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“So we need to end with...?”
“Dollars?”
“Right, dollars on top at the end.” He continues to coach me through every step, refusing to give me the answers while helping me discover that I already sort of know them.
He leans in, looking over my shoulder to make sure I set the calculations up right, and I can smell his shampoo or aftershave or something, and I’d really like to know if it’s coming from his hair or his neck. I breathe deeply, considering. That smell is making it exceptionally difficult to identify the numbers on my calculator, so I inch away, and then he does too.
“I get...” I finish punching in the numbers and hit the equal sign. “Fifty dollars. Is that right?”
“Yes,” he says, moving even farther away and taking that delicious smell with him. I’m expecting some kudos, but if anything, he looks annoyed. “Let’s go back to your assignment now and see if it’s any easier.”
It is, and I’m almost disappointed.
Chapter 18
No Place Like Home
Wednesday morning I step throughthe door of my childhood home and into nose heaven. Closing my eyes, I savor the warm scents and try to identify which pies Mom has finished baking. Definitely pumpkin, possibly berry. If she’s done the apple, I can’t detect it.
“Lou!” A voice debating between child- and manhood gives me a split-second warning before little Zach nearly bowls me over as I try to set my things on the floor. My twelve-year-old brother isn’t so little anymore, his dark head no longer fitting neatly under my chin.
“Good grief, Zach! What has Mom been feeding you?” I say, squeezing him back. “You’re not supposed to grow up while I’m away!”
“He eats everything in sight,” Dad says, stepping out of his den and enveloping us both in a huge bear hug before Zach can escape. “How was your drive?”
“Uneventful,” I say.
“Best kind,” he says.
The ninety-minute drive from Oak Hills into the western slope of the Rockies where my parents live can turn ugly in a blink in late November. Thankfully, today’s roads were dry and clear.
Dad motions with his chin for Zach to take my bags to my room and keeps one arm around my shoulders as we move to the kitchen.
Mom is up to her elbows in flour and pie crust, the oblique sunlight highlighting a few gray streaks in her dark hair. “There’s my Gracie Lou!” she says, setting down her rolling pin and brushing her hands off on her apron before hugging me around the waist. I put my arms around her and soak up the comforting smells of home, marveling anew at how small she is. “We’ve missed you! Are you hungry? Y’all come and sit at the bar and talk to me while I finish up this crust.” Her accent always thickens when she’s baking. I guess it reminds her of her own childhood in North Carolina, though she’s lived in the West since she was eighteen.
“Any leftovers?” I ask.
“Shepherd’s pie, middle shelf,” Mom says, pointing with a flour-coated finger.
“I’ll be in the den,” Dad says with a squeeze of my shoulder.
“Where’s Kaden?” I ask Mom as I dish out a hearty portion of shepherd’s pie and stick it in the microwave.
“Playin’ ball down at his friend’s church,” she says, settling back into her crust.
“I thought there was a moratorium on holidays.”
“Oh, there is. That only means they can’t go to the school or have the coach there. Nothin’ to stop them from playin’.”
I stare into the microwave as the seconds tick by.Are they really playing ball? Who is he with?Round and round goes my plate, along with my thoughts. I open the door and stick a finger in the middle, then add another minute. Round and round.
Mom’s rolling pin stops. “He’s fine, Gracie. They’re good boys.”
That’s what I thought about Benson.
The timer runs to zero, and I nearly burn my fingers on the hot plate as I hurry it to the bar. I fetch salt and pepper, seat myself, and take great interest in achieving a symmetrical spread of seasoning. But I’m not sure I have an appetite anymore.
“Gracie.”
