Chapter Six
Anthony
My aunt is part bloodhound. Has to be. She doesn’t stop until she gets whatever she’s been tracking. Today’s mission (besides driving her nephew out of his mind): get me to church.
It takes a very stubborn person to make this woman abort her mission.
I’m very stubborn.
“If you meet your maker today, and things don’t go well, don’t come crying to me!” Her fingers are wagging in my face.
I almost take the bait with a sarcastic comeback. But my only goal is to diffuse the situation so she’ll get off the porch and give me some peace and quiet.
It’s been a long week. I’ve gone to the nursing home first thing in the morning every day. My mom was always a morning person, and I haven’t been disappointed. She’s her most alert and responsive self when I get there before eight o’clock. When I return in the late afternoon, she’s usually sleeping.
So far, she has begun to swallow without difficulty and can blink. Half of her face has regained feeling, and she’s receiving therapy daily. I might be out of here at the three-week mark as I originally hoped. Sooner would be better, if Doris won’t get off my case.
“I promise to go next week,” I blurt. She gives a satisfied smirk that tells me she’ll hold me to my word. At last she vanishes, and I sink back in the wicker chair that has become my office. Since when do I blabber things I don’t mean? What is this place doing to me?
“I saw that,” a quiet voice says, and the breath leaves my lungs. I know that voice. It’s the sunshine in my every day.
It’s Lottie.
“Where did you come from?” I’m grunting again. Why do I revert to caveman communication whenever she graces me with her lovely presence?
“I heard Doris yelling and thought I’d make sure she was alright.”
“Gee, thanks. Did you ever think I might be the victim?”
Only then do I notice the playful glint in her eyes. Those gorgeous eyes. I could look into them all day long.
I flex my hand and drag my gaze away. If anyone had told me I’d find myself entirely too interested in the simple life of an Iowa woman in my short time here, I would have laughed. But there’s something about Lottie. Something refreshing. Wholesome. Something that calls to me in a way no other woman ever has before.
I can’t explain it, not even to myself. I only know it terrifies me. And yet I look forward to seeing her every day, even for those few precious moments when she drops off her sweet daughter and picks her back up.
“Why don’t you want to go to church?”
Not her, too!
I shrug and start pecking away at my laptop. I’m not even writing words. Just trying to make myself look busy.
“You don’t have to go with Doris. Red Rock Place is home to three churches. Take your pick. What church do you attend in Atlanta?”
I spare her a glance. This document is going to need a lot of backspacing. “I don’t go to any church in Atlanta.”
There’s a beat of silence. “This explains some things.”
That earns her a glare. And she giggles. Giggles! I’ve always shied away from giggly women. But that soft sound from Lottie is like the welcome gurgle of a freshwater spring.
“Oh, come on, Suits.” She pushes the lid of my laptop down before I can stop her. “Everyone in Red Rock Place goes to church.”
“Everyone?” This I find hard to believe.
“Everyone with a beating heart!”
My lips curl in a sneer. “Maybe my heart’s broken.”
Her eyes roll toward the porch ceiling. “Spare me the drama. I don’t got time for this show. Fel is in the truck waiting, and it’s not exactly a cool day, if you hadn’t noticed.”
I had, in fact. I’m used to sticky summers in Atlanta, but Iowa can compete. And I work on a porch.
“I’m not holding you up.” I reach for my computer, only to have her snatch it, holding it over her head. “I’m taller than you, you know. If I want my computer back, I’ll get it.”
She cocks her head, looking at me. This is the first time I’ve seen her without jeans. She’s in pink slacks and a flowy white blouse. Does she own any dresses?
My mouth goes dry at the thought of her in a dress.
“How tall are you?” she asks, and I hope my thoughts aren’t written on my face.
“Five-six.” I spit the words out as my dignity shrinks. “Tom Cruise is five-seven, and he’s a celebrity.”
Her cheeks puff like she’s holding in a big laugh. “Your point?”
What is my point?
“I wasn’t knocking your height,” she says. “I’m the runt of my litter. You’re tall to me.”
Blessed words to my ears.
“Now, are you coming or what? It’s not like you need to change.” I don’t know why I keep dressing each day as if I’m going into the office. I suppose it puts me in the work mindset. Or maybe because I don’t own any casual clothes. “You look the part every day. Might as well put that formal attire to its only use in this town.”
I stand and follow her down the steps. Why am I going along with this? I gave up on church years ago. If I couldn’t find God there, where can I find Him?
She seems surprised to find me behind her when she reaches her truck. “I thought you’d follow in your car.”
“Nah. I’m going for the cultural experience.” I climb up next to Felicity. It’s an older truck with a bench-style seat for three people. “Scoot over, kid.”
I’ve gotten used to Felicity being around every day. She’s a good kid. Quiet and smart. If I were going to have a child, I’d want one like her. As if she can read my mind, she gives me a grin and slides into the middle seat.
“Riding in my 1999 Ford is a cultural experience?” Lottie sounds perturbed as she drives what I now recognize as south. The steeple of a church rises in the distance. White stones glisten in the sun, indicating a cemetery. You can almost see for miles in this place.
“Compared to my limo, sure.”
When her eyes meet mine for a second before she turns them back to the road, they are sparkling. “What do you really drive, Anthony?”
I like when she calls me Suits. But Anthony’s okay, too. “A Mercedes C-class.”
“Year?”
I hem and haw. “I bought it new off the lot last year.”
“Must be nice,” she mutters. Then we’re there, pulling into a gravel lot. This church looks like it’s seen better days. There are only a few other cars.
“How many people attend the service?” I ask as I hop out.
