I smile politely at the old man and look over at Brady’s phone, quickly scanning the results from the internet search he conducted in the last few seconds.
Brady looks up at the man, his finger poised over the screen. “Is your son a lawyer?”
“Damn straight,” he growls, pride in his voice.
Brady grins. “Can I call you Mr. Bendrop?”
“You can call me anything, just don’t call me late for dinner!” Mr. Bendrop cackles at his joke. I think he’s happy now that he thinks we’re going to help him. Or maybe he’s already forgotten about his car.
Brady brings the phone to his ear and waits. Thankfully, there’s a quick answer on the other end.
“Yes, hi,” Brady says after listening to the short welcome from whoever answered the phone. “I’m looking for Paul Bendrop.”
He’s quiet, and he absentmindedly runs his thumb over his lower lip.
I can never, ever tell him how sexy that is. Besides, I’m sure someday in the not-too-distant future, someone will. Someone who isn’t broken like me, and someone who’s totally available. Both are qualifications I do not currently fulfill.
“Paul, hi. Brady Sterling here. Listen, I’m in front of” —Brady squints up at the sign— “the Shop n’ Save with your dad, and he believes his car has been stolen.”
There’s a muffled response and Brady says, “Uh huh” over and over. Then he hangs up and tells Mr. Bendrop that his son will be here shortly.
“Lucky thing his office is only a couple blocks over.” Brady grins at Mr. Bendrop and gives him the gentlest squeeze around the shoulders. Brady spends the time waiting on the son to show up asking Mr. Bendrop random questions.
“Where were you in 1980?” he asks.
“Probably at one of my sons’ baseball games. They all three played.”
“I played too, in high school.” Brady goes on to make small talk until a sleek silver sedan pulls up alongside us.
A man somewhere in his mid-thirties with a slight paunch hurries from the car. “Dad,” he says, relief coloring his voice. He walks to Mr. Bendrop with his arms outstretched.
Mr. Bendrop waves him away. “I’m fine. It’s my car we should worry about. Call the police.”
“Let’s get you home and let me deal with the police.”
Mr. Bendrop doesn’t put up a fight about it. He allows Paul to help him into the front seat of the low-slung car. When he’s situated, Paul closes the door and comes to us, extending a hand to each of us in turn.
We shake and make quick introductions. Brady gives Paul a quick re-cap of events.
“Thank you for helping him out. I mean it. When I think about what could’ve happened to him…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I’ll tell the nurse to keep a better eye on him.” There’s a trace of barely contained anger and annoyance when he says this. I don’t blame him. I would feel that way too.
“Do you need us to stick around while you call the police?” I ask Paul. “We didn’t see anything, but if we can help we certainly will.”
Brady grabs my hand, winding his fingers through mine. The touch is so sudden and unexpected that it causes my heart to beat faster. Brady leans down slightly, so his mouth is close to my ear, and murmurs, “On the phone Paul told me Mr. Bendrop doesn’t have a car. He had his license revoked years ago.”
“Oh,” is the only response I can manage. My gaze flies to Paul.
He tucks his hands in his pockets and rocks back onto the heels of his black dress shoes. “He’s not well, obviously. But who is at that age?” For a quick second, I see the weight he carries around on his shoulders. The next second it’s gone, covered up and tucked away. The way we all do.
Paul thanks us again and leaves. Mr. Bendrop doesn’t look our way as they drive off. I wonder if he’s already forgotten us?
“Come on,” Brady says, tugging on my hand. Which makes me realize he’s still holding it. He leads me back through the store and doesn’t drop my hand until we reach the aisle where the old man first approached him. He gathers the items we dropped there in exchange for our secret mission and walks to the register to pay.
He drives us back to Sweet Escape. At long last, I add the butterscotch to the blondie batter and put it in the oven. While it bakes, I get out a deck of playing cards and Brady and I play War until the oven timer beeps.
When Brady sinks his teeth into the blondie, he doesn’t say a word. He closes his eyes and lets out a long, slow, pleased sigh. Then he finishes it and immediately eats a second.
“That,” he says, holding up his hand for a high-five, “was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. If you don’t win the baking competition, I’m pressing charges against all the judges.”
