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I open it up to reveal several pages filled with scrawled kids’ names, as well as the neat signatures from the school staff. Grams used to help with the school’s reading program. She began volunteering there when I was seven years old and kept on volunteering until a few years ago, when age deteriorated her eyesight.
I pass her the card. The tremor in her hands becomes more noticeable.
She scans the names. Her eyes glisten, damp with longing and delight and frustration. “I wish I could remember what happened.” She closes the card and places it on her lap.
“I know.” I sit on the couch and cover her hand with mine. She remembers nothing from the hit-and-run—not even leaving her house to go for the walk.
“At least then the police would have more leads.” Her voice isn’t strong and determined like it was when I was growing up. Now softened with age, her voice is a whisper of what it used to be. But there’s still an edge to it, blunted slightly with time, that hasn’t changed.
“I don’t know if it would have made a difference. There were witnesses, and none of them could identify the driver. I’m not sure if you could have either.” I stand and kiss her forehead like she did whenever I scraped my knee as a kid. “The physician said your memory of what happened might return. Your main goal right now is to recuperate. Let the cops figure out the rest.”
Hopefully they do a better job than they are with identifying the culprit who set Lucas up.
“How’s Lucas doing? Penny Whithouser visited me in the hospital, claiming he was the one who hit me.” Grams’s tone is one I recognize from when I was a kid and tattled on Aiden.
“Considering everything, he’s doing okay. He’s not guilty of what the police are accusing him of. Someone set him up.”
“I know. Penny’s a troublemaking busybody who has nothing better to do with her time. Lucas is a good boy who’s not capable of anything he’s been accused of.” She squeezes my hand. “I don’t suppose you can make me some tea?”
“One tea coming up. Did you want me to put the TV on for you?”
“Yes, please.” She requests her favorite mystery show, with a sleuth in her seventies. “Let’s see if I do a better job solving the crime on this episode than the police are doing figuring out who hit me and left the scene.”
My mouth twitches into a barely-there smile. “I’m sure if you do, the chief of police will be more than happy to hire you to help with their caseload.”
I assist her onto the couch, then walk to the kitchen. I fill the kettle and place it on the stove. “If you’d like, I can take you to the store next week to pick out some annuals. I’ll do the garden, and you can tell me what to do and entertain me with some of your childhood tales.” I never get tired of hearing them.
“I would like that.” Her eyes remain glued to the TV screen.
The doorbell rings.
“Are you expecting anyone?” I ask.
“This is Maple Ridge. We don’t book appointments to see friends. We just show up.”
I walk down the hallway and open the front door, expecting to find one of Grams’s friends on the stoop.
I’m wrong. It’s my future husband.
It’s really happening.
It’s really happening.
It’s really happening.
We’re about to tell Grams that we’re engaged.
“Hi?” My voice squeaks like a hinge thirsty for WD-40.
The Lucas I know lives in worn jeans and plain T-shirts. This version is wearing a white dress shirt and black slacks. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone.
And damn, he’s hot. Hotter than hot.
I’ve worked in a world where business attire is the norm. The concept of men in suits isn’t new to me. But this is the first time seeing a man dressed this way has caused warm fluttery sensations in my stomach.
“Are those for Grams?” I point to the bouquet of dahlias in his hand, trying to ignore the impact he’s having on my body.
“No, they’re for you.” He hands me the assortment of pastel flowers. My favorites. “Do you still love dahlias?”
