book featuring an iron-jawed sheriff with broad shoulders and a big, ahem, gun.
How would Uncle Lucas look tied up to Addy’s bed? Reclining against those ruffled pillows and lavender quilt? She could see his muscles, long and sinewy, beneath golden skin. She wanted to touch his hair, trail her fingers along his chest, down to—
The computer dinged signaling a message.
What was she doing fantasizing about a man who would mosey back to Texas soon?
But then again maybe Lucas was exactly what she needed in her life at that moment. What had Flora called him? Yes, a tall drink of water. Maybe Addy needed to take a sip of a man who wouldn’t want anything from her but a good time. The same way the good sheriff only wanted a no-strings attached roll in the hay with the Widow Taylor. And Madam Tiffany. And the new school marm. Sheriff Isaac Strong got around.
Or maybe Addy should stop trying to make her naughty books real life.
Addy pushed back in her rolling chair, just as Aunt Flora passed carrying her bedding down the hall.
“Hey, Auntie dearest, what are you doing with those sheets?” she called, rising and trailing down the hall behind her aunt.
“Washing ’em,” her aunt answered.
“Why? Did you spill something? You just washed them a few days ago.” Addy propped her hands against the door jamb of the small laundry room next to the kitchen.
Aunt Flora set the bundle of sheets in the wicker laundry basket and turned to Addy. “I didn’t wash my sheets a few days ago. A few days ago was Wednesday or Thursday. I never do laundry midweek. I’m too busy.”
Alzheimer’s reared its ugly head. Her aunt had done laundry mid-week after spilling an entire cup of tea on her bed. “I thought you had—” Addy snapped her mouth closed.
“Wait, did I?” Aunt Flora looked blankly at the sheets. “I could have sworn…”
“Well, it won’t hurt to wash them again. You’ll be back on schedule.” Addy offered her a wry smile.
“Don’t baby me.” Aunt Flora slammed the lid on the washer. “I’m not an idiot. I forgot. No use trying to spin it for me.”
Addy stood there silently, not knowing how to respond to the fact her aunt’s mind deteriorated more and more each week. The medicine had helped for a while, but over the past few months, her aunt had worsened. They needed to talk to the doctor about trying something different. “I’m not-”
“Yes, you are. I’m not a child. Don’t treat me that way.”
What could Addy say to that? She tried not to treat her aunt any different than before she’d been diagnosed, but she couldn’t ignore the signs… nor the fact her aunt’s forgetfulness made Addy feel vulnerable, feel as if she needed to check behind her. “I’m sorry.”
Addy turned to go.
“Wait,” her aunt said. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself. At this stupid disease that’s making me feel so weak.”
