“Just saying. Unless you’re still bumping hips with Sylbie.”
“That’s done. Good and done.”
“Then—”
“Actually, I’ve spent some time recently with Abigail Lowery.”
“No shit?” Eyes bright, Russ edged forward again. “Do tell, and I mean do.”
“I’ve got to get to work.”
“You can’t drop that and not follow through.”
“Let’s just say she’s interesting, mysterious, sexy without trying to be. She’s got a dog who looks big enough and smart enough to operate heavy machinery. And she can handle a Glock.”
“Then why’s she spending time with you?”
“I keep getting in her way. I’ve got to get to work. Pay for the coffee, and I’ll vote for you.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Hey, come on over for dinner, bring the lady.”
“I’m still working on her getting used to letting me into the house,” Brooks said as he slid out of the booth. “Getting her out of it’s going to take more doing.”
* * *
In the late afternoon, Brooks took some personal time and ran the errands to complete a mission. By the time he’d finished them and drove to his parents’ house, his father had changed from his work clothes to his gardening clothes.
Sunny and Loren worked on one of the front beds, plugging in young, colorful annuals.
Both of them wore hats, his father’s a battered ball cap that went back to Brooks’s third-base days, his mother’s a wide-brimmed straw with a clutch of red flowers tucked in its ribbon.
He loved the way they worked together, hip to hip, with music spilling out of the screened windows and doors—all wide open, though there was still a chill to the air.
When Brooks pulled in, Loren pushed to his feet, rising up on his long legs. Healthy color in his face, Brooks thought, easy smile, hair curling out from under the cap showing plenty of gray but still thick.
One day, maybe, he’d stop seeing his father as he’d been in the hospital before the bypass. Stop seeing him pale and gray and old and a little afraid.
His mother got to her feet as well, planted her hands on her hips. Brooks remembered the fear in her eyes, too. She’dtalked a good game as they’d waited and paced and prayed. But the fear had lived in her eyes.
Now they looked like they were supposed to, he thought. Grubby from gardening, happy to see him, and still hip to hip.
He got out, hoped to hell he hadn’t made a big mistake, and retrieved the travel crate from the back of the car.
“Hey, there,” his father began.
“Hey, back. Hi, Ma.”
“What have you got there?”
“I brought you a present.” As he spoke, the contents of the crate woke with a yip that trembled with nerves and joy.
“Oh.” Sunny actually put her hands behind her back. “Brooks, I told you, I’m not ready for—”
“He comes with a return policy. You know Petie out at the county pound? He’s bending the rules just a little so you can have a look at the pup here, and he at you, before all the papers I filled out get finalized.”
“Brooks, I just can’t…Oh, God, look at that face.”
“Petie says it looks like he’s got some shepherd and some retriever in him, and God knows what else. But he’s got a sweet nature, and some balls. The literal ones have to go, that’s the rules, but he’s a brave little bastard.”
