Picture This (33 page)

“Well, that's not happening till we find out what's wrong with you.”

Ten minutes later: “How about now?”

“Have you seen a doctor come through here, telling you you can go? No? Neither have I. So you're staying.”

Fifteen minutes later: “That's it. I'm busting out of here. Who's with me? Movie star? Find me my shoes, dammit.”

Niall, who had been leaning on a counter off to one side, building a log cabin with long, paper-wrapped cotton swabs, was across the room like a shot. Suddenly he was in front of Holly, one hand on either side of her, palms flat on the exam table. “No,” he growled. “Listen to your granddaughter. You're staying here until they find out what's wrong with you. You're staying here until they treat you. To make sure you don't die. Got that?”

Holly was taken aback. So was Celia. She glanced at her grandmother, who was staring, openmouthed, at Niall. Finally the woman said, “Fine! Sheesh! What's up your butt, movie star?”

In a softer tone—but not by much—he said, looking her straight in the eye, “I lost my grandmother because I wasn't there to make sure she saw a doctor. She was just as stubborn as you, so I know what I'm dealing with. And I'm not losing you too. Got that?”

Instead of snapping at him again, Holly softened, and put a hand to his cheek. “You're a good boy.”

Celia turned away so they wouldn't see the tears in her eyes.

C
elia stood in the middle of the kitchen, a bit lost. She took a moment to rub her eyes and felt the weariness in her bones. Then she shook herself, squared her shoulders, and yanked open the narrow cupboard above the dish drainer to haul out all her grandmother's pill bottles. So many. Niall was right—it was frighteningly easy not to see something amiss with someone you loved, even if it was going on right under your nose.

She started sorting. Almost all of them were going to be spirited away from Holly, taken to the next medication disposal event at Marsden Apothecary. In the meantime, she dumped the bottles into a plastic shopping bag and knotted the top. The doctor had explained about how the medications Holly was taking with abandon—her antihistamines and sleeping pills especially—had had an adverse effect on her. Not to mention that she'd been taking the wrong doses, at the wrong times, and how this one or that one had fogged her brain. And the more fogged her brain had gotten, the more confused she'd been, and the more mistakes she'd made with her subsequent doses. A perfect storm, the doctor had explained, for mimicking dementia. If that weren't enough, he'd discovered a severe vitamin deficiency, and now Holly was going to receive regular shots of B-12, which she was furious about—well, more the requirement that she was going to have to visit her doctor regularly, and he was going to be keeping a close eye on her from now on.

Not to say that her grandmother would be perfectly healthy once the medications were out of her system. There really was plaque building up in her brain, and the doctor had said something about “tangles”—which just made Celia think of her mother's yarn bombs—signs of impending dementia. But not as severe as what she'd been displaying recently—that could be reversed. So that was something, anyway. For now at least.

The news seemed to finally defeat the indefatigable Holland Leigh. She'd gone quiet . . . but only for a little while. Then she'd come back with both guns blazing, insisting she was really going to stay put now, all thoughts she'd entertained about the senior home out the window. As if staying within her familiar four walls would keep her from aging one more day.

But Celia's parents had been waiting at the house when she'd brought Holly home in the early evening, and once they'd all worked together to stuff Holly into bed—there was much protesting, especially when she was denied the drink she'd been waiting for all afternoon—Alan and Wendy had assured Celia that their goal was to get Holly into the senior home as soon as humanly possible. That it was now nonnegotiable. No matter what Holly thought.

And then they'd enthusiastically started sifting through Holly's things—all the items Celia had already sorted and packed—as though they'd been the first to think of all the tasks that needed to be done to get the house in order before it went on the market. They'd even drafted Jordan, who'd helped for about half an hour, then had made some excuse to get away. Celia didn't blame her—Jordan had come to Marsden thinking she'd be able to lounge around her grandmother's house and do nothing; she hadn't planned on walking into the mayhem caused by Holly's illness, not to mention the chaos surrounding Celia and Niall.

But for Celia . . . being with Niall . . . it no longer felt like chaos. It felt like home. More than anything else in her life. And now it was all going to change.

