I stop in my tracks and point at him. “No sour beef for you.” Pivoting, I march through his yard. I’m not serious, but it won’t hurt for him to sweat.
“Wait, wait,” he calls after me.
I turn back around and raise one eyebrow at him. “You want to try that again?”
He releases a short, exasperated breath, but does what I’ve asked. “Hi, Brynn.” He says my name like he’s a teenager being forced to greet an old aunt who insists on kissing you right on the mouth.
I grin. “Much better. Come on.” I wave him my way. “I’m having you over for dinner.”
Walt fishes his keys from his pocket and locks his front door. Although he’s slow down the stairs, he’s still in good shape, both mentally and physically. It appears, anyway. What Connor told me earlier has been nagging at me. There has to be some truth to what he said, even if it was probably turned backward and inside out by the time he heard it. Similar to my case.
The truth: I ran over a mother and her infant in my car and killed them.
The lies: I was drunk and the mother wasn’t committing suicide.
Cassidy steps outside as we walk up.
“Brynn? Walt?”
Her astonishment is as plain as the color of dirt.
I wave. “Yep. Hi.”
She looks at Walt, her eyes growing wider, then back at me. I see her unease. I’ve seen it in myself enough times to recognize it in others.
“Everything okay?” she calls out, her hand finding the porch railing. She leans on it and keeps her gaze on us.
Walt rolls his eyes and makes an annoyed grunting sound.
“Everything is fine, Cassidy. Thanks for checking.” I send her a goodbye wave, and open the door for Walt. The aroma of vinegar, beef, and ginger wafts out.
He shuffles in and stops. “Sorry about that,” he says, turning back to me.
“It’s okay.” I shut the door and lock it. “But you do have some explaining to do.” I walk past him to the kitchen.
Walt follows. “It sure smells good in here.”
Opening the fridge, I pull out a pitcher of tea and set it on the counter. “No dodging, Walt. If we’re going to be friends, I need to know why people are wary of you.”
He leans a forearm on my kitchen counter and watches me move around. I take two plates from a cabinet, along with forks and knives, and set them at the small table against the wall. He tries to help me with the pitcher of tea, but I shoo him away. When everything is ready, I motion for him to sit down, and take the one opposite him, where the second setting is. Without a word, I fill his plate with his favorite food.
Loading his fork, he takes a bite, and I see his eyes close in pleasure as he begins to chew. “It’s just like Daisy used to make it.”
My eyes feel hot at the corners, and I have to blink back the sudden urge to cry. I take a bite too, finding it’s actually pretty good. The name doesn’t do the dish justice.
“How long were you and Daisy married?” I ask cautiously.
He takes another bite and wipes his mouth with a napkin from the stack at the center of the table. “Forty-six years,” he answers, taking a sip of his iced tea. “Daisy was a good woman. We’d only been married a year when I was called to Vietnam. She wrote me, and I wrote her. It wasn’t easy, you know? But we managed.” He shrugs and falls quiet. Maybe he thinks I don’t want to hear more about it, but I do.
“What else?” I ask. “Did you have kids?”
“Daisy became pregnant soon after I came back from the war, but she miscarried.” He shakes his head, remembering. “She was devastated. After what happened, they told her she couldn’t have children. It changed things between us for a while. She became withdrawn, and I was angry.” He looks up at me, eyes squinting. “Why am I telling you all this?”
I don’t think he’s trying to be rude, but his voice takes on that familiar growl.
“Because I asked, Walt, and I’m interested, but you don’t have to keep going if you don’t want to.”
Lifting his cap, Walt brushes his hands over his matted, sparse hair, and sets it back down. “Sorry,” he grumbles. “I don’t know why I do that.” He coughs, and I stay silent, waiting. “We had a hard time of it for a while. She even left me once, but I went and found her. She was at her sister’s house. She came home with me, and we were never apart again. Until she got sick, that is. After that, it was swift. Stage four, and all that.”
