15. Grady
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Grady
“That’s bullshit!” I blurt.
All eyes in the Seagrove Public Library magnetize to me, standing with Marigold in the checkout line. The two women in front of me, whose conversation I’ve just butted into, stare over their shoulders with their gossiping, hate-spewing eyes.
“You heard me,” I tell them. “And you’re jerks for talking like that.”
“Um, mind your own business,” one says ironically.
“Watch your filthy mouth, Grouchy Tripp, or I’ll have a word with Carmela,” says the other.
“You’re going to tattle on me?” I spit back. “Grow up.”
“Sir, quiet, please,” says the librarian at the counter.
“Grady, rules,” Marigold whispers, cowering with embarrassment beside me.
Another checkout opens, and the irritating gossipers flee to it. I scrub a hand over my face as if I can wipe their words away. But I only get angrier the more I think about it.
No one should talk about Marina that way.
It’s been two weeks since I’ve been by her place. Once her migraine subsided and after the awkward encounter with Cora, I reinstated my policy to limit my involvement. The last thing I want to do is make things harder for her with the Sullivans.
But we text often.
This morning, when asking for my usual update on her healing, she answered with an adorable picture of her cats, staring up wantonly at the camera.
We’re cat-tastic!
Her response, as cheesy as it was, made me laugh. I texted back with a similar picture of my three dogs begging for breakfast.
We’re dog-gone happy for you.
Not one of my best jokes, but she still responded with three laughing-with-tears emojis. Swapping pet pics has become a daily trend for us.
Two nights ago, I sent her a picture of an orangey sunset over the lake. The golds and reds mixed so beautifully that it reminded me of her hair. She has sunset hair—I decided. But I didn’t include words. Didn’t know what to say with it, anyway.
Still, she texted back: Oh, Grady. How lovely. I needed that.
Our short communication bursts are nothing compared to our delightful back-and-forths over the dumbest things. Recovering from surgery, stuck in bed or on the couch, I suspect she’s bored.
But I like the engagement. And it’s something I can do for her. Without getting in the way or upsetting Ashe the Ass. He’s home by now, hopefully groveling. I don’t know. I don’t ask.
Instead, she talks about her preference for British TV.
They’re real people, Grady. Not air-brushed or boob-jobbed to please American eyes. Plus, I love the accent. Can you do a British accent?
No. Can you?
Oh, yes. Cockney and the Queen’s English. I practice with the cats.
Of course, she does, I think, grinning. This prompted a phone call so I could hear her attempts. Between laughing my ass off, I assured her they were “passable.” They weren’t. Not even close.
When we returned to texting, I confessed my TV habits.
I watch National Geographic and Discovery. Nature shows. They put me to sleep like a grandfather in a recliner, but it’s how I relax.
If only your dogs could take pics of that, I’d bribe them for copies.
I’m not ashamed of my old-man-ness. I own it.
You’re not an old man. You’re a good man. You should own that, too.
Whenever our long conversations wane, I ask:
Need anything?
Often, the text ellipsis lingers and disappears and starts again, like she doesn’t know how to answer. Then, she comes up with something like:
Only world peace.
Only world domination.
Only for the cats to finally take over and win world domination.
A good night’s sleep (to dominate the world tomorrow).
I always end our talks with the same message:
Anytime for any reason still stands.
Now, in the library with Marigold, I’m livid that people are still talking about her. For my part, I’ve forbidden talk of Marina Strange at the clinic and family gatherings—I don’t want to hear it and don’t want it spread in my vicinity.
So, I’ve resumed what Mom calls my “full but empty life.” Dad’s farm and work keep me busy, though Luke and Gil have been helping out more since the accident. To lessen my workload at the clinic, I’ve tasked Aunt Elena with hiring more vet techs and securing an intern from NC State’s vet school over the summer.
But for now, I welcome the work. Otherwise, I’d have too much time to think. And those thoughts would inevitably be about her.
Is it weird to miss taking care of her when all I wanted was for her to recover and no longer need help?
