“Thanks, Grandma,” I say, relieved even though I was certain she would support me. “I just want to bake again, I don’t necessarily need to win.”
Grandma shakes her head quickly from side to side. “I wasn’t talking about baking, Addison.”
I hand her my apron and plant a quick kiss on her cheek as I pass her. “I was.”
Grabbing my purse from the table, I hurry out the front door and to Brady, waiting in the idling Jeep.
* * *
Bradyand I split up when we got to the grocery store. I went to the baking aisle and Brady to the other end of the store for shaving cream. I’d noticed his five o’clock shadow had grown to be more of a ten o’clock, but I kind of liked it that way. The look suited him more out here in the forest than the clean shave he’d sported the day he arrived.
I spot the butterscotch morsels and grab them, heading to the end of the aisle. When I don’t immediately see Brady, I start for the personal hygiene section. As I get closer, I see Brady talking with someone, his head bent to hear what the other person is saying.
I round the corner and find him talking to an elderly man. The man is wearing a pageboy news cap and a wrinkled, khaki-colored linen suit. In June? He must be sweating a ridiculous amount. I come closer and see a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Is it even good for someone so old to become overheated? I come to a stop beside Brady. He looks at me, his eyebrows pulled together in confusion, then back to the old man.
“…I’m not sure exactly the name of the product, but I’m really sick of looking for it. Been using it for a long time, ya know? Why would they discontinue it?” He removes his cap and wipes his forearm across his forehead, presumably to mop the sweat gathering there.
Brady nods slowly, showing no signs of irritation or impatience. “Yes, sir. That’s aggravating. Maybe we can ask an employee for help.”
The man waves his hand flippantly. “Bah! They’re no help. I’ve already asked them and they’re useless.” He starts to shuffle to the side, but his balance isn’t good and he stumbles. Brady and I reach for him, but thankfully he’s already steadied himself on the closest shelf. A few bottles fall over and hit the ground, rolling away from him.
“I’m going to walk you to your car.” Brady falls into step beside him.
The man scowls at Brady. “That won’t be necessary.”
Brady stops and takes a step back. I’m surprised he has given up so easily.
“You have a good day, sir,” Brady says to the man, his voice respectful and kind.
The man keeps going, his shuffle step taking him at a very slow but steady pace.
“You’re letting him go?” My voice is a whisper-hiss.
Brady scrunches his face and shakes his head. “Hell no. I’m letting him think he’s on his own.” His eyes keep track of him, and he says, “When he first walked up to me, he asked me if I could point him in the direction of the automotive department.”
My eyes grow wide. “What did you tell him?”
“That I didn’t think this grocery store had that department. He looked around and clued in a little, then he began raving about soap they no longer carry. That’s when you walked up.”
My lips twist. “That’s so sad.”
“Yeah,” Brady agrees, the word trailing behind him as he walks forward. I slip along behind him, and slowly we trail the man through the store and out the automatic doors. He never stops, never looks around. His gaze remains forward as if he’s in a lane he cannot deviate from.
He stops outside the doors, and we come to a halt just a few feet away. He makes a displeased face as he scans the parking lot.
“Dammit.” His frail-looking fist swipes at the air. “Car got stolen again. What do I have that those thieves want so badly?”
Suddenly he looks at us, and I feel Brady stiffen beside me.
“You,” he says, pointing at Brady and shuffle-stepping over to us. “Do you have a phone I can borrow? I need to call my son and tell him my car was stolen.”
“Sure thing.” Brady pulls his phone from his pocket and unlocks it. With his finger poised over the screen, he looks up and asks, “What’s your son’s number?”
The man frowns. “It’s… uh… well, I don’t recall at the moment.”
“No worries,” Brady says confidently. I hope the old man feels reassured by his strong voice. “What’s your son’s name?”
“Paul Bendrop.” The name is quick to roll off his tongue, and the crinkling beside his eyes conveys the pleasure he takes in that.
