Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Chapter Ten

It's later than I meant it to be by the time I get home, having been waylaid by not one, but two ghosts of Creek past. When Gramps's snores greet me in the foyer, relief drops my shoulders from their tense position around my ears. The sound breaks off before I make it into the living room, though, and his sleep-hazed eyes poke me with reproach. It changes to concern in a blink, reminding me of the state of my face.

"It's okay, Gramps. I tripped and caught the edge of a cart, that's all."

"Always were clumsy. Get that from your mother. That girl couldn't go half a day without breaking something in the house or on her body. Cost me a bloody fortune." He pulls his thoughts from the past and points at his watch. "Been worried, Gracie-baby."

I lean over and kiss his papery cheek, then put my arms around his neck and lay my head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I felt like a walk after that meatloaf, that's all. I didn't want to wake you."

"Leave me a note next time, please." His smile is wry. "I know you're not a little girl anymore but humor an old man."

"Okay, Gramps." I kiss him again, press my ear to his hearing aid, then pull away with a grin. "You want some ice cream?"

It's a silly question. Ice cream is never a bad call, and I dish up two bowls of Neapolitan. There's extra strawberry in Gramps's, not enough that he'll call me out for cheating but enough to make him happy. The baseball games are wrapped up for the night, so we eat our bedtime snack to the quiet cadence of the local news. I've heard that in big cities the news is depressing, all about murders and violence and missing kids, but in towns like Iowa City and Heron Creek, it's about people taking food to the flood victims up the coast or the guy determined to open a farm and fill it with abused rescue animals, with the occasional scary story ripped from national headlines.

On really good days, we'll get an awesome story about a local hillbilly getting drunk on his own moonshine and giving the cops hell during an arrest.

"Haven't seen William for a while. You two aren't going to let an old romance ruin a fifteen-year friendship, are you?"

Fifteen years is an exaggeration, but it's a different way of looking at things. Will and I were friends longer than were a couple, and if I'm being honest with myself, it's his level head and commonsense advice that I'm missing the most. Have missed the most, since we said good-bye.

David was never particularly interested in my problems, or in reigning in my wild side with any kind of patience or love. Will adored my tendency to play the daredevil, even as he tried to point out the obvious downsides to my misadventures. David tended to favor disdain and the liberal use of the word stupid.

"We're going to be okay, Gramps. If you want to see him and Grant, I'll invite them over for a game. Or maybe a picnic? I was thinking it might be fun to traipse down to the docks for lunch on Sunday."

"Fun, maybe, but you're not getting these old legs through the swamp."

"It's a marsh, and you leave that to me." I take his bowl and mine into the kitchen, rinsing them out and wondering if Will's parents still have a smart car. They'd let me borrow it to get Gramps around, for sure.

He holds up a hand when I get back to the living room, letting me haul him to his feet. His weight, or lack thereof, saddens me as I support him easily into the hallway and up the stairs, then run back to bring his walker while he's in the bathroom.

My face aches and throbs, the three Advil I popped in the kitchen doing little to take the edge off. I'm going to try Aleve next time, and maybe wash it down with some vodka. I think I deserve it, but despite the pain, my eyes are heavy. It's been a long day, and as much as reading over the files from the archives in good light appeals to me, sleep sounds better.