Page 95

Keaton

Six months later

“Keaton, sweetheart. Do you have five minutes for an old lady?” I stopped dead and turned back toward the house. Ignoring a summons from August’s grandma was tantamount to putting your balls in a vise. Even if she was smiling sweetly and using endearments.

“Of course,” I said, heading back inside. “Shall I make tea?”

“That would be lovely.”

Tea meant lemon tea. They grew lemons on the grounds, and honey from the beehive sweetened the tea. If this community lacked anything, I hadn’t found it yet. I took my time making it, pondering what Caroline wanted. Deep down, I already knew. Somehow, she’d figured out August, and I had argued, even though we’d kept it in the bedroom and he’d left at first light without seeing her. She never rose early, yet she knew it.

We took tea in the living room, Caroline choosing the couch with the best view across the grounds. It also got the lion’s share of the sun on days where it showed its face. Today was one of those days.

She smiled when I deposited the bone china—yes, actual bone china—cup in front of her and patted the empty seat next to her. “I have a story to tell you,” she said as soon as I sat.

“Okay.”

“It’s about a small boy who used to run headlong into danger.” She smiled at my expression. “You’re wondering why I’m telling you this.”

“Perhaps,” I admitted.

“Well, humor me. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

I sipped my tea, my hands comically large around the delicate cup, and waited.

“This small boy was somewhat wild,” she continued.

“I can imagine that.” There was no point in pretending we weren’t talking about August.

“He was always off looking for adventure. When he was younger, it wasn’t a problem. He could only get into so much trouble here. Scabbed knees. Bee stings. A broken arm. Burned clothes.” She shook her head. “We never worked that last one out when he didn’t have matches.” I smiled at the picture she was painting. “What were you like as a child?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Not that bad. Probably because I had my sister to look after.” Mentioning her triggered the familiar pang in my chest. It had dulled, but I doubted it would ever vanish completely. Anderson’s death didn’t change that. “I shouldn’t have joined the army,” I admitted.

“Absolute poppycock!”

Startled by Caroline’s sudden rudeness, all I could do was stare.

“You can’t live your life for other people,” she said firmly.

I frowned. “I suppose not.”

“You can’t,” she repeated. “Do you think I couldn’t have kept August here if I wanted to? He’d have been safe, but he wouldn’t have been happy.”

I stiffened as the conversation veered a little too close to last night’s argument. Caroline shot me a knowing look. “Anyway, that boy grew into a man who knew his own mind and needed to see the world.”

“And see it, he did.”

She nodded. “I hoped he’d ride around on that damn motorcycle for a few weeks, get bored, and then come home. But it didn’t happen. His trips grew longer, and his time here shorter. He always returned, but often just for a night or two before leaving again.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

She shot me a look that said I was being stupid. “How long have you been here?”

“Six months.”

“And how many times has he talked about leaving?”

I shook my head, frustration building. “He hasn’t. But only because he’s got a bee in his bonnet about keeping me safe. I don’t want to be the one who holds him back. I keep telling him he should go and live his life.”