Gram didn’t leave for lunch, he’d walk to work or drive the pickup. She’d finally reached the age that she had trouble climbing into the old Ford. If Connor had his choice, he’d walk everywhere, but the pickup was for hauling and the Audi was for Gram, so he owned two vehicles he didn’t really want.
When he wandered back to Main, he took the creek route. He liked stomping through tall grass. Getting his boots muddy. Enjoying the escape. The World War II battle he’d been writing about danced in his mind as he worked off a few calories from the three-enchilada plate he’d finished off at Lennie’s Tacos and More.
He thought of telling Jillian about how much he loved the wild nature park that ran though town, but he figured she’d just lump him in with Joe—another crazy person in the stop-off town for her. So he went back to his office and tried to concentrate on work.
After four hours of struggling with paperwork on several small farms the family business leased out, he closed the office. If he increased the rent, the farmers would suffer. If he didn’t, taxes would eat him alive. Somehow in the past fifteen years since he took over the Larady family books, he’d managed to keep the balance relatively even, but that wouldn’t be possible in the future.
At five, he ignored the chill in the air and darted across the street with a biography of Patton under his arm and an empty coffee cup in hand.
Jillian laughed when he walked in. “It’s too late for a refill; I’ve washed the pot.”
“Too bad. I could use another cup.” He walked past her, set the cup in the kitchen sink and returned. “Is Gram about ready? The Autumn Acres bus will be here soon.”
“Of course I’m ready, Danny, it’s closing time.” Gram stepped from the office.
He met Jillian’s glance and shook his head slightly, silently telling her not to mention that Gram had called him by his father’s name. “She does that sometimes,” he whispered when Gram was busy turning the sign over for the night. “It doesn’t matter.”
Connor didn’t miss the understanding in those blue-gray eyes. There was a wisdom there, as well. A knowledge of living many lives, maybe, or simply the loneliness of living one.
Jillian helped Gram with her coat. “Paulina came in for a few more purple fat quarters for that new quilt. She told us that tonight, after dinner, the high school choir is putting on a ’50s songs concert at the Acres. She wanted to make sure Gram would be there.”
Gram nodded. “And we’ve got good seats. I told Joe that if he wanted a seat in the front row with us, he’d better manage to show up on time.”
“Whose date is he for the night, yours or Paulina’s?”
She huffed. “Mine, I guess. Paulina has been swearing since she was twelve that she’d never date. How she ever managed to marry three times is beyond me. Come to think of it, I’d best sit between them just in case lightning strikes again. Joe’s old heart probably couldn’t take it.”
Connor smiled as he walked Gram to the bus. He loved the way her mind always wandered into a story. Bending, he kissed her check. “I love you, Gram.”
“I love you, too, Connor.”
She’d remembered his name. It was a good day.
When he turned back to the store, he noticed Jillian was locking the door.
“Ready?” she asked as she turned to face him.
“Ready,” he answered, thinking he’d been waiting all day for these few minutes they shared. He offered his arm as if they were in an old black-and-white movie.
Hesitantly, Jillian placed her hand around his elbow and began to tell him all the details of Joe’s dream of being a Toe Tent king. The old guy swore his ideas came to him while he was daydreaming about camping.
Connor listened, but mostly he just enjoyed the walk. He liked the easy way their steps matched and how her words never seemed in a hurry, like some folks talk as if rushing the clock. In a few more days it would be March and almost time for spring. Then, maybe, if she was still around, they’d slow their pace.
The air had stilled and the evening glowed in sunset’s last light. The smells of winter drifted near: wood fireplaces, the last scent of dying sagebrush. This was his favorite time of year. Spring might be for dreaming, but winter was for reflecting.
“I was afraid you’d be staying late tonight,” he said as they walked through leaves rushing nowhere in the wake of each passing car.
“Why? Did you think I needed to? The work still seems overwhelming.”
“No. I’m glad you didn’t put in longer hours tonight. Too great a time to walk. But if you’d like to come in on a Saturday morning or Sunday afternoon, I could offer to help.”
“That would be great. I could move twice as fast with photographing if I had help with the layout.”
“You’ve got a nice camera.”
She nodded. “I bought it a few years back when I was a Realtor’s assistant, and I found I couldn’t leave it behind when I moved on. I never seem to get pictures developed though, just store them on my laptop and keep on taking more.”
He grinned. She’d finally told him something personal.
When they reached the gate of the bed-and-breakfast, she broke the comfortable silence that had drifted between them for a few minutes. “I’ve been talking too much.” She hesitated. “If you want to come in, Mrs. Kelly always leaves cookies out in the parlor.”
Connor was too surprised by the invitation to answer.
Her words quickly filled the silence. “I’ve been waiting all day to hear how you like my latest articles. It might just be for the community blog, but I’m thrilled about writing something others will read.”
“Oh, of course.” He felt like a fool for even thinking she’d invite him in for some other reason. She hadn’t even hinted at flirting with him. “I’d love to talk about them, and cookies are one thing I never say no to. But you’ll have to promise to cut me off after two.”
He followed her to the parlor. He’d been in the old home a dozen times, but it never seemed as inviting as it did tonight. Low flames in the fireplace. The smell of gingerbread drifting from the kitchen. Jillian removing her coat as if settling in for a chat.
She made him a cup of hot cocoa to go with the cookies and they talked about her writing.
“I’d like to submit a few to one of the big papers in the state.” Connor was comfortable talking business. “Who knows, someone might pick them up. If they did, they’d pay far more than the twenty dollars I can afford.”
“You really think someone would want them?”
“Sure. I loved the story of the Orlando quilt I read this afternoon. A girl driving cross-country every year to visit her grandparents and seeing all the sights through a child’s eyes. Then, as an adult, she quilted from her memory. I loved the picture of her Yellowstone block with the bear as tall as Old Faithful.
“And, Jillian, you’ve got the pictures to go with each story. I’d think that would be a real selling point in a human interest piece.”
She laughed with excitement, and the sound made him smile.
When he reached for his fifth cookie, her hand covered his. “I have to cut you off, Connor, I promised. You still have to walk home. Any more cookies and you’ll have to roll.”
He turned his hand over and held her fingers. “Thanks. I have no restraint.”
Standing, he drew her up with him. “Okay if I send the articles? I think you’ve got a chance of making some money. Plus, if one of the big papers does pick it up, the articles might draw people to the county museum to see the quilts.”
“You think I might make as much as Toe Tents?”