“No, boy, I won’t sit back down.” Her voice rose, harsh and pitched. “I’m tired of sitting, tired of turning a blind eye to all this.”
She waved a hand as she straightened her back, slowly got to her feet, and all he could do was nod, heart pounding.
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled.
She fumbled for her cane. “Your PawPaw and I bought this house with our own money, saved our last dime, put ever’thing we had into this place, and there ain’t nobody no how, blood or no blood, gonna come in here and make me leave.”
“Memaw, please—”
“Child, don’t you ‘Memaw please’ me. I’ve a like to …”
The telltale crunch of tires on gravel came then, the squeak of brakes, the sound of low thrumming bass from car speakers.
Devon stiffened, his heart thudding so strong he thought Memaw must be able to see it pound through his thin jacket, but she didn’t even seem to notice, just leaned heavily on her cane,going on and on about how no son of hers had a right to hurt her grandson and he had another think coming if he thought it could continue.
Every inch of his body tensed as he stood there, throat cracking, chest booming. Waiting.
Oh, Jesus, he thought as a hot shudder of terror flooded him from head to toe.
He’s back.
CHAPTER 29
Rebecca
The late afternoon was shifting slowly to dusk when she got home with the cinnamon and a few other items from the grocery store. As she pulled into the driveway, she saw Granny on her knees in the garden, pulling at a weed.
Rebecca set her leather briefcase and the grocery bag against the porch railing, slipped her slingbacks off, and padded over in her bare feet. The soft grass felt good beneath her toes. She wondered why she hadn’t thought to do that all summer—slip off her shoes and go barefoot, feel the earth on her skin, smell the trees and the flowers and the tangy summertime air.
“Stubborn fool,” she heard Granny mutter to the weed. Then Granny looked up. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hey Gran, got your cinnamon,” Rebecca said, kissing her on her hair, which was pulled back in a ponytail. A gardening hat rested on the ground nearby, along with a shovel, gloves, and a bunch of tools. She slipped on the gloves. “Here, I’ll give you a hand.”
“On three. One, two—” And with a tug the thick roots of the weed slid out of the earth.
“Now that’s teamwork.” Granny grinned. “Thanks.”
“Rebecca Chastain, fixer of newspapers, friend of the orphans, and puller of weeds, at your service.” She did a mock bow.
“And most wonderful granddaughter on the planet.” Granny stood, collecting the tools and placing them carefully in the bucket. “Light’s fading, but I sure could use a glass of tea. You want some?”
“I’d love some.”
Rebecca followed Granny inside with the groceries and pulled two glasses down from the shelf. Something was cooking in the oven that made the entire kitchen smell divine—onions and meat and spices and who knew what else—and Rebecca inhaled deeply.
“Is this for us or the church?”
Granny laughed. “Both! Mrs. Stewart’s son is coming to pick it up in, oh, about forty minutes.” She eyed the clock, then snagged the cinnamon from the grocery bag, opened the oven and peeled back the foil to sprinkle some of the spice inside. “My secret ingredient. Got to mix a little of the sweet in to counter the savory.”
“It smells amazing.”
“There’s enough for us to have our own supper, and then I’ll bundle the rest and send it over with the Stewart boy.”
“Let’s fix some plates and eat al fresco, then!” Rebecca said.
Five minutes later, they were settled around the small patio table on the screened back porch, a pair of fat citronella candles casting a warm glow on their meal.
“Seen much of Devon Robinson these days?”
