LITMIR.BIZ

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the right. “I was getting worried.”

      Isabel set her camera down on a nearby rickety side table, then stepped forward to take the two glasses of iced tea from her grandmother’s plump, veined hands. “Sorry, Grammy. I got carried away taking pictures of the wildflowers.”

      She didn’t mention that she’d also gotten carried away with seeing Dillon Murdock again. She wasn’t ready to discuss him with her grandmother.

      “You and that picture taking,” Martha said, waving a hand, her smile gentle and indulging. “The flowers are sure pretty right now, though.” Settling down onto the puffy cushion of her cane-backed chair, she added, “Miss Cynthia always did love her wildflowers. I remember one time a few years back, that Eli got it in his head to mow them down. Said they were an eyesore, what with the old house closed up and everything.”

      “He didn’t do it, did he?” Isabel asked, her eyes going wide. “That would have ruined them.”

      Martha chuckled as she automatically reached for Isabel’s hand, prepared to say grace. “Oh, no. He tried, though. Had one of the hired hands out on a mower early one morning. Miss Cynthia heard the tractor and went tramping through the flowers, all dressed in a pink suit and cream pumps, her big white hat flapping in the wind. She told that tractor driver to get his hide out of her flowers. She watched until that poor kid drove that mower clear back to the equipment barn. Then she headed off, prim as ever, to her Saturday morning brunch at the country club.”

      Isabel shook her head, sat silently as Grammy said grace, then took a long swallow of the heavily sweetened tea. “I was right. Some things never change.”

      Martha passed her the boiled new potatoes and fresh string beans. “Do you regret taking the Murdocks up on their offer?”

      Isabel bit into a mouthful of the fresh vegetables, then swallowed hastily. “You mean being the official photographer for Eli’s extravagant wedding?”

      “I wouldn’t use the same wording, exactly,” Martha said, a wry smile curving her wrinkled lips, “but I reckon that’s what I was asking.”

      Smiling, herself, at her grandmother’s roundabout way of getting to the heart of any matter, Isabel stabbed her knife into her chicken-fried steak, taking out her frustrations on the tender meat. “Well, I’m having second thoughts, yes,” she admitted, her mind on Dillon. “But I couldn’t very well turn them down. They’re paying me a bundle and I can always use the cash. But, I mainly did it because you asked me to, Grammy.”

      “Don’t let me talk you into anything,” Martha said, her blue eyes twinkling.

      “As if you’ve ever had to talk anyone into anything,” Isabel responded, laughing at last. “You could sweet-talk a mule into tap dancing.”

      “Humph, never tried that one.” Her grandmother grinned impishly. “But I did bake your favorite cinnamon rolls, just in case—Miss Mule.”

      “For dessert?” Isabel asked, sniffing the air, the favorite nickname her grandmother always used to imply that she was stubborn slipping over her head. “Or do I have to hold out till breakfast?”

      Martha reached across the lacy white tablecloth to pat her granddaughter’s hand. “Not a soul here, but you and me. Guess we can eat ’em any time we get hungry for ’em.”

      “Dessert, then, definitely,” Isabel affirmed, munching down on her steak. “Ah, Grammy, you are the best cook in the world.”

      “Well, you could have my cooking a lot more if you came to visit more often.”

      Isabel set her fork down, her gaze centered on her sweet grandmother. She loved her Grammy; loved her plump, sweet-scented welcoming arms, loved her smiling, jovial face, loved her gray tightly curled hair. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to move back here permanently, a subject they’d tossed back and forth over the years.

      Her tone gentle, she said, “Grammy, don’t start with that. You know I have to travel a lot in my line of work and I don’t always have an opportunity to come home.”

      Martha snorted. “Well, you told me yourself you didn’t have any assignments lined up over the next few weeks, so you can stay here and have a nice vacation. Living in a suitcase—that is no kind of life for a young lady.”

      “I have an apartment in Savannah.”

      “That you let other people live in—what kind of privacy does that give you?”

      “Very little, when I manage to get back there,” Isabel had to admit. “Subletting is the only way to hold on to it, though.”

      “And you always going on and on when you were little about having a home of your own.”

      Her appetite suddenly gone, Isabel stared down at the pink-and-blue-flowered pattern on her grandmother’s aged china. “Yeah, I did do that. But I never got that home. And I’ve learned to be content with what I do have.” Only lately, she had to admit, her nomadic life was starting to wear a little thin.

      Wanting to lighten the tone of the conversation, she jumped up to hug her grandmother. “And I have everything I need—like home-baked cinnamon rolls and a grandmother who doesn’t nag too much.”

      Martha sighed and patted Isabel’s back, returning the hug generously. “Okay, Miss Mule, I can take a hint. I won’t badger you anymore—tonight at least.”

      “Thank you,” Isabel said, settling back down in her own chair. “Now, how ’bout one of those rolls you promised me?”

      “Glad to be home?” Martha challenged, her brows lifting, a teasing glow on her pink-cheeked face.

      “Oh, all right, yes,” Isabel admitted, taking the small defeat as part of the fun of having a remarkable woman for a grandmother. “I’m glad to be home.”

      “That’s good, dear.”

      Isabel smiled as Martha headed into the kitchen to retrieve two fat, piping hot cinnamon rolls. Martha Landry was a pillar of the church, a Sunday school teacher who prided herself on teaching the ways of Jesus Christ as an example of character and high moral standing, but with a love and practicality that reached the children much more effectively than preaching down to them ever could.

      Isabel knew her grandmother wouldn’t preach to her, either; not in the way her own parents always had. It was a special part of her relationship with her grandmother that had grown over the years since her parents’ deaths. She could talk to Grammy about anything and know that Martha Landry wouldn’t sit in judgment. One of Grammy’s favorite Bible quotes was from First Corinthians: “For if we would judge ourselves, we should not be judged.”

      Isabel knew her grandmother believed in accepting people as humans, complete with flaws. And that included their mighty neighbors. Yet Isabel couldn’t help but judge the Murdocks, since they’d passed judgment on her a long time ago.

      “I saw Dillon tonight,” she said now, her gaze locking with her grandmother’s, begging for understanding. “He’s home for the wedding.”

      Isabel watched for her grandmother’s reaction, and seeing no condemnation, waited for Martha to speak.

      “Well, well,” the older woman said at last, her carefully blank gaze searching Isabel’s face. “And how was Mr. Dillon Murdock?”

      “Confused, I believe,” Isabel replied. “He seemed so sad, Grammy. So very sad.”

      “That man’s had a rough reckoning over the past few years. From what I’ve heard, he hasn’t had it so easy since he left Wildwood.”

      Hating herself for being curious, Isabel asked, “And just what did you hear?”

      Grammy feigned surprise. “Child, you want me to pass on gossip?”

      Isabel grinned. “Of course not. I just want you to share what you know.”

      Martha licked sweet, white

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