When they'd left the hospital, Niall had secured Holly into the passenger seat of her own car, kissed the old woman on the cheek, slammed the door, and quietly told Celia he had to get back to the inn, but he'd come by later to check on them. So he wasn't leaving just yet. She was glad of that, even though she knew it was just delaying the inevitable. He had his life. She had hers. And those lives weren't going to occur in the same location. Not anymore.

Celia stayed in the kitchen while her parents were clunking and clanking about in the living room. It was wasted effort on their part—in more ways than one—but she couldn't tell them to stop. Not just yet. Soon, though.

When her parents moved on to the garage, Celia passed through the disordered house to the front porch. She curled up on the weather-beaten loveseat, leaned back, and closed her eyes, letting the regular, familiar rhythm of the neighborhood wash over her: lawnmowers roared in concert, the wind tossed the tips of the scattered pines and shushed through the leaves of the more plentiful maples, small children squealed in the distance. In the street, a skateboarder tried—and failed—to conquer an ollie. Repeatedly.
Swush, chunk. Swush, chunk.
She admired the kid's tenacity even as his persistence started to grate on her.
Sometimes, kid
, she thought,
you've got to accept that you just can't pull it off and just give the hell up.

She opened her eyes when she heard heavy footsteps on the old wooden porch steps. At the sight of Niall, long and lean, her heart raced, but she forced herself to stay still.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” She looked past him, at the driveway. “Where's the Stinger?”

“On the street. I didn't want to block your U-Haul. How's she doing?”

“She'll be all right. She's napping.”

Celia made room on the loveseat for Niall, who gathered her up, his arms encircling her from behind. She leaned back against his strong, comforting chest.

“And you?” he asked.

“Pretty exhausted.”

“Can't imagine why.”

“You're leaving now, aren't you?”

“Said my good-byes to everyone. That took a while. I missed Audra, though—think she'll understand?”

“You will pay, and dearly.”

“I'll be a long way away when she finds out.”

“Doesn't matter. She will hunt you down. Her wrath exceeds the bounds of time and space. Did you see Nora?”

“I did. And I offered to hook her up with some people in the biz. She said she's not interested. She said she's comfortable here, she's made her peace with the past.”

“Mm. I'm not surprised.”

“I respect her for it.”

Celia's stomach churned. “Good,” she murmured.

He took a breath. “So now I came to get you.”

She almost couldn't get the words out. But she had to. Her voice was strangled as she said, “And you know I can't go.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I figured as much. I was hoping I was wrong, but I know you wouldn't want to leave until your grandmother's settled. How long do you think that'll be? Another week?”

She didn't answer his question. “I don't have a job anymore, you know.”

“What?”

“Vic got fed up waiting for me. I can't say that I blame him—he could replace me a hundred times over with a snap of his fingers. To his credit, he did ask me if I was coming back right away. But when I said no, he said he couldn't hold my job for me anymore.”

Niall sat up straighter, reaching in his pocket for his phone, though he still held her to him. “I'm calling him right now—”

“Don't. I don't want the job.”

“Oh!” He relaxed, and his arms tightened around her again. “You're going to be a photographer full time? Finally?”

She hesitated. “Maybe.”

“Well, good thing you've got your first gig, then,” he murmured close to her ear.

She sat up and turned to him suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”

“All those photos you took during Night of Shooting the Stars—”

“Hey. Ray warned you about that.”

“Yeah, but it's the perfect name for your exhibition.”

“What exhibition?”

He lifted his chin and said pompously, “I am proud to announce that the Bowen Farms Art Gallery is extremely excited to mount the exhibition ‘Night of Shooting the Stars.' ” He paused to let that sink in, then added smugly, “I pulled a few strings. The owners are friends of mine, you know.”

The deep ache in her heart was muddied first by befuddlement, then a growing sense of happiness and a rush of love for this man who would do this for her. “You. Conned Casey and George. Into doing an exhibition of my photography.”

“You're welcome.”

“Unbelievable.”

“I
believe
this requires payment of at least one kiss. As a deposit. I'll get the balance from you later.”

But she held off. “Um, speaking of payment, you know the exhibition wouldn't be a paying gig, right? I can't live on praise alone.”

“True. However, I kept the paparazzi outside the arts center for a reason—besides giving you some peace, I mean. It was so you could have an exclusive on the photos during the performance.”

“I don't think any paying outlets would be interested in shots of Mrs. P and Nestor, even if they are singing their hearts out.”

