12. Grady
CHAPTER TWELVE
Grady
Marina looks genuinely surprised to see me at her door at 7:30 the next morning. It is early, but I wanted to check in before the clinic opens at 8:00.
“Tripp Grady Tripp,” she says, her voice weak and her eyes squinting. “Aren’t you an early bird?”
“What’s wrong?”
Her delicate fingers wave me off as she leans against the doorjamb. “Headache. That’s all. Didn’t sleep much.”
“Pain level?”
She sighs, rubbing her temples. “With the headache, I’d say eight. I’ve taken my pills.”
“Did you eat?”
She shakes her head, but the action pains her. “Too nauseous to eat.”
“When did the headache start?”
“I don’t know. Around midnight. It’s been worse than the rest, if you can believe it.”
“This is an example of you being too nice. You should’ve called me.”
She blanches at my tone. “Why? What would you have done? It’s a headache.”
I edge by her, bringing us both inside. I rest my palm against her forehead, but my hands are too cold to tell if she has a fever.
“I checked. It’s normal,” she says.
Of course, she’s checked, Grady. She’s an adult with common sense. Try not to be condescending.
I take her wrist between my fingers and eye my watch. Her heart rate is elevated but not racing.
“Any unusual swelling or heat around your wound sites?”
“I think it looks normal.”
“Want me to look? I’m a doctor.”
She hesitates in a mental debate that ends with a simple nod. She lifts her pajama top, but unable to see her wounds clearly, I drop to my knees and slowly tug her loose-fitting pants down to her hip line just over her panties. Goosebumps appear under my fingers as I touch her.
“Cold hands. Sorry.”
She smirks, her eyes squinted. “It’s okay.”
Her pale, freckled skin is patched by internal stitches, pinching her skin together. Scabs reveal typical healing—no redness or inflammation.
The bruise on her side brings a “Fucking hell” out of me. I edge to her left, ogling the enormous contusion.
“Giant Jelly,” she breathes out. “Told you.”
It looks as if she received a terrible tattoo—all blacks and blues, stringing down her hip from a large round knob that starts under her left arm. Touching it causes more goosebumps, but I run my fingers over it anyway to test the temperature and swelling. Again, nothing stands out except how painful it looks.
Her hands fall to my shoulders, bracing herself like she can’t stand this long. I hold her at her hips for extra support, and she doesn’t mind my grip, the way she presses into me.
“Have you been icing this?”
“Yep, every three hours or so.”
I ease her clothes back to their appropriate places as tenderly as I can.
“Thanks, doc. But sometimes a headache is just a headache,” she says, looking woozy.
In her dizziness, she leans toward me. I gently scoop her into my arms as I stand.
She gasps, wrapping her arms weakly around my shoulders and muttering, “Grady.”
“Everything’s okay, but here’s what’s going to happen,” I say, edging her through the hallway. “I’m going to take care of you. You’re going to let me. We’ll get through this together. No arguments.”
Her head falls to my chest, forgoing any further discussion.
I lay her gently onto her unmade bed, careful of her left side. Her red hair flays out behind her against the white pillowcase, reminding me of that day when her head was against the concrete. All her pain is my fault. My responsibility. My doing. And just like that day, I can’t leave her.
I wouldn’t want to, anyway. Even if I hadn’t caused this. Something about her shatters my rule about not getting involved. I want to be here.
After tucking her in, I return to the living room and do what I never do. I call in sick to the clinic—baffling Aunt Elena.
My second call is to the hospital unit, and luckily, Ivy answers the phone. Once I have the necessary information, I check Marina’s medicine log—she’s up-to-date on everything. Then, I grab the ice pack and return to Marina.
She’s in the same pained heap that I left her in. I draw the curtains to make the room darker, kick off my shoes, and climb into bed beside her. I wrestle her pillow into my lap with her on it and gently apply the ice pack.
She gasps at the cold shock but soon smiles and sighs as the numbing relief hits her.
