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Self-consciously, Bryce patted at her hair. Thanks to Patty’s offer, she’d had time to shower and do something other than throw her hair in a braid. She mustered the patience to blow it out straight and smooth, the way the hairdresser did when she got it trimmed. June had even offered up her hair spray, shellacking the hair until Bryce worried she wasn’t going to be able to pull a brush through it later.
“It’s not as beautiful as you three girls!” Adele pinched Cecily’s cheek.
Cecily swatted her hand away. “Hey! Pinching isn’t allowed. I got in trouble when I pinched people for not wearing green on Saint Patrick’s Day, and Aunt Beamer said it’s rude. Right, Aunt Beamer?”
“Mmm,” Bryce hummed in a noncommittal way, then changed subjects. “Okay, girls, we’ll see you later for dessert. Have fun at the church dinner with Nana and Pop-Pop, and don’t eat too much junk. Behave yourselves.”
As Adele ushered them out the door, Harvey cleared his throat. “Do, uh, should we call before bringing the girls home? We don’t want to, uh, interrupt anything.”
Bryce shook her head. “Not necessary. We’re only eating. Pretty G-rated stuff, Harv.”
He nodded. “O-okay. Maybe we’ll text, though. Just to be safe.”
Bryce closed the door behind him, then did a bunch of those box breaths the therapist was always raving about. Four counts in, hold four counts, then release for four, wait for four…
Afterward, Bryce felt calmer. She retreated to the kitchen and flipped on the lights. As they blinked to life, illuminating the stainless-steel stove, the gleaming surfaces of the prep area, the spotlessly clean wash sink, the muscles in her chest relaxed.
It was time to do what she did best. Cook.
She selected a fun ’80s playlist on her phone, starting with “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey. Listening to it brought back memories of riding with her dad in the long-haul truck and flipping burgers with Mom on the line at the truck stop. She checked the time—only a little after five o’clock. Impulsively, she grabbed her cell, stopping Steve Perry in mid-chorus, and dialed her father’s number.
“Hello?” he asked with genuine curiosity in his voice, as he did every time she called, despite the fact her name appeared on his cell phone. “That you, Little Beamer?”
“Hi, Dad.” She smiled at the nickname, propping the cell on the plate shelf to talk hands-free. “What are you two doing?”
“Oh, you know us. We got nothin’ to do, and all day to do it. Took your mom to her doctor’s appointment, and she’s lying down now. Doctor visits wipe her out.”
In the best of times, Shelby Weatherford had white coat syndrome, her blood pressure spiking merely by entering the doctor’s office. Now that each doctor’s visit was accompanied by more tests and trial medications for her worsening dementia, trips to their general practitioner would do her mother in for days.
Bryce winced, imagining her father’s stress and her mother’s anxious confusion. She wished she was there to help. But experience had taught her that the last thing Hudson and Shelby wanted was to feel like a burden to their children, and they were fiercely independent—a trait she admired but that also caused her worry.
Before she could ask any follow-up questions, her father changed the subject. “How are my granddaughters? Still giving you hell on a daily basis?”
“Too many Weatherford genes in them to not give me a good run for my money,” she said. “But this week wasn’t a complete disaster. I don’t want to jinx myself, but I think I might be getting the hang of this gig.”
“That’s my girl.” Hudson’s words lit up the place in her that glowed only under her father’s compliments. “Wish we were there to help, but it’s probably a good thing I’m not in town. I’m afraid I’d go throttle some sense into Harvey and Adele. But at least they’re giving you a little break this weekend.”
Bryce snorted. “Yeah. Lucky for the Paynes their church has built-in kids’ activities and sitters to play with them all day. They’ve got the grandparent thing down to a science. But I am thankful for some of the night off.”
“Right, tonight’s your big date with that Ryker fellow. The mechanic. What are you making him? Your mother won me over with her cooking. Every time I came into the truck stop, she’d say I was skinny as a string of suckers, and then she’d ply me with food. Meatloaf. Chicken Divan. Chili. Scalloped potatoes and ham. All were delicious, but the day I lost my heart to her, she’d made a ribeye steak cooked in butter with—”
“Garlic and rosemary,” Bryce finished, her cheeks heating. She’d forgotten it was the dish that had brought her parents together at the diner. Talk about a Freudian moment; her subconscious had taken over at the grocery store as she’d decided on this menu. “It’s only a date, Dad. I’m not gunning for a relationship. I just felt like cooking a steak.”
“Mm-hmm.” His voice was unconvinced. “But remember, you deserve happiness. No time is ever the right time to begin a relationship. Okay, Little Beamer. Be good. And if you can’t be good…” Her father paused for their ritual closing.
“Be good at it,” Bryce finished, grinning at her cell phone. “Gotta go, Dad. Love you!”
Suddenly, a knock came at the alley door where Patty got food deliveries. Her heart did a whirling stir as she glanced at the clock.
Five-thirty p.m. On the dot.
Bryce took another box breath, her father’s words echoing in her head. She repeated them to herself, like an affirmation.
You deserve happiness. No time is ever the right time to begin a relationship.
She eyed the ribeye resting on her cook station.
She wasn’t sure whether tonight she was preparing to be good…