We reach the counter. I set Marigold’s books down and nod to her. “Go on. Like we practiced.”
Her shoulders rise with a deep breath. But instead of saying the words we practiced, she slides the librarian a note like it’s a goddamn bank robbery.
He opens the full-page note and smiles warmly at Marigold. “Aw, what a gorgeous sketch of the library.”
“Read the fine print,” I huff, motioning to the asterisk at the bottom.
He leans into the page, squinting. Then, he laughs. “Ah, I see. This is my first late fee apology sketch.”
“It won’t happen again,” she says quietly.
“No worries.” He takes her card and eyes the computer. “Are you able to pay the… thirty-five cents?”
She nods, setting the prearranged coins on the counter.
He scans her new finds—books on cathedrals and castles to use as inspiration for her next comic book.
A brief smile makes it to her lips—the first I’ve seen since last week when she told me about her overdue books and admitted she couldn’t handle it alone. If not for me agreeing to take care of it with her, I think she never would’ve gone to the library again out of shame. Social interactions are excruciating for her.
For me, too, these days.
The bullshit-shoveling women pass behind us, eyeing me as they go. “Poor Carmela. The Wines and Spines girls’ll be astounded to hear about this.”
“Hey, tell ‘em I said to go fuck themselves,” I call after them.
“Grady, rules ,” Marigold tries again.
“Sorry,” I mutter to the librarian.
He shrugs, amused. “Maybe I should institute a swear jar, hmm?”
Marigold chuckles.
Marina’s voice rushes into my thoughts. Relax, Grady.
I’ve tried locking her out, but lately, she breaks in anyway. Sometimes, late in the day, if I’ve been called out for a farm emergency, I hear her. Relax, Grady. I respect those moments like she’s become my inner voice, telling me when to slow down. Set a new pace. Take a breath. Think of what I’ve done.
I drive Marigold to Rebellion, where she’s meeting Mom and Elena for lunch. This would normally be a drop-and-go situation. It’s the clinic’s Friday off, and taking care of Marigold’s library fees was the only family task I agreed to do. I have an afternoon of fishing and beer drinking at home planned. Hanging out with my easygoing bartending brother Luke wouldn’t be bad—he’s tied with Marty for requiring the least from me. But spending time with Mom and Elena doesn’t fit with my quest for relaxation.
Still, Marigold and I are both surprised when I park, shut off the engine, and follow her inside.
I hear them before I see them, their laughter filling the slow restaurant. Luke gives me a nod from behind the bar. We head toward the back corner booth. Rebellion’s rustic woods and high ceilings remind me of my cabin—dark, low-lighting, and currently untouched instruments in a nook near the back. Of course, those instruments get played most nights. My baby grand piano at home doesn’t.
“Grady?” Elena gapes. “Are you joining us?”
“Oh, say yes. We’d love to have you. You must stay,” Mom says.
“Calm down. Only for a minute.” I take the lone chair while Marigold slides into the arched booth next to Mom. “Are people saying that Marina’s relationship with Ashe was about money? Seriously? And what’s with the ‘was’?”
“Oh, so talking about Marnie Strange is back on the table?” Mom asks.
I huff.
“People are saying all sorts of things about Marnie,” Elena says. “You’d know if you hadn’t forbidden all mentions of Marnie or the Sullivans at the clinic.”
Mom’s eyes meet mine over her perched phone. “You haven’t embarrassed me, have you? The Wines and Spines group chat is lighting up suddenly.”
“Those women embarrassed themselves,” I correct. “Right, Marigold?”
“No comment,” she says, staring into her water glass.
I grunt and roll my eyes. So much for sisterly loyalty. “You shouldn’t associate with them, Mom. They’re small-minded, big-mouthed busybodies with no right to talk disparagingly of Marina.”
Mom and Elena share a glance and take simultaneous sips from their wine glasses like they’re engrossed in a tantalizing reality show.
“So, you thought it’d be a good idea to give them something else to talk about?” Mom questions, motioning to her phone.
“Better me than her. I said a few choice words. That’s all,” I say, running a hand over my head.
