Finding Focus (13 page)

I spend the better part of the morning piddling around the house: fixing a loose hinge on the screen door, pruning a few branches off the bushes around front, giving the windows a wash down with the water hose. Shit, I even go over to Deacon’s and put up the new mailbox he bought over a month ago. Dumbass ran it over with the golf cart after he’d been over here drinking beer one night.

When the afternoon rolls around, I decide I’ve given Dani enough time to work and head up to the big house. Besides, after all my manual labor, I’m starving.

As I walk in the back door, laughter comes from the kitchen. I pause for a minute in the hallway and listen to my mama and Dani.

“Those dimples,” Dani says with a giggle, “I guess he’s been using those as weapons since he came out of the womb.”

“Oh, sugar. You have no idea,” my mom says. “That boy could get away with murder. Hell, he might have for all we know.”

They both laugh again. I peek around the corner and see Dani’s head thrown back, her slender neck exposed. I know exactly what they’re looking at. Normally, I’d hate my mom showing off baby pictures, but something about it being Dani makes it okay.

“Did you really have to pull those out?” I ask.

My mom and Dani both whip their heads around when they hear me, looking like the cats that ate the fucking canaries. I see that look from my mom quite often, and seeing the exact same look on Dani’s face makes me laugh. Two peas in a pod. I shake my head, not sure the world can handle two of them. Seems like a weapon of mass destruction. It’s probably good Dani’s going back to New York. My insides twist at the sobering thought.

“It’s for, uh, research purposes,” my mom says, turning back to the book. “Dani needed to see some old family photos.” The two of them look at each other and my mom nudges Dani with her shoulder. Both of them giggle again as they turn the page.

“You were so cute in these corduroy pants. Burgundy is definitely your color.” The way she looks over her shoulder and winks at me makes me want to do unspeakable things to her. Well, if my mom wasn’t sitting right beside her. And if she didn’t have a boyfriend.

“Oh, I’m sure you have your own embarrassing baby pictures,” I counter.

Dani sighs, shaking her head as she looks back down at the pictures. “Nope.”

“Are you tryin’ to tell me you were never forced into a pair of burgundy corduroy pants?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Or never cut your own hair?” I pause for another second. “Oh, I know. Snaggletooth. We all have one of those pictures where all we wanted for Christmas was our two front teeth.”

She laughs but shakes her head. “There are pictures like that, but I don’t have them. They’re in storage. I haven’t been back there since the funeral.”

“Where did you say she lived?” my mom asks, turning in her chair to face Dani.

“Laurel, Mississippi. It’s just outside Hattiesburg.” She nods and presses her lips together, making it obvious there are strong emotions behind the memories.

“You must miss her.” My mom reaches over and takes Dani’s hand.

“Every day.”

“Well, I know she’s real proud of you.” My mom pats Dani’s leg, trying to lighten the mood. “How about we get some lunch?” she asks. “Micah, you look like you could eat. Wanna join us for some lunch?”

“That’s why I came all the way up here.” I wink at her.

“I’m tellin’ you, Dani, if it weren’t for food, I might never see my boys.” My mom shakes her head, but we all know that’s a lie. Besides, I’m pretty sure she knows the real reason I’m here.

We all get to work on making lunch. The three of us are quite the trio in the kitchen. Soon, our conversation turns to cooking and recipes. Dani is shocked to know I’m the one who comes up with all of the recipes we use at Pockets. I tell her I get it from my mama, but Mom blushes and says it’s all me.

“When I was younger, I’d sneak into the kitchen any chance I got. My dad always teased it was because I wanted to be the taste tester and get the first bite, but really, it was because I loved watching my mama and my grandma cook,” I admit. “And . . . I liked being the taste tester.” I laugh, and so does my mom, pinching me in the side as she walks behind me.

“Your mom or Sam’s?” Dani asks my mom.

“Mine. She was a brilliant cook. People would come from miles around to eat her cookin’. That’s how Sunday dinners got to be such a big thing, but as the years went on, everyone started goin’ their separate ways. She passed away a few years before Deacon graduated high school. Micah was in junior high.” She sighs, and I know she still misses her. We all do. Time may heal wounds, but it doesn’t make you forget.

“She sounds wonderful,” Dani says as she puts plates out on the table.

When our food is ready, we all sit down and dig in, but the conversation continues.

“How about your granny?” I ask. “Did she love to cook?”

“God, yes. Everything I know I learned from her. I swear, I gained five pounds every time I was home for a visit. She’d take one look at me, and say, ‘Baby girl, you’re too skinny. Sit down and lemme make you somethin’.’” Dani laughs as she mimics her grandmother. “Food was how she took care of people. She hated that I was all the way up in New York, but she sent me a care package once a week.” She looks down at her plate and slides the food around with her fork. “I miss those.”

“Did she leave you any good recipes?” my mom asks.

Dani smiles around her bite, nodding her head. She takes a moment to chew and wipes her mouth with her napkin. “I think her recipes are my most treasured possessions. When I read over them and see her handwriting, I feel like she’s right there with me. Sometimes, when I’m missing her the most, I’ll pull one out and just cook. I can hear her voice, feel her presence, and the smells take me back to her kitchen. Those are my happiest memories,” she says, a slight mist in her eyes. She smiles, leaning back in her chair with the most content expression on her face. “I know this sounds crazy, but I actually want to publish a cookbook with them. It’s my secret project, I guess you could say. Not sure if anything will ever come of it, but I like to dream about it.”