“It’s a migraine,” I say softly. “It may be a side effect of the anesthesia. It happens. Ivy will speak to your surgeon and ask her to prescribe a migraine medication for you. Once it’s called in and ready, Mom will drop it off. Then, we’ll balance that with your pain pills.”
“Oh, never had a migraine before.”
“Yeah, they suck.” I slip my fingers under the cold icepack, gently massaging her temples.
Her crinkled brow releases immediately, and the tension in her shoulders deflates.
“Grady, thank you.”
Her genuineness catches me off guard. I hear thank you’s all the time, quick responses to me taking care of a pet or solving a cattle problem. Mom rattles off thank you’s as often as please’s, especially when her tasks get done. Even Marigold says it easily now—a social expectation she’s learned well. Thank you’s drop into my don’t-care file along with a dictionary of words that are nice, but don’t mean much.
Marina is a thank-you-type person, but I feel warmed by her gratitude for such simple things as a phone call and an ice pack—warmed by her generally.
There’s a delicate strength to her that shines through her beauty. It makes me think of my grandmother’s heavy crystal dishes that Mom pulls out for Thanksgiving. How the cut glass reflects the candlelight. Soft and strong together.
Mom’s words come to mind, how Marnie would haggle for her mom’s pills at fifteen. There’s no mom here now, fussing over her like mine would, no buzz of her phone, asking if she’s okay, no nothing. Hell, she couldn’t even reach out to one person to pick her up from the hospital.
She’s lived in this town since she was a teenager. Where the fuck are her friends, at least?
Marina, how the hell are you so alone?
If she were a recluse or an asshole, I’d get it. I’m the asshole who tries to be a recluse, and it doesn’t work out most of the time; avoiding people is hard work. But she’s friendly, outgoing, beautiful, even interesting. She’s the type who’d befriend anyone. But no one’s here for her.
Marina’s existence comes into focus as I rub her head. She’s a fucking golden retriever, friendly and happy-go-lucky, almost to a fault, always smiling. But without a family. Close connections aren’t inherent for her. She exists in the background of other people’s lives at Sunny’s. She might as well be a mascot—everyone’s happy to see her, but no one takes her home.
I don’t get why. She is beautifully easy to be with, even for me. Or maybe the easiness is just us. We’re trauma-bonded. Connected. She must feel it, too—I wouldn’t be in her bed otherwise. She falls asleep, her rhythmic breathing lulling me.
I didn’t sleep much last night either, plagued by Marina-nightmares. They were just a manifestation of my anxiety over her healing, but those dreams rattled me. In the worst one, pieces of her were scattered all over the road, and I tried desperately to put her back together again. A finger here. A freckle there. I remember finding her smile and thinking, how can she still smile? I gathered all the pieces but couldn’t hold them together.
Relax, Grady. A deep breath centers me as I lean against her headboard.
The world will slow down if you let it. If you stop setting the pace. Aunt Elena’s words circle with Marina’s, loosening my tension.
She’s here. She’s sleeping. She’s okay. I run my hand over her forehead and through her hair. The world gets quiet.
A dreamless sleep swallows me up.
Knocking wakes me. Soft, at first. Then, harder.
Marina sleeps soundly, nestled to me, her arms locked around my midsection like I’m a body pillow.
I’m strangely okay with that.
The knocking persists. It must be Mom with the migraine medications. Gently, I shift out from under her, untangling us, though I don’t want to. She doesn’t wake.
I swing the front door open mid-loud pounding.
Cora Sullivan. In full business-formal. Carrying an absurdly large gift basket wrapped in cellophane.
Her practiced smile drops at the sight of me. She practically seethes. “Why are you here? Where’s Marnie?”
“In bed. Asleep,” I whisper. “I’d like to keep it that way. She’s had a rough night.”
She scoffs, pushing the basket into my arms and bulldozing her way inside. “You’ve been here all night ?”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t be here at all,” she barks, not even trying to be quiet.
