LITMIR.BIZ

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that response.

      

      GRACE, MEANWHILE, was feeling mean. Her neighbor had taken her car out of good intentions, so that he could fix it for her. She knew he wouldn’t charge her for it, either. She grimaced. She needed to stop taking out her frustration on him. Just because she was frantic about Granny was no reason to hurt other people. Not that he seemed the sort of person you could hurt…

      She wasn’t working today, except on her own little project that consumed much of her free time and what little of her income she could spare. So when she got to a stopping point, she went into the kitchen and started cooking. She’d heard Miss Turner say that Garon was partial to an apple cake, and she was famous for hers. She used dried apples, which gave the dessert a taste all its own.

      That afternoon, when Garon’s foreman, Clay Davis, brought the car back, she went out to thank him with the cake in a carrier.

      He was headed toward a pickup truck driven by one of his men, but he stopped when he saw Grace coming and smiled, doffing his wide-brimmed hat.

      “Miss Grace,” he said respectfully.

      She grinned. “Hi, Clay. Would you do me a favor and take this to your boss?”

      He looked at the cake in its carrier. “Hemlock or deadly nightshade?” he asked wickedly.

      She gaped at him.

      He shrugged. “Well, we’ve sort of heard that the two of you don’t get along.”

      “It’s just a nice apple cake,” she defended herself.

      “I felt guilty for saying unkind things to him. It’s sort of a peace offering.”

      “I’ll tell him.” He took the cake.

      She smiled. “Thanks for fixing my car.”

      “Key’s in it,” he said. “And you need to watch that oil gauge,” he added. “We patched the leak, but just in case, don’t set off anywhere until you’re sure it’s got oil in it. If you notice a leak, let us know. We’ll fix that.”

      “Thanks a lot, Clay.”

      He shrugged. “Neighbors help each other out.”

      “Yes, but there’s not a lot I could do for your boss. He’s already got all the help he needs.”

      He smiled. “He does have a sweet tooth,” he confided, “although Miss Turner isn’t much of a hand at cakes or pies. Don’t tell her I said that,” he added. “She’s a great cook.”

      “She just doesn’t do pastries,” Grace finished for him, smiling back. “That’s okay. I can’t fry chicken or make biscuits.”

      “We all have our gifts,” he agreed.

      “Thanks again.”

      “No problem.”

      He drove away with the cake beside him on the truck seat.

      

      THAT NIGHT, Grace drove herself to the hospital. She sat outside the intensive care unit, in the waiting room, until very late. Coltrain found her there, alone, when he made his last rounds.

      He ground his teeth together. “Grace, you can’t work all day and sit here all night,” he grumbled, standing over her.

      She smiled. “If it were your grandmother, you’d be sitting here.”

      He sighed. “Yes, I would. But I’m in better health than you are…”

      “Don’t start,” she said curtly. “I take very good care of myself and I have a terrific doctor.”

      “Flattery doesn’t work on me,” he replied. “Ask Lou,” he added. Lou was his wife.

      She shrugged. “It was worth a try.” Her eyes became solemn. “The nurse said there’s no change.”

      He sat down beside her, looking worn. “Grace, you know that heart tissue doesn’t regenerate, don’t you?”

      She grimaced. “Miracles still happen,” she said stubbornly.

      “Yes, I know, I’ve seen them. But it’s a very long shot, in this case,” he added. “You have to get used to the idea that your grandmother may not come home.”

      Tears pricked her eyes. She clasped her hands together, very tightly, in her lap. “She’s all I’ve got, Copper.”

      He bit his tongue trying not to say what he was thinking. “Don’t make her into a saint,” he said curtly.

      “She was sorry about it all,” she reminded him with big, wet eyes. “She didn’t mean to get drunk that night. I know she didn’t. It hurt her that Mama went off without a word and dumped me in her lap.”

      “Is that what she said?” he fished.

      Her face closed up. “She wasn’t a motherly sort of woman, I suppose,” she had to admit. “She didn’t really like kids, and I was a lot of trouble.”

      “Grace,” he said gently, “you were never a lot of trouble to anyone. You were always the one doing the work at your house. Your grandmother sat and watched soap operas all day and drank straight gin while you did everything else. The gin is why her heart gave out.”

      She bit her lower lip. “At least she was there,” she said harshly. “My father didn’t want kids, so when I came along, he ran off with some minor beauty queen and never looked back. My mother hated me because I was the reason my father left. And no other man wanted her with a ready-made family, so she left, too.”

      “You looked like your father,” he recalled.

      “Yes, and that’s why she hated me most.” She looked at her clasped hands. “I never thought she cared about me at all. It was a shock, what she did.”

      “It was guilt, I imagine,” he replied. “Like your grandmother, she had a high opinion of her family name. She expected what happened to be in all the newspapers. And it would have been, except for your grandmother playing on Chet Blake’s soft heart and begging him to bury the case so nobody knew exactly what happened. But it was too late to save your mother by then.”

      She swallowed, hard. “They never caught him.”

      “Maybe he died,” Coltrain replied curtly. “Or maybe he went to prison for some other crime.”

      She looked up at him. “Or maybe he did it to some other little girl,” she said curtly.

      “Your grandmother didn’t care. She only wanted it hushed up.”

      “Chief Blake was sorry because of what happened to my mother,” she said absently. “Otherwise, I expect he would have pursued the case. He was a good policeman.”

      “It was more than that,” he said, his expression solemn. “The perpetrator thought you were dead. Chet thought you were safer if he kept thinking it. He didn’t mean for you to live and testify against him, Grace.”

      Her skin crawled at just the memory. She wrapped her arms around herself. “Do you suppose he kept the file?”

      “I’m sure he did, but it’s probably well hidden,” he told her. “I doubt Cash Grier will accidentally turn it up, if that’s what’s worrying you,” he added gently.

      She grimaced. “It was. Garon has been very kind to me,” she told him, “in a sore-paw, irritated sort of way. I don’t want him to know about me.”

      “It was never your fault, Grace,” he said, his voice soft and kind, as if he were talking to a small child. In fact, it had been Copper who treated her when the policemen brought her to the emergency room. He’d been a resident then.

      “Some people say I asked for it,” she bit off.

      “Hell!”

      “He

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