The Sweetheart Bargain (A Sweetheart Sisters Novel) (6 page)

“Of course you’re hungry. And so am I.” She barreled her tiny frame past him and into the house. “Do you have any coffee?”

“Grandma—”

“Lord, it’s dark in here. You are not a bat, living in a cave.” She went around the room, flicking on lights and lifting the shades. As the sun hit the space, Grandma’s petite body became a sharp silhouette against a yellow background. “Are you trying to roast yourself alive? My goodness, Luke, no one likes a sweaty pig.” She spun the dial on the thermostat down to arctic. Outside the house, the air conditioner kicked on with a surprised jolt.

“I’m fine.”

“And I’m Oprah Winfrey.” She stepped up to him and though he could only see her outline, he knew the stance she had taken. A fist propped on her hip—replaced last year after a nasty fall down her front steps—and her chin raised to give him “the look.” Grandma Greta stood a good foot and a half shorter than Luke, but when she gave him that I-don’t-believe-you look, she seemed ten feet tall. She paused and put a hand on his arm. “What’s the matter?”

He started to say
Nothing
but knew his grandmother would see right through the lie. After all, he was, like she said, living like a sweaty pig in the dark. “I saw Dr. Ebersol today.”

“What’d he say?”

“That the results of the first surgery weren’t what they hoped.” Luke shook his head. “I like how they put that. Not what they hoped. Code for
it didn’t work and I’m as bad off as I was before
.”

“No improvement?”

He shook his head and cursed the opaque blurs that had become his line of sight. “Nothing measurable. But with time, he said, or a second surgery, or hell, a visit from the vision fairy—” He cut off the words before he let his frustration boil over onto his grandmother.

He’d known before he’d even seen Doc Ebersol that the news wasn’t going to be good. Luke had spent too much time in the water, then too much time in the twisted wreckage, then too much time in transit, then too much time waiting for the specialist to get to Anchorage. The scar tissue had taken hold, and that, along with the severity of the retinal detachments and the orbital fracture in his left eye, had done its damage. Permanent damage.

Still, he’d hoped like hell after the surgery, then during that monthlong wait before he was cleared to travel back to Florida, that it would all improve. Patience, the doctors had said. Patience. He’d had two months of patience and dashed hopes and it hadn’t gotten him anywhere except half blind, with one eye ten times worse than the other, creating a confusion of shitty vision.

A tender hand on his arm, and his temper eased. “I’m sorry,” Grandma said. “But you know, it’s still awfully soon. Your body needs time to heal . . . It’ll get better.”

All things the doctor had said, too, but Luke had pretty much stopped listening by then. Nobody could give him a definitive answer about whether he would get better or worse or stay the same. Luke Winslow, who was used to taking charge, taking the wheel, and being the first one into the fray, was stuck in a gray blurry world, waiting for a miracle that might never come.

Doc Ebersol had reminded him today that retinal detachment recoveries varied from patient to patient. His retina could detach again, or he could improve. Or he could stay the same, locked in this in-between world of dark shadows and blurred vision, a common result of a “macula off” retinal detachment like Luke’s. The road to recovery depended on a million factors—the scar tissue’s impact, the success of the reattachments, the health of his eyes. It wasn’t just Luke’s vision that was iffy—it was his future, too.

“Maybe things will get better,” he said.

“They will. And in the meantime, you need to find something to keep you busy and your mind off things. A hobby.”

He snorted. “A hobby? What, quilting?”

“Lord, no. Something fun.”

“Like being It in a game of blindman’s bluff?”

“That is not funny.” A laugh bubbled out of her. “Okay, maybe it is. A little.” She turned back to his living room and, in a flurry of movement and sound, grabbed the paper plates and empty soda cans scattered all over his coffee table and end tables. It was her way of showing she cared without actually having to say the words. No one would describe Grandma Greta as warm and fuzzy. Still, she loved him, in her own way.