“I think that’s an awesome idea,” I tell her, amazed that she would say that. My mama and I have often talked about taking our recipes from the restaurant and creating a cookbook. It feels strange listening to her verbalize something I’ve also dreamed about and the connection I’ve felt with her from the beginning deepens.

She smiles over at me. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

“I’ve only ever mentioned it to Graham, but he seemed to think it would be a waste of my time.”

Which is why he’s an asshole.

“Well, I think
he’s
a waste of time,” I say, barely above a whisper.

My mom hears me and gives me
the look
before turning back to Dani. “Your journalism abilities, accompanied with your amazing talent for taking pictures . . . well, and the sheer love you have for these recipes . . . sounds like a recipe for success,” my mom tells her. “Excuse the bad pun, but I really think you’re on to something, Dani.”

“Thank you. Both of you,” she says with a smile on her face and hope blooming in her eyes. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I ever decide to take that leap.”

“I’ll be the first to buy one,” my mom says, smiling proudly at her.

After we clear lunch away, Dani sets her laptop up on the dining room table and opens up the program she uses to edit her pictures. I watch her as she checks her list in her notebook against what she has on the computer. I try to act preoccupied with the newspaper my dad left on the table this morning, but I know I’m not fooling my mother. She hip checks me when she walks by and I look up to see her smirking at me, shaking her head.

Dani takes several more shots outside and I have to force myself to stay out of her way. I want to soak her up. Knowing she’s leaving has me on edge. I feel like there’s a huge cliff out in front of me and part of me wants to jump while the other part is playing it safe.

When she’s outside, I walk to the window and watch her, stopping at her computer and sneaking a peek at what she’s doing, and it’s so cool. There’s a layout that looks like a magazine spread and she’s moving pictures and text around the page. Most of the things on her list have been marked through, which means she’s running out of things keeping her here. I wish I could add to the list, but I know she’d have to leave eventually anyway, I’m just wanting to prolong the inevitable.

She walks back in and sits down, popping a card out of her camera and into her computer. “Looks like you’re gettin’ everything marked off,” I say, looking over her shoulder as she downloads the newest batch of pictures.

“Yep. I wish I had at least another day, but I think I’m getting there.”

“That’s beautiful,” I say, looking at a picture taken from my mother’s garden with the house in the background.

“Thank you.”

“You’re really talented.”

“Stop it,” she says, and I can almost hear the blush in her voice.

“I’m serious! I’d pay big bucks for any of these.”

She looks up at me and rolls her eyes.

When a picture of the pond pops up on the screen, my breath hitches in my chest. With the moon beaming down and reflecting off the glass-like water, it’s more than beautiful. It’s tranquil, peaceful, but most of all, it reminds me of her. I can almost see us there, our feet hanging off the side, our shoulders grazing every once in a while. She looked so gorgeous in the moonlight. I wish I had a picture of that, but this is a close second.

“That looks like something straight out of a magazine,” I whisper before I realize what I’m saying.

“Hopefully, it will be.” She laughs.

“How much for a print of that?” I ask.

“Really? You’d want—”

“Yes,” I cut her off, “I’d love to have one of your pictures.”

“Well, it’s yours. I’ll order the prints once I’m back in New York and have them sent directly to you.”

“Let me pay.”

“No, it’s my pleasure. Really.”

“Give me your phone,” I instruct, and she willingly hands it over. I put my phone number in as a new contact and shoot myself a text before handing it back. “I have your number now, so I’ll text you my address.”

“Okay,” she says, smiling.

“Okay.” For the hundredth time today, I find myself staring at her lips for longer than necessary, wanting to bend down and kiss the shit out of her. She swallows hard and I abruptly break my gaze. Turning around, I leave in search of something to do before I get myself in trouble.

Sheridan

THIS CITY NEVER SLEEPS. AND
it stinks.

I miss the quiet and the fresh air.

Thoughts of Louisiana and Micah plagued my mind the entire flight back. When I closed my eyes, I’d see him, blue skies, and green fields. When I opened my eyes, I still saw him. He was in every kind smile or wink of an eye. Even now, as I’m sitting in the back of this taxi, crossing the river, I see him in the way the moon dances off the water.

I don’t know how I’m going to get him out of my head, but I know I need to. Nothing happened between us, so I don’t have anything to feel guilty for, but the way my heart felt when I was around him—how it still feels when I think of him—feels wrong. Like I’m betraying Graham.

Leaning my head against the cool glass of the window, I watch the city come into focus.

The text I received from Mr. Harrison earlier today stated Graham had made it back to New York safely, and he was setting him up at my apartment with a hospital bed and a nurse to check on him once a day.

The realization of what I’m in for hit me while I was on the plane. If Graham can’t walk, I’ll be responsible for bathing him, helping him to the bathroom, making him meals.

I outwardly groan.

You can do this, Dani.

Normally, it wouldn’t be an issue, but I’m still pissed at him. I’m hurt he never called me while he was away. I’m hurt he didn’t call me after his accident. I’m hurt he didn’t feel the need to check on me. I’m trying to be the bigger person and put my feelings aside, but it’s proving to be more difficult than I thought.

He would do this for me, right?

I wish I could say yes to that question, but something tells me I’d be wrong. Over the last year or so, something changed within Graham. He’s not the same man I fell in love with during my freshman year of college. He’s harder, less compassionate, and more distant. But maybe this will be what brings us back together, what helps us find some common ground . . . what makes us see what’s important in life.