LITMIR.BIZ

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ribs. He still wasn’t sure if the rule regarding shared parking lots had been on the books for years or if it was something Jillian might have shoved through to tip the scales in Mr. Crunchy’s favor. In any case, he wasn’t about to discuss that property with anyone other than Lydia, Iris and his lawyer.

      “The cottages,” Iris explained after frowning at her son. “Roy had some cottages upriver that we used to rent out. They need freshening up before we can sell them.”

      J.T. suppressed a snort. They needed a hell of a lot more than freshening. There were floorboards to replace, wallpaper to strip and steps that were lawsuits in the making. He would have his hands full getting them fixed up by the end of summer.

      “Gotcha. Well, then.” Steve pulled out a few paint chips. “Here’s some popular yellows and greens. Why don’t you look them over, Iris? And J.T., would you mind giving me a hand with a load of mulch in the back?”

      J.T. had no doubt that the “load” waiting for him had nothing whatsoever to do with mulch. But before he could say something about a bad back, Iris beat him to the punch.

      “Of course he’ll help. J.T., you’ve been showing off those muscles since you got home. Go put them to use.”

      God save him from mothers on a mission.

      He followed Steve into the back room. But as he’d expected, Steve had something else in mind.

      “Hang on there a minute, will ya, J.T.?”

      J.T. came to a halt between a shelf loaded with potting soil and another one overflowing with hose heads. He hoped he could look reasonably surprised by this request.

      Are you really surprised, or are you just a great actor?

      He frowned in an attempt to chase Lydia’s voice from his memory. He couldn’t deal with that particular problem now.

      ’Course, he’d spent the whole night telling himself that. It hadn’t done a bit of good then, either. No amount of rationalizing had made him forget that moment in the dark when she had made that little sound he could swear had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with—

      “So listen.” Steve pulled open a box of hammers and began stacking them on the closest shelf. “I hear you’ve got a full plate ahead of you, selling and packing and such.”

      “You’re very well-informed,” J.T. said wryly.

      “Small town, big mouths. Speaking of which, I have to ask—how long do you think this is gonna take?”

      It was a good thing he bore no illusions about his standing in this town. He could get a complex from people asking how long he planned to stick around.

      “I’ll wrap things up as fast as I can, but you know it’s not all up to me.” Then, because it was Steve asking, and at one time he and Steve had been pretty tight, he risked a guess.

      “People getting nervous because I’m here?”

      “Some.”

      “They think I’m gonna start another fire?” J.T. paused, watching Steve carefully. “Or do they think I’m going to start talking about what really happened that night?”

      “Look.” Steve swallowed hard as he placed the next hammer on the shelf. “I know you got a raw deal back then. You don’t know how many times I wished I’d had the guts to stand up for you, tell people the truth. But I didn’t. I’m not proud of it, but what’s done is done, and now I—”

      “Easy, Steve.” J.T. couldn’t take much more of watching the guy fall all over himself. “Look. I’m not here to dig up old memories or start any rumors. None of that crap. As far as I’m concerned, the fire is ancient history.”

      “A lot of folks don’t feel that way.”

      “Sure. A lot of meddling old busybodies with nothing better to do than—”

      “A lot of customers who live here year-round and keep my business going. Folks who make it possible for me to make my child support payments and keep some other people employed, too.”

      Oh.

      “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that because I came back, people are talking about the fire again. And that’s a conversation that some folks—say, you, and Mike Smithers, and Larry Brown and Tim Pattinson and some others—would rather didn’t get started again.”

      Steve’s head bobbed in what J.T. assumed was agreement. “That’s about it.”

      “I see.”

      J.T. rocked back on his heels, staring out at the yard. If he moved slightly to the right he could catch a glimpse of the river in the distance, the blue calling to him like an old lover.

      “They’re all still here in town?”

      “Some. The ones who aren’t still have family here.”

      He thought back to the new stores on the streets, the names taking on deeper meaning.

      He hadn’t been alone the night of the fire, but he’d been the only one spotted at the scene, the only one to flee town. The others had stayed. Stayed, and kept silent.

      And helped the town rebuild.

      “Steve. Look. I’m not trying to stir up anything. And I’m not—okay, for a while I was pissed that no one said anything, but seriously, it wasn’t like we could undo what happened.”

      “So you’re not trying to set the record straight?”

      He sighed. “I am here to sell off the properties and get my mother packed up and move her to Tucson with me. That’s it.”

      Relief flooded Steve’s face.

      “Right. Well, then. Let’s get you some paint.”

      “Got anything that’ll whitewash the past?” J.T. asked, and followed Steve back into store.

      * * *

      LYDDIE HAD COME a long way in the years since Glenn died. The pain of losing him was always there but manageable now, the jagged edges blunted by time. But some days still ripped her. Today was one.

      “I hate Father’s Day,” Tish said. Lyddie bit her lip and concentrated on working through the snarl in Tish’s long auburn curls.

      “Why do we have to go? It’s yucky. You get sad and Gram cries. And it’s hot there, and you won’t let me run. I have to be a laaaaady.” She wrinkled her nose at her reflection. “It’s not like Daddy can see us or anything. Are you almost done? I want my hair short. Can I get it cut soon?”

      “We’ll get it cut when school is out. I’ll be done in another minute—faster if you hold still. And as for why we’re going to the cemetery...” But for this, Lyddie had no easy answer. How to explain to a seven-year-old that some things are done just for the sake of doing them, for the assurance that you’ve done what you could even when you know it won’t make a bit of difference?

      “We’re not going for Daddy.” She flipped the comb around and parted Tish’s hair down the middle. “We’re going for us. So we can remember.”

      Silence. Then—

      “But I don’t remember him, Mommy.”

      Lyddie closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of her daughter’s hair, soft and curling in her hands. “I know, sweets. You were too little when we lost him. But it’s a way of remembering that you had a daddy who loved you. That’s important for you to know.”

      “I know that already,” Tish grumbled, but she didn’t sound quite as reluctant. “Are you doing regular braids or fancy ones?”

      “Fancy.”

      “Oh, great.” Tish slid down in the chair, and blew out a drama-queen sigh that had to have come from her sister. Lyddie snickered and concentrated

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