Luke took the trash from her and nodded toward the sofa. If he didn’t step in now, Grandma would be scrubbing the floors. She’d taken care of him almost all his life, from the day Luke’s mother died in a car accident when he was three. Edward, Luke’s father, had poured his grief into work, spending sixty, seventy, sometimes a hundred hours a week at the office, avoiding his son’s daily questions of
why
. But Greta, she had been there, with hugs and peanut butter sandwiches and bedtime stories. He loved her with a fierceness that bordered on a lion’s, and hated to see her taking care of him when, at her age, the only one she should be taking care of was herself.

“I’ll do that,” he said. “You sit. I’ll make coffee.”

“Your coffee is terrible, worse than the coffee at the retirement prison. But if you insist . . .”

“I do.”

She followed him to the kitchen, snagging a few more dishes on the way. She laid them on the counter, then sat in one of the walnut chairs ringing his kitchen table. A slight breeze whispered in and out of the one open window. Late-morning sunlight spread in an arc over the kitchen table but had yet to reach the shadowed counters.

Rather than chiding or hovering or doing the housework for him, his grandmother just sat and waited for the coffee. He was grateful for that. One thing Greta was right about—having something to do kept his mind off things. Even if it was just doing the dishes.

In the weeks since his accident, he’d learned ways to cope, to manage the simplest of chores. For the most part, he kept the house tidy, organized, every chair and plate returned to its designated space. But on the dark days, as he called them, the easiest of jobs became ten times harder. Still, he didn’t want to worry his grandmother, so he feigned sight he didn’t have.

Luke wrangled the stopper into the sink, turned on the water, and loaded the dirty dishes, keeping one hand in the sink to watch the level. When it was deep enough, he turned it off and squirted some soap over the whole thing.

He turned and tugged the carafe out of the holder, filled it with water from the sink, then poured the water into the dispenser. The carafe and the pot blurred into unrecognizable dark blobs in front of him, drifting in and out of his line of vision. He cursed, blinked several times, and started pouring again. A few scoops of grounds in the basket, and then he fumbled his hand over the pot and depressed the on button. As he turned away, water dripped in a steady stream onto his bare feet. He let out a curse and grabbed a towel, but his quick wiping only served to whoosh the puddle over the counter and onto the floor. “Coffee will take a minute more.”

His grandmother rose and pressed a gentle hand to his back. “Let me help.”

“I can do it!” Then he hung his head. “I’m sorry. I’m . . . frustrated.”

“And I don’t blame you one bit. I’ve been on that road a time or two myself. When I broke my hip, I had to ask for help for everything from opening a can to using the can, and you know how I hate to be needy. But relying on others got me better faster and back to my old tricks. You know what my daddy always said. Asking for help doesn’t make you a fool. Falling on your ass because you were too stupid to speak up does.”

He chuckled. “True.”

“My daddy was direct, but wise.” She grabbed a second towel, then pressed it into his hands. While he cleaned up the spill, Grandma refilled the carafe and added the water to the coffeepot. A few seconds later, the pot began to percolate and the scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen. “There. Now we can visit.”

He dropped into the opposite chair and took a cookie he didn’t want.
Be social, be nice.
“So . . . what’s new with you, Grandma?”

“I’m old. Which means everything new has passed its warranty.” She leaned forward. “Your father sends his regards.”

Luke snorted. “Does he?”

“Well, not in so many words. But I’m sure he worries about you.”

“I haven’t seen my father in six months,” Luke said. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

Greta didn’t say anything to that. Luke didn’t have to be able to see clearly to know she was sitting there with her lips pursed, biting back a few choice words for her son. The conversation would undoubtedly boomerang right back to the same place. Edward Winslow didn’t approve of his son’s choices and made his disappointment clear on a regular basis. Joining the Coast Guard instead of the Navy, becoming a pilot instead of a SEAL, living alone instead of creating a legacy of namesakes.

