“It’s warm enough.” He held out his empty plate. “You got any more of that toast? I’ll bring the plate back.”
“Do you mind me asking who it’s for?”
Another breath of hesitation, like he wasn’t sure if he could trust her with his secret. “My grandpapa. He’s sickly.”
“How sickly?” she asked, alarmed.
Tears welled in his brown eyes. “I can’t get him outta bed no more. He just lays there and—”
“I’ll make another portion right now.” She dusted off her skirt and took his plate. “May I check on him with you?”
Eli swayed between heels and toes. “Pops likes his privacy.”
“Too much privacy can be dangerous.” She knew that well, how it could eat away a body and mind.
He shook his head. “He ain’t gonna want you to see him like this.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
His gaze dropped to his feet. “Cause he ain’t talked for two days.”
A catch of breath as her heart collapsed. She couldn’t save Hattie, but maybe she could help this man. “Please, Eli. I only want to help.”
He scanned the trees as if they might offer advice before meeting her eyes again. “You’re gonna need shoes.”
“I’ll get boots,” she said. “And a bowl of milk toast for your grandfather.”
Once the last three slices of her loaf were toasted, she covered themwith the remaining condensed milk, then wrapped the bowl in parchment paper. Eli led her around the lake and past the cemetery she hadn’t visited since the moonflowers shed their petals. When she used to take flowers, she always came home to Hattie, but now that her beloved aunt had joined Olivia’s husband and daughter, it pained her even more to spend time among the stones.
Eli’s pace quickened as they stepped off the soggy path, the ground riddled with branches and padded by leaves as they moved deeper into the forest. She’d never explored the woods beyond the cemetery, but she owned much of this land, passed down from Graham’s family. Where the Ashe property line ended, she wasn’t certain.
A small clearing ahead was littered with planks from a fence in disrepair, and on the opposite side stood a rundown cabin, its shingles sodden with moss. Like one of the mining cabins she’d written about in her books.
Abandoned, she’d think, except smoke curled from a chimney tilting so far right that it looked as if it might tumble. And someone had planted a garden beside a weathered shelter for firewood, the plants now brickle and brown.
The front door creaked as Eli opened it. “We got company, Pops.”
The fire inside crackled near a bedridden man, his body covered by an afghan mottled with holes. While Eli’s grandfather still breathed, the room smelled like death had already begun knocking on its door.
Fresh air flooded the room when Olivia opened a window. “How long has he been like this?”
“Don’t know exactly, but he’s gettin’ worse. Won’t eat a bite of what I bring him.”
“Let me try the toast,” she offered, but Eli shook his head.
And she understood. If she had been home during Aunt Hattie’s final hours, she would have insisted on feeding the woman who had spent much of her life caring for her.
As Eli cut the soft bread with a fork, Olivia reached for his grandfather’s arm, the veins striped blue and green under a layer as transparent and tender as onion skin. His pulse barely registered, a flutter against her thumb instead of a tick. Without medical care, he wasn’t long for this world.
“Please, Pops,” Eli whispered as he lifted the man’s head, trying to feed him the forkful of toast. No matter how the boy coaxed, the elderly man wouldn’t open his mouth.
“What’s his name?” Olivia asked.
“Abram Manning. He had a farm around here.”
And probably lost it like so many others during the Great Depression. One didn’t have the luxury of becoming ill when mouths begged to be fed.
“He needs a doctor,” Olivia said, even though she feared a doctor could do little for him now.