“I don’t like you cussing,” Mom says. “The rule is that adults shouldn’t cuss.”
“That rule is for other people,” Marigold corrects, pulling her sketchbook out of her bag.
I smirk while Mom cocks her head and brow at me. “Mom, spreading lies about people is worse than dropping the f-bomb.”
She gasps, hand to chest. “You dropped the f-bomb?”
“Let’s focus on what’s important here,” Elena says. “Grady, it’s a small town. People talk. And the drama between Marnie and the Sullivans is better than a soap opera.”
“What fu—freaking drama?”
Luke moseys over with Marigold’s usual lemonade and a beer for me. He folds his tatted arms over his broad chest, looking tough, like a club bouncer. “Everything alright over here?”
“Your brother is astounded to learn that this town gossips,” Elena chuckles.
Luke scoffs. “They call you a hermit for good reason. Maybe you should come out of hiding every once in a while?”
“Look, I don’t care that people gossip, just that they’re lying about Marina. She doesn’t deserve it,” I say.
“Town sweetheart to Seagrove’s worst gold-digger in a month’s time,” Luke says with authority. “I agree. People are being harsh. Willow saw her at Seagrove Funeral Home—she was there for her grandfather’s arrangements.”
Mom and Elena simultaneously go, “How’s she doing?”
“She’s fine, thanks. The arrangements are made. She saw Marnie and told me she’s never seen a darker aura.”
“Why was Marina at the funeral home?” I gawk, my confusion thick.
Mom rolls her eyes. “She works there now.”
“Do you really not know anything that’s been going on?” Elena gawks.
“I text Marina every day. She hasn’t told me anything,” I say. But even as the words come out, I know she’s not the type to complain, and certainly not to me. My respect for Marina grows. Keeping troubles private is something I completely understand and admire—more people should do it.
But it also reminds me that she and I are still strangers. Holding her hand when there was no one else to do it is one thing. Letting me into her life is another. I get it. But I don’t like it.
Mom and Elena share a look before Mom explains, “Ashe and Marnie broke up. Rumor has it, Cora did it. Can you believe it? Marnie no longer works at Sunny’s. People say she was fired, but the Sullivans claim it was an amicable restructuring. Now, Marnie works for Liam, Wes’s brother, over at the funeral home.”
“Wait, she’s back at work? It’s too soon.” Everyone looks at me like I’ve just woken up from a coma. “The doctor said six weeks.”
“Marnie didn’t listen,” Mom says. “She hasn’t asked for any refills on her pain meds, either.”
“So, the rumor about her pill-popping addiction can be ruled out,” Elena notes.
I hate this. Everything about it makes me groan.
“Wait, did you say a funeral home?” I grunt. “Marina?”
“I know, right?” Elena grimaces. “Doesn’t suit Marnie.”
Damn right, it doesn’t. Not only that, it’s a fucking insult.
Luke takes their orders. Mom and Elena scrutinize me over their refilled wine glasses.
“Grady, what’s happened isn’t your fault,” Mom says, pointlessly.
“The Sullivans are awful,” Elena adds. “We already know that. Now, Marnie knows it, too.”
“She’s lost everything because of me.” Pissed, sad, and guilty, I push up from the table.
“No, Grady, don’t go yet,” Mom says. “Hang out with us. It’s your day off.”
“I have to go.”
“Well, be at the house tomorrow for game night, at least,” she presses, “and bring some chips.”
“I don’t do game night,” I say.
In the truck, I grip the steering wheel and twist the leather. No, Grady. Don’t do it. Don’t. Don’t get involved. She doesn’t want or need me. Otherwise, she would’ve mentioned her life turning into absolute shit.
I start the engine, determined to go home and enact my afternoon plans. Me. The dogs. Fishing.
But then, I hear, “Come away with me, and I’ll never stop loving you,” filling the cab of my truck, the haunting music of Norah Jones—sweet, buttery, soft, and mesmerizing.
And I think of Marina—sweet, buttery, soft, mesmerizing.
Goddamnit!