And the biggest disappointment of all? Getting injured and becoming what his father considered a “drag on society.”

Luke changed conversational direction. “So, what kind of trouble are you ladies getting into at the retirement home?”

“Trouble? Lord, I wish there were trouble. It’d give me something to do besides wait for my next colonoscopy.”

He chuckled. “Give it time. I’m sure Harold Twohig will do something to stir things up.”

“Stop it. You know the mention of that man’s name gives me indigestion.” She let out a gust. “I swear, he was put on this earth to test me.”

Luke bit back a smile. Greta’s long-standing feud with Harold Twohig never ceased to amuse Luke. For twenty-five years, they’d lived on the same cul-de-sac in Rescue Bay and argued over everything from the posted speed limit to Harold’s penchant for mowing the lawn at first light on Saturday mornings—and always wearing his short-shorts and no shirt. Grandma had gone to the town council to complain that Harold’s beer gut was an offense against humanity and causing her permanent nausea. When Harold moved into Golden Years and once again became Grandma’s neighbor, the feud began to boil all over again. “And are you passing the good neighbor test, Grandma?”

“I do believe God still loves a sinner who gets a C.” She leaned forward and crossed her hands on the table. “Anyway, I’m not just here to bring you cookies.”

“More like bring
you
cookies. And avoid the doctor’s prying eyes.”

She waved that off. “That man and his nutritional guidelines. I’m old enough to eat sugar all day, by God.”

Luke chuckled. “You are indeed, Grandma.”

“In case you didn’t know, I came by to tell you that”—Grandma’s voice rose into a happy range—“you have a new neighbor.”

He leaned back in his chair. The sunlight illuminated his grandmother’s face, turned the outline into features. The blurriness eased a bit. For now. “How do you know?”

“Just because I live in that prison your father put me in doesn’t mean I’m not tuned in to the pulse of this community.”

“Pulse of this community?” Luke laughed. “More like nosing around everywhere you go. I swear, you were a bloodhound in a former life, Grandma.”

She raised her chin. “That is how the best information is obtained. Like the information that your new neighbor, who works at Golden Years, by the way, is pretty. And single.”

Single? He thought of the sassy blonde who’d marched into his yard the other day. She had gumption, he’d give her that. She’d been by several times since, calling for the dog, but he’d stayed inside rather than tangling with her again.

Still, the thought of tangling with her—in any shape, way, or manner—had put a lot of dark, sensual images in his head late at night. He’d tossed and turned, imagining the lithe figure of his new neighbor riding on top of him, her hair loose and tempting around her shoulders, her hands hard on his chest, her body hot and slick with sweat and desire. Calling out his name, begging him for more . . .

Damn. It had been a hell of a long time since Luke had been with a woman.

Over the past few days, he’d found himself wondering about Olivia. Thinking about her when he knew damned well he shouldn’t. Luke knew the reality of his future, and a woman like that sure as hell didn’t figure into that dark timeline. Nor did a woman like her want a man who had made the mistakes he had.

No woman would. And for that reason alone, he’d be smart to keep his distance.

For a while, he’d thought maybe she was a renter. In one month, gone the next. In Florida, plenty of people came for a temporary stay, a break from winter’s cold. But there’d been a delivery truck from a local hardware store, and a pile of boxes on her curb on trash day, clear signs she was no temporary visitor. Couple that with her determination to rescue that stray, and she’d piqued his curiosity.

Luke got to his feet, crossing to the percolating coffeepot. “Don’t try to fix me up, Grandma.”

“Why? You’re single. She’s single. As well as beautiful. Employed. You should ask her on a date.”

He whirled around so fast, he brushed one of the mugs on the counter and sent it spinning. He’d never even seen the mug there.

The world had narrowed on him, like curtains closing. He had always been a man of action, but now, he’d become someone who couldn’t make a cup of coffee without bringing in help. He took a breath, clenched his fists, released them. Wallowing in self-pity only made the mud deeper and thicker.