Page 61 of Something Old

Grant was staggered by the emotions rolling through him. He desperately wanted—no, he needed to sit with any emotion that was easier than what he felt now. He tried to kindle anger at the horrifying unfairness and cruel randomness of death but failed. All he could feel was grief—grief . . . and huge, all-encompassing love.

He loved Madeline. Had, he realized, from pretty much the moment he met her. She was funny, strong, wise, and kind . . . but he hadn’t known just how absolutely amazing she was, how resilient, until now.

Losing Holly on the heels of his father’s passing had made Grant pretty much quit on life—and he’d been a culpable participant in his marriage’s demise and a son who was just as pig-headed as his old man. Madeline was as blameless as a person could be, really, and had so unfairly lost everyone she cared most deeply for in the world—yet she still persevered, still tried to be a source of joy and light and help to other people. Looking back at all his stupid, bitter comments, he was deeply ashamed. How shallow and insignificant they must have seemed. No wonder she laughed at him. He thought it was just that she had a wonderful, indomitable sense of humor. Now he suspected it was just that his angst seemed ridiculous to the point of hilarious to her.

Moving slowly and without speaking because he didn’t want to startle her or have her feel like she needed to say anything to him, Grant leaned over Madeline and gently touched the hand that rested over the child she’d buried. Feather-light, he rested his other hand on her shoulder.

“Please. Let me help you back.”

She looked up, blinking as if trying to clear away whatever it was she was seeing. Then, without speaking, she stood and let him.

He kept his arm around her as they walked, but it was only as they neared the van that Madeline finally spoke. “It was a car accident.”

Grant nodded, having already known this.

“An accident. In a car. Think about how many times you drive in a car and are perfectly fine. You’re fine. Everybody’s fine!”

The rain was falling in streams now, and in the cemetery’s hazy streetlights, their surroundings had a surreal, not-really-there quality. They might as well have been alone in the universe.

“In an intersection a block from our house. They were almost home. So close to safe.”

Grant, whose arm was still draped over her shoulder, gave her a squeeze, his throat full. She turned in his arms and looked up at him, her face soaked. “I heard the collision. Did you know that?”

He shook his head mutely, but her words weren’t for him.

“I offered up a prayer for whoever was hit . . . that they wouldn’t be hurt.”

The pain he felt for Madeline was too much, and an injured squeak escaped his throat before he could clamp it back.

Madeline nodded at the feral sound. “I should’ve been with them. Lauren and Lyle were just going to pick Ronny up for dinner at our place—her car was in the shop. I stayed behind because I was running late on the dessert I wanted to make.” She shrugged. “Plus, Lyle and I had been bickering, and I wanted to try to get into a better headspace for company, even though Ronny wouldn’t have cared how bitchy I was.”

There was a beat of silence, then Madeline’s voice again as watery as the rain. “It was all so random. Maybe if I’d been there, we’d have been a minute later and been spared, or maybe I could’ve gone out with them.”

Grant’s heart thudded painfully. He didn’t want to say he was desperately glad she’d been spared because it was selfish—but true.

“And I couldn’t even be furious or hate the man who killed them.” Madeline sounded like this was a real regret too. “He had a heart attack and blew through the light with his foot on the gas.”

They were at the truck now. Grant escorted Madeline to the passenger side, unsure if he should open the door or if she’d want to keep talking outside . . .

She slipped out from under his arm. “Thank you for coming with me—and for coming to get me.”

He could only nod, and she patted his cheek softly—her hand was shockingly cold even against his own wet, chilled skin. Then she opened the truck door herself and hoisted herself up.

Chapter 31

Madeline used the gas station’s restroom to change into dry clothes while Grant fueled up with diesel for their long through-the-night return trip. When the truck’s tank was full, they decided some of the furniture should be tied down more securely. Grant pulled away from the pumps and parked in an open end of the ample parking area. The job necessitated unscrewing legs from a few more pieces, so Madeline grabbed her drill and got busy.

As she worked, Grant watched her with an intense, thoughtful expression.

“What?” she finally asked.

“Nothing, really . . . Or I don’t know. It’s hard to put into words. Just . . . you really can do anything and everything you set your mind to, can’t you?”

Madeline glanced down at the drill in her hand. Was that what had him so ridiculously impressed? Her ability to use a drill?

She was about to make a crack about sexism and how not all women were power tool averse, but grief—freshly stirred and shaken by her confrontation with the storage lockers and then the graveyard—chose that moment to stick a sharpened dagger into her. Lyle, killed instantly on impact, flashed into her mind. Lauren in a hospital bed—a bed she occupied for less than an hour before her injuries took her.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I really can’t.”