“By ten, it’ll be packed. But I come early to teach the preschool class in the basement.” She points me toward the front doors. “There’s an adult Bible study in the sanctuary. You can sit with Doris.”
“Traitor.” I drop the word under my breath, and my skin tingles as she lets out a warm, full laugh. It echoes in the parking lot before the wind steals it away.
As I sit in the sanctuary in a pew as old as the walls, I can’t quite make myself regret coming to church today. I feel out of place in this old country church in my Armani suit. I’m dressed better than the preacher. Half of the men are wearing caps and jeans with work boots or even cowboy boots. At least I don’t see spurs.
I still don’t hear God. But as the main service commences with a full congregation, I hear Lottie’s alto voice behind me harmonizing with the hymns. And I thank God in my first real prayer in a decade that she’s my next-door neighbor—even if it’s temporary.
I ride home with Doris, who won’t get off her high horse that I came to church after all. Something about the prodigal son coming home with his tail between his legs, and God accepting all the gifts we lay at His altar. I’m not following.
“I’m going to my mom’s for lunch,” I say as soon as my feet hit the pavement inside her garage. “I’ll be back later on.”
I’m worried she’ll insist on coming with me, but maybe even Doris Brugman knows when I’ve reached my limit.
“You tell her her sister is on her knees beseeching the Lord above for her healing even now, Anthony dear.”
Right. I’ll do nothing of the sort.
And yet, when I get there and see my mom sitting up for the first time, I do exactly that.
“Aunt Doris is at home praying for you, Mom.”
Half of her lips tug upward in a mangled smile, and she lifts her right hand an inch off her lap, as if she wants to reach for me. Emotion churns in my throat. She’s going to be okay. I wasn’t so sure when I first saw her. But I am now.
I can’t let these long stretches go by in between visits anymore. I never should have. Not for a reason as lousy as money. When is the last time I took more than a few hours off work for anything other than a doctor’s appointment? Even when I fly my mom to Atlanta for Christmas, I work. Only federal holidays are sacred in my life.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” The words tumble from my mouth. “I’m sorry I didn’t come around more often. I won’t let that happen again.”
Her hand flutters again, so I sit down beside her and put my hand in hers. She holds my eyes deeply, drilling something into me, only I don’t know what. My mind begs her to speak to me, to set me straight as she did when I was a child. But she can’t. She can only squeeze my hand, and with that simple gesture, I feel the only words that matter.
I love you, my son.
I squeeze her back. Maybe words are overrated.
A nurse’s aide offers me lunch. I realize as soon as she sets it in front of me what a mistake this is. Nursing home food is notorious for its lack of appeal—and I’m the son of a gourmet Italian chef. No way can I choke down this gravel.
I eat what I can, mostly rearranging it on my plate. Memories of my dad flood my mind. His homemade pasta, that amazing cream sauce with aged parmesan. Basil, tomatoes, and garlic simmering on the stove. The food of my childhood.
I miss my dad.
My mom squeezes my hand again, and it’s like she’s read my mind.
“I need to go.” I barely get the words out of my mouth. “Be back later.” I all but bolt from the room, from the building where my mom shouldn’t be. Outside, I drink in the foul-smelling air that seems to permanently replace all clean oxygen in this town.
By the time I arrive at Doris’s house, I feel more rational. I shouldn’t have taken off like that. I’m a thirty-two-year-old professional. I can deal with my emotions. I should have talked to my mom about them, shared the fond memories of Dad. She would have loved it.
Maybe when I go back. When I can shake off this melancholy mood.
I hear a squeal and the sounds of laughter. Happiness. I follow the compelling sounds to the back of Lottie’s house, where her yard slopes gently downward toward a hedgerow. A long, plastic sheet is set up with a hose spilling water onto it from the top. Felicity drags herself up the small hill, her legs plastered with cut grass.
“I’m going again!” That said, she dives face-first onto the slip-and-slide, careening down the plastic until it ends, where she sprawls into the grass.
“You Iowans sure do know how to have fun,” I say when Lottie appears out the back door. That’s before my tongue gets glued to the roof of my mouth. Lottie’s wearing shorts and a tank top. I’d wondered if she had shape. Boy, does she. And nice legs.
“You better believe we do. If you weren’t wearing that fancy shmancy suit, I’d push you in right now.”
Something dangerous and unfamiliar expands inside me, and I throw the suit coat off, tossing it to the ground. “After you.”
Her mouth parts, and my eyes are drawn there. This is getting ridiculous. I can’t have anything with this woman. Why would I want to?
I don’t. Not really. Maybe a little fun in the moment, that’s all.
“Suits, are you serious?”
“Why not?” I drop my glasses on top of my coat to show her I am.
She sizes me up, then a small grin grows at the corner of her mouth. Before I see it coming, she lunges for me. She’s small, but I wasn’t ready. And now? I’m going down.
Down, down down—onto the slippery slope. I zig and zag, hollering the whole way. Then I’m on the grass.
What just happened?
A petite body slams into me, and Lottie blinks into my blurry eyes. “Gotcha.”
“You’re dead.” I race up the hill and grab the hose. She’s on my heels and tries to take it from my hands—only I spray her right in the face.
“Who’s the traitor now, Anthony Lucio?” she shrieks. And I can’t help myself. I smile.
Her gasp is so loud, I look around for a giant insect before I remember she’s Farmer Jane. She wouldn’t flinch at a scorpion, this one. “What?”
“You’re smiling!”
I school my face into a frown. “No, I’m not.”
“But you were!” She pokes my soaked shirt in the chest, and I flinch. “I caught you, like it or not. You’re not the grumpy beast you want people to think you are—are you?”