“Someone had to be,” I say.
“And she called you ?”
“No. My involvement is purely coincidental. Not that it matters. She needed help, and I offered. She’s in a lot of pain, she barely slept, and she’s suffering from a migraine because of the anesthesia. So, please, keep your voice down.”
Her eyes narrow, but her furrowed brow softens somewhat. “Well, I’m here now. You can go.”
“Not a chance.”
She gawks—she’s not used to being told no, but I’m happy to do it, for Marina’s sake.
Though it’s my first clash with Cora Sullivan, she’s never liked the Tripps. She grossly overcharges for Dad’s dairy products, something they debate often. She bickers with Mom over charity fundraisers at church. At one of Marigold’s art shows, I heard Cora call her work “pedestrian.” A deep-seated hate or general snobbiness? I don’t know. All I know is that it comes out around certain people.
People she doesn’t need or want things from. Like us Tripps.
For the rest of Seagrove’s population, her sophistication and determination draw people in like flies to a bug zapper. She’s an anomaly for a town like this. Many people in Seagrove have money, but Cora wears her wealth in her attitude, clothes, everything, and she’s always snubbed her nose at our blue-jeans and dirty-boots family.
I take her basket of gourmet cheeses, crackers, and fully cooked snacking meats to the kitchen. The gift might as well be a salt lick—fine for horses, but not okay for someone recovering from surgery. The salt content alone would kick natural anxiety into a panicked frenzy—another thing I learned from Dad after his surgery. Not that I’ll bother explaining that to Cora.
She drops her expensive bag and keys on the coffee table, eyeing me. “Inserting yourself into her life won’t spare you a lawsuit.”
“I don’t care about that. Just her.” My arms fold over my chest, and her brow cocks over the sight of my tattoos. “How’s Ashe? Did he land in Jamaica okay?”
“He’s distraught over Marnie. He wouldn’t be too happy about this intrusion, that’s for sure.”
Her words almost sound like a threat. “Anyone who loves Marina would want her to feel better. That’s all I’m trying to do. If Ashe has a problem with that, then he should bring his ass home.”
Her eyes narrow. “There’s that Tripp family arrogance. You’ve got some nerve, lecturing me. Marnie wouldn’t be in this condition if not for you. Haven’t you done enough damage?”
Her voice catches with emotion, hooking my guilt and reeling it in. The pain I’ve caused Marina affects her, too—maybe it is arrogant, engaging her like this when I’m the one at fault.
“I’m sorry about what happened and the pain I’ve caused your family,” I say, clearing my throat, “but that’s why I need to be here for her.”
Another pound rattles the door just as Marina edges around the hallway corner. “What’s going on?”
She carries the lukewarm ice pack in one hand and her cane in the other. Her pajamas practically swallow her up, and her pained expression and pallid color tell me that her migraine is still there.
Cora goes to her, cooing and gushing with, “Aw, Marnie” and “You poor thing.”
I get the door, where I’m greeted by a flower bouquet that completely blocks the delivery person behind it. A heavy floral scent hits me. I sign for the flowers and move them inside.
Marina lets a weak, “Aw” escape while Cora grabs the card.
“They’re from Ashe,” she beams. “ Thinking about you every second. All my love, Ashe. ”
I roll my eyes. The oversized bouquet is incredibly fragrant and takes up most of the kitchen table, except there’s enough room for Hershey to perch and nibble at the leaves. White lilies feature in the arrangement, which are highly toxic to cats. I rush in, gently easing him off the table and debating putting Ashe’s gift on the porch.
“That’s sweet,” Marina manages with watery eyes. She brings a trembling hand to her mouth like she might be sick.
“Marnie, honey, it’s inappropriate for him to be here.” Cora flicks a red fingernail at me. “Is he the reason you left the hospital early?”
“No. Grady showed up to visit and gave me a ride home,” Marina explains. “Perfect timing.”