“But paying outlets
would
pay for shots of me. I'll have those ‘paying outlets' buy them from you. They'll eat them up. So there you go. Profit off me. It's the least I can do.”

“You're always thinking.” Celia finally did kiss him—she couldn't resist for long, even if it hurt like hell—then murmured, “You realize the whole leaving-here-without-me thing . . . people will talk.”

“Tell them you are not the new Nora.”

He was right. Because Niall wasn't the one doing the leaving—not really.

“Hey,” he murmured, studying her, “you okay?”

Oh no.
That kind of sweetness was sure to draw the tears out of her. And here they came. “It's just . . . I'll miss you.”

“I should hope so.” He gave her his familiar cocky grin, but she could see pain behind it, matching hers. Then he abandoned all pretense of nonchalance. “I'll miss you too. So much. I can't . . .” He broke off with a frustrated growl and looked away for a moment. When he turned back, Celia was startled to see the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. “When I said I love you . . . I didn't say that lightly.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Neither did I.”

He groaned and rubbed his eyes. “God, this sucks.” Then he forced himself to rally. “Okay. Just for a little while, right? Take care of your grandmother. Do whatever you have to do. And you'll be back in the city before we know it. Right?”

She didn't answer, just hugged him tight around his middle, burying her face in his shirt so he wouldn't see her cry. He kissed the top of her head then rested his cheek on it, and she wasn't sure she'd be able to move from that spot ever again.

After a few moments, Niall let go of her to reach into his back pocket. “In the meantime, I want you to have these. To remember me by.”

Celia stared at the bundle of black cloth he held out to her. “I couldn't possibly take your backup boxers. You might need them.”

“I insist. You never know when someone's going to want to take a photo of you with no pants on.” He nudged them toward her until she accepted them. “Oh, one more thing.” He dug into the front pocket of his jeans this time, came up with a red balloon, stretched it, blew it up, bent it, curved it, tied it.

Her tears sprang up yet again when he held it out to her. “It's beautiful.”

“I practiced a lot. I wanted to make sure you could tell what it was this time.”

“It's a heart.”

“It's my heart. Don't pop it. I gave the practice ones to Amelia. She popped all of them.”

“Well, she's a holy terror.”

Niall laughed. “I'll miss you. And the holy terror. And . . . all of Marsden.”

 

“You're awake.”

“Means I'm not dead. Be happy.”

Celia forced a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I deserve that scotch, finally.” Holly hesitated, scrutinizing her granddaughter. “Did I hear the movie star a few minutes ago?”

Nodding—and avoiding meeting her grandmother's eyes—Celia said, “Yep. He just left.”

“
Left
left? Left town, left? Without saying good-bye to me?”

“He knew you were resting.”

“Huh. And why are you still here, then?”

Celia renewed her fake smile. It hurt her face, but she did her best to keep it there. “Good news.”

“You're still here, so how is that possible?”

“Thanks a lot, Gran.”

“What good news?”

“We can all stop packing. You can stay in your house.”

“What?”

“You don't have to go to the senior home. I'm going to stay here and take care of you.”

Gran was loud by nature, but Celia never expected the sheer force of the bellow that erupted out of the small woman now. “You are
not
!”

“Gran!”

“No! My God, don't you dare! Don't you
dare
think you're going to . . . to . . . I will
not
be the reason you . . . No. You are not staying here. I don't want you here.”

“Gran, calm down—”

“You are not giving up everything to come back here and . . . and . . . cram yourself into a smaller life. Don't. You. Dare.”

Rushing footsteps sounded in the hall, and then Alan and Wendy were crowding into Holly's bedroom as well.

“What in the hell is going on in here?” Alan demanded.

“Oh, is this what the doctor warned us about?” Wendy asked. “The behavior changes? Mom, do you feel hostile?”

“When you talk to me like that, you bet I do.”

“Mom, Dad, change of plans,” Celia said. “Gran's staying.”

“No, I'm not. I'm going to the senior home. Alan, Wendy, sell this place as soon as you can. Even at a loss. I don't care.”

“Gran—”

“I will sell the house out from under you if I have to.”

Then another person squeezed into the room—Jordan, back from wherever she'd been for hours, casually licking an ice cream cone. “Your dude's outside,” she said to Celia.