LITMIR.BIZ

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a cause for celebration?”

      “Bells, whistles and firecrackers.” Geneva cocked her head, studying Annie. “Did you sleep well?”

      “Fine,” Annie lied. No point mentioning the hours she’d lain awake listening to the wind and wishing Geneva still felt like trotting around the globe gathering information and anecdotes for her travel books.

      “I don’t believe you.” Her aunt hesitated. “Everything must seem strange to you. The town, the cottage—” she gestured airily “—and me. No wonder. I feel strange to myself. I keep thinking I can run upstairs, walk on the beach, drive a car.” She sighed. “I guess I should be thankful I’m still breathing, because we have work to do.”

      “Work?”

      “See that chest over there by the piano? Bring it to me.”

      Annie pushed the heavy container across the floor to Geneva, who leaned over and, with effort, opened the lid. Inside were sheafs of paper, along with photo albums.

      “This, my dear niece, is Greer family memorabilia. You are my only descendant, and I don’t want our history to die with me.”

      Annie picked up a packet of letters tied with binding twine. “You’re the only Greer I really know. I have sketchy memories of my father, but I was only five when he died. It’s as if he’s the star of a long-ago movie that I can scarcely remember, no matter how hard I try to rewind.”

      “We can’t bring him back, but we can certainly flesh out some of those memories and more. If nothing else, Greers have always been unique individuals. Look at me. I’ve been to six continents, had lovers on three—”

      “Auntie G.!”

      “Don’t look so shocked. Just because I never married doesn’t mean I didn’t have good times. But more about that later.” She paused to cough wetly into a tissue. “I thought each day we might make some headway with what’s in the chest. You can work in the afternoon while I rest.”

      “I’d like that,” Annie said quietly.

      “You know, this house is falling apart. The porch railings are loose and there are water spots upstairs. I don’t want to even think about dry rot around the doors and windows. Would you mind going through the place to check for problem areas?”

      “Not at all.”

      “I’ll phone my neighbor Frances Gardner for recommendations for a repairman—it’s been so long since I lived here. I want to get this done.”

      Annie recognized the steel in Geneva’s voice and the implied message: before I die. “I’ll get right on it.”

      “Good. Then after my nap, I’m challenging you to a game of gin rummy. Winner gets an extra glass of wine.” Her eyes glinted mischievously.

      “Are you even supposed to drink?”

      “One glass. But that’s if I lose. Which I won’t.”

      Annie wanted to argue, to implore her aunt to do exactly what the doctor had ordered. Yet, if her days were numbered, what harm could a second glass of wine do in the big scheme of things?

      The phone rang and Annie heard Carmen answer it in the kitchen. After a few moments, she appeared in the doorway, her expressive eyes filled with tears.

      Geneva stretched out her hand. “Carmen, what is it, dear?”

      “My daughter. She’s had her baby. A niño, a boy. Too soon. Three months soon. I…She needs help with my granddaughter.”

      “Of course, you must go.” Geneva’s tone brooked no argument. “As soon as you can.”

      “But you are sick and—”

      “Annie is here and she will take care of me.”

      Carmen wiped her eyes. “Gracias, señorita. I go now and pack. Annie, you come and I tell you about caring for your tia.”

      The rest of the day passed in a blur of instructions and arrangements. At Geneva’s insistence that she could be left alone, Annie drove Carmen to catch a shuttle at the nearby beach resort.

      When Annie returned to the cottage in the late afternoon, she noticed there were no lights shining from the house. She found Geneva asleep in her chair, her skin ashen and her breath labored, despite the oxygen tank.

      Annie panicked. What did she know about caring for a dying woman? With Carmen away, Annie would be forced into the community—to the grocery, the pharmacy, the gas station. There would be no avoiding people. People who would not welcome her presence. People who would blame her.

      MONDAY MORNING Kyle dragged himself into consciousness, battling images of his recurring nightmare. Drenched in sweat, he sat on the side of the bed cradling his aching head in his hands. Damn it, damn it, damn it! The dream always started so innocently, luring him into the vortex of horror. The details might change, but the ending never did. Dressed in period costume, he stood on a scaffolding, holding in his hand a long-handled ax, dripping with blood. And staring up at him with a gentle but distorted smile was Pete, his head severed from his neck.

      It didn’t take a shrink to get the symbolism. The hell of it was, he lived it every day, with or without the dream. Each time he passed the field where he and Pete had played American Legion baseball, reported to the National Guard Armory or shook hands with Bruce.

      Why couldn’t it have been him? What did he have to live for compared to Pete? A mother who’d abandoned him and a father who beat the crap out of him on a regular basis? Certainly not a beautiful girl he loved with every fiber of his being. Nor a future full of promise.

      Kyle shut his eyes to the photo on his dresser of him and Pete, arms around each other’s shoulders, caps tilted cockily, on their last day of leave before deployment to Afghanistan.

      Slowly the sensation of Bubba licking his toes pulled him from his thoughts.

      After a long, hot shower and a bowl of instant oatmeal, he felt minimally better. It would be a relief to go to work. There he wouldn’t have time to brood.

      Rita eyed him speculatively when he arrived at the office. “You’re late.”

      “So?”

      “Just commenting because you’re almost never late.”

      He shrugged, disinclined to engage in their usual banter.

      “Well,” she drawled, “maybe you’re excused just this once. Besides, if you’d already been on the job, you’d have missed this.” She handed him a phone memo.

      “Huh? The Greer place?” He studied the message requesting an estimate on repairs. “I thought I saw a car there last week.”

      “Frankly, Geneva didn’t sound good. Told me she wants to get her place fixed up ASAP. Before she dies, she said. Talk about a conversation stopper. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I told her we’d have someone out today.”

      The Greer cottage had always had a special charm. He was sorry about the old lady, but he’d love to get his hands on that house.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE MORNING HAD NOT gone well. Figuring out Auntie G.’s medications and dressing her had taken longer than Annie had predicted. Then she’d burned the toast and undercooked the eggs. Geneva had waved off her apology, daintily dipping a corner of her toast in the runny yolk, but beyond that, eating nothing.

      After breakfast, even though she seemed tired, Geneva insisted that Annie help her into her living room chair. Managing the walker and the oxygen tank at the same time was difficult, but finally she had her aunt settled, the afghan over her knees, a book in her lap.

      “I’ll be fine here. Go, get the kitchen cleaned up, take a shower. Don’t worry about me.”

      After loading the dishwasher and wiping

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