Cora’s arms fold over her olive green suit jacket and silky blouse. “It’s the least he can do, considering the damage he’s done.”
“Grady’s protective,” Marina says in a strained defense—a word that catches me off guard. “He saved me, remember?”
Cora’s hard-nosed expression melts. Slightly. “You’re right, Marnie. Forgive me for any undue stress. I’m also feeling protective of you, sweet girl.”
Marina smiles weakly, still rubbing her head.
A light knock brings my attention to the door again. It’s Mom and Elena, arms loaded with things and faces donning sly smiles.
“Prescription delivery!” Mom coos.
“And homemade chicken soup,” Elena chimes in.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I ask.
She smirks. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work? It’s the first time you’ve ever called in. I had to come. I had to.”
Her full cheeks widen into a very auntish grin, like she knows a secret. Aunt Elena is a fifty-five-year-old powerhouse—a happy side effect of growing up in a household with my grandfather, Dad, and Uncle Wade in a constant battle. Now, she runs my vet practice with a beloved ringmaster’s personality and a neurosurgeon’s precision.
She’s also a good person who refuses to let bullshit get her down—a feature I respect and wish I had myself. When Granddad died, he left Tripp Family Farm to Dad, the eldest. To Wade, he left half ownership of a twenty-home mobile home park called The Marshes and a convenience store, The G&G. Grandpa left my brothers and me equal shares of fifty percent of the property to keep Wade responsible. The property borders a swamp, vastly different from the rest of the Tripp land, though it’s all beautiful. Sharing ownership with us solidified the endless family feud between the brothers.
Wade believes Dad talked their father into the division. Dad denies it. That’s the bullshit history.
But Aunt Elena doesn’t let that history get to her, though she has the best reason—Granddad left her out of the will completely. “She’s married, and she’s got brothers to take care of her,” is how he explained it, going old-school misogynistic. I’ve since given her shares of the vet clinic to counter my grandfather and prove that shit isn’t tolerated anymore.
My aunt stares me down with urging eyes. “Going to invite us in, Grady?”
They push inside before I can answer. It’s suddenly turned into a chaotic and overwhelming madhouse in here.
Mom goes directly to Marina, relieving her of the warm ice pack. “Oh, honey. You look wretched. That migraine must be hitting you hard, huh?”
Elena goes to the kitchen, delivering her food offerings to the cluttered counter. “Cora, a pleasure to see you. Ah, what gorgeous flowers. Boy, do they smell.”
“They’re from Ashe,” Cora says, looking rather bamboozled by the Tripp invasion.
Hershey jumps up on the table again, going for the leaves. Elena coaxes him away.
“How’s Ashe?” Mom asks in her sweetest, softest voice.
“Thanks for coming,” Marina says weakly, her hand going to her mouth again. “Please, make yourselves at home.”
“No. Don’t. This isn’t a good time for a social call.” I grab the bouquet and haul it through the living room. “These flowers are toxic to cats.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’re fine,” Cora huffs.
I dump them onto a rocking chair on the front porch.
Returning inside, I notice Marina gripping the wall and her cane like they’re the only things holding her up. I get a glass and fill it with water. Then, I find the migraine meds amid their offerings. I read the instructions.
“Um, it’s so nice to see you all,” Marina tries again. Her cane falls as her hand goes to her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
She rushes, as best she can, toward the bathroom.
“Migraines are the worst,” Elena chirps.
“So debilitating,” Mom agrees.
“I’ve got her.” I step through the group, determined to help Marina. But as I pass through Cora’s heavy perfume, I stop, remembering what she said about how I shouldn’t be here.
I offer her the glass of water, and the pill pinched between my fingers. “Unless you’d prefer to go to her, Cora.”
She hesitates, her dark eyes narrowing. “I’m needed at the store.”
“Some fucking family you are.” Shaking my head, I push by her. “Thanks, Mom and Elena, but you can all see yourselves out.”