When I finally pulled back, we were both breathing harder, and she was looking at me with an expression that made my chest tight.
“Okay,” she said, slightly breathless. “The toothbrushing was worth it. But I have work.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Jack. I’ve been gone for days. Gerald is going to have an aneurysm.”
“I’m your boss. I’m giving you the week off.”
Her gaze widened. “You can’t just?—”
“I can. I did. Consider it executive privilege.” I traced the line of her jaw because I couldn’t help myself. “Besides, you’ve earned it. The late nights. You’ve been running yourself into the ground.”
“So you’re rewarding me by forcing me to take a vacation?”
“I’m rewarding you by keeping you in my bed where I can feed you and make sure you sleep and—” I stopped. Regrouped. “Yes. I’m forcing you to take time off.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You’re being bossy.”
“I’m being your boss. And I’m being selfish. I want you here. I want you more than California Times ever could.”
She swatted my chest, but she was smiling, and when she settled back against me—her head on my shoulder, her hand over my heart.
And this—this felt like coming home.
We’d gone to see Margaret yesterday afternoon. The doctors said she was improving—vitals stronger, responding well to treatment. When we walked into her room, she’d been sitting up in bed with a crossword puzzle, looking annoyed at whoever had designed it.
“Finally,” she’d said when she saw us. “Seventeen across. Five letters. ‘Eternal.’ Starts with T.”
“Timeless,” Pauline had said immediately, kissing her grandmother’s cheek.
“Of course it is.” Margaret had written it in with a sluggish but determined movements, then Pauline’s aunt, Callista, set the puzzle aside.
Both women’s gazes were me, then at Pauline, then at our hands—which were, admittedly, clasped together in a way that probably gave everything away.
Margaret’s face had lit up—not with surprise, but with satisfaction.
“Well,” she’d said, as Callista settled her back against her pillows. “It’s about time you two figured it out.”
Pauline had laughed, that slightly embarrassed laugh, and I’d felt my ears go warm.
Margaret had waved off Pauline’s attempt at explanation. “Don’t bother. I could see it seven years ago. You were just too stubborn to admit it.” She’d looked at me then, direct and sharp as ever. “You’re going to take care of my girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Because she’s the best thing you’ll ever have, and if you’re smart, you already know that.”
“I do.”
She’d nodded, satisfied, and reached for both our hands—her grip weaker than it used to be but still firm. “I’m happy,” she’d said simply. “Seeing you two like this. That’s all I wanted.”
We’d stayed for an hour. She’d told embarrassing stories about Pauline as a teenager. She’d asked about work, about my family, about whether we were eating properly. Normal grandmother things. But when we’d left, she’d held onto Pauline’s hand a moment longer, “I hope you’re happy baby girl,”
Pauline smiled, covering Margaret’s hand with hers, “Yes, nana. I feel like the happiest person in the word,”
In the elevator down, Pauline had been quiet.
“She really likes you,” she’d said finally.
