Chapter 2
Chapter two
Greyson
Grabbing the blueberry bubble tea I’d picked up for Paisley at Bean There, Done That Café on my way, I let Rosie Cotton out of the back seat and snapped on her leash.
She had separation anxiety issues, so she came to work with me most days, watching us from her bed in the corner.
All the guys loved her, considering her the official shop mascot.
Rosie trotted alongside me, tail wagging as I strode up the sidewalk.
A gunshot cracked through the languid afternoon, and I flinched, knuckles white around Rosie’s leash. Heat baked my skin, and I swore I felt sand pelting my face. Not a gun. Not Afghanistan. Just Mrs. Gulliver.
The old clunker, a Mustang predating the Vietnam War, was in immaculate condition. Rosie nudged my hand, her brown eyes wide with concern.
“I’m okay, girl.” I scratched her affectionately. My PTSD responses and nightmares had lessened substantially in the last year, but even after four years out of the military, there were some things I still couldn’t shake.
Mrs. Gulliver rumbled past, and I tossed her a polite wave before I continued up the sidewalk.
From here, I could see Paisley ensconced on the ladder in front of the big picture window, working on a chalk painting.
Summer was officially here, and Serenity Springs took its tourism seriously.
By the time we hit full busy season in a few weeks, every main business in town would be sporting Paisley’s art on their windows.
The town loved her. Just not as much as I did.
A couple of teens perched on the bike rack, watching her work, and from the snatches of conversation I caught, they were in the throes of a literary discussion on the summer-reading list.
“I can’t make you read anything,” Paisley said, shoving her glasses up her nose and pausing to examine her work. “But I can promise you reading a bit of Tolkien, Sutcliff, Dickens, Fitzgerald, Christie, and Dostoevsky will make you a more well-rounded individual.”
“And if I want to be a square individual, Ms. Paisley?” Hayes, one of the guys, joked.
Paisley laughed, and I loved the sound. It was light and airy, warming my heart. When I first met her, that sound was a rarity. Coaxing it out of her had become my main goal during the year and a half we dated. Now here we were almost four years married, and it was still my favourite sound.
“Squares have their uses too,” she conceded, resuming her painting. Broad strokes followed by smaller ones. The lighthouse she’d drawn was beautiful with the added words: Guiding You to Your Next Adventure. “But if you want to grow this summer, that’s the list of recommendations.”
“Do you have any, like, modern books on here?” Jessie, the blonde with purple highlights, asked, popping a bubble with her gum.
“Of course. Contemporary works are just as important as the classics.” Paisley shifted on the ladder in her excitement.
I paused just out of her sight line to watch her eyes brighten. This was an argument I’d heard discussed many times. She might love the classics, but she had no patience for snobbery. And I loved her mind.
“All the classics were once contemporary literature of their day. And just because something was written a hundred years ago doesn’t make it instantly more valuable than something written today.
” Paisley waved her hand. “There’s value in stories.
Some contemporary books do a better job showcasing that than the classics. ”
“Anything is better than Moby Dick,” Hayes muttered.
Paisley chuckled. “I’m not fond of Melville myself.”
Neither was I. But I loved the fire in her eyes when I played devil’s advocate and we bantered about it. She came alive when she was talking about books. Hence my notes on her reading-list suggestions. Anything to see that animated sparkle.
Turning serious, she added, “What’s important is the pursuit of excellence—creating words that enhance the world, make it better. That—AHHHHHH!”
Her shoe slipped on the rung due to her rapid hand gestures, throwing her off-balance.
My blood ran cold at the shrill shriek, and a horror movie played out before my eyes. “Paisley!” I bellowed, dropping the bubble tea and Rosie’s leash, and pelted towards her.
I could make it. I would make it.
But it was too late.
It was always too late.
Paisley’s willowy frame contorted, her hands grasping for purchase, getting nothing but air.
Her head smacked the metal pipe snaking down the brick wall.
The force pitched her into the flower bed of azaleas below.
Blood erupted onto the concrete. The teens screamed, rushing towards her.
Rosie’s sharp barks added another layer of noise to the fray.
I elbowed through them. “Call an ambulance. Now!” I roared, then touched Paisley’s face. It was too still. Too white. She’d always been pale, but never this pale. “Pais.”
Nothing.
My training kicked in, and I worked my hands over her limbs in a quick examination.
Nothing seemed broken, but I knew enough about ladder injuries to know spinal or internal injuries were common.
I didn’t move her but hunched around her body, pressing my flannel overshirt against her temple.
Head wounds were geysers, and there was blood everywhere.
Please, God. Please. Don’t take her. Please, don’t take her.
The next thing I was aware of was my oldest brother Dallas’s voice. “Grey, the paramedics are here. You need to let her go. We’ve got her.”
Then she was out of my arms. And I watched the paramedics load my entire world into the ambulance.