One Lavender Ribbon

Chapter 2

William Bryant—known to everyone as Pops—rubbed a hand over the fifty-year-old scar on his left leg. Humid mornings brought a stiffness he’d learned to live with but didn’t relish. He rose from the bed slowly, letting old bones and joints awaken as he moved to the window and peeled back the curtain. Lonely strands of light sought to illuminate the room, leaving hazy streaks across the space.

A few personal items and pictures sat here and there, but not quite enough to make it feel like home. He tried to keep the room tidy enough to please his grandson Will, yet cozy enough to please himself, but when he’d tripped on a stack of books in the middle of the night, Will’s desire for a safe, streamlined area overruled Pops’s affection for creature comforts.

The notion of a stroll encouraged a second glance out his window. Morning dew cloaked the backyard with a glistening splash of moisture. No walk to the pier this morning, he decided, tossing a look at the gray sky. With the sun’s inability to break through the clouds and burn off the dew, everything remained slick. He wasn’t afraid of a little moist grass, but Will worried about him, so he would honor his grandson’s wishes.

He didn’t despair over Will’s desire to protect him. Will had sacrificed much of his valued personal space to make room for his only living grandfather. The boy had even forfeited half the library where Pops’s treasured books waited for him, meticulously positioned and ready.

He let the curtain fall back in front of the window, bathing the room in quiet darkness. Weather-imprisoned and joints throbbing, he allowed himself the indulgence of self-pity. But sometimes pity, though she had an edge that could cut, was a welcome companion. After all, it was hard for a man like him to admit age was overtaking agility. Time was conquering dexterity.

He had few regrets. At age eighty-one, not too bad. He’d married a good woman. They’d had a beautiful son. And now he had Will. The memories were first rate. So he’d wake up every morning, open his eyes, and see what was in store for him. At this age, what more could he ask for?

One day, he would simply close his eyes and not open them. That’s how he envisioned it. Now Will, on the other hand, had a recurring nightmare where Pops took out the boat late at night and drowned. Will was a worrier. Not too much Pops could do or say to change that. “It’s just a dream,” Pops assured him. He’d even gone into his grandson’s room when he heard him thrashing about. Soothed his forehead, like he’d done a thousand times while Will was growing up. Pops understood nightmares. A man didn’t survive the second World War and return without knowing the power of bad dreams. But that wouldn’t be the end of life for Pops. No. He’d go to sleep and awaken on a fair morning in Glory. Where there wasn’t any arthritis, and there wasn’t any dew to threaten the path to the pier. Pops smiled.

Weathered fingers reached to the table lamp and fumbled with the switch. He slid his Bible closer, his thumb finding its way down the tattered leather edge.

He read, starting from where he’d stopped the previous morning, pulling the words deep into his soul. He closed the book and felt a quickening, an earnest expectation of something new, something fresh on the horizon.

“I’m not afraid to die.” Determination set his jaw as his gaze moved to the window. “But I’m also not afraid to live.” William rose, slipped on his shoes, and went downstairs to get the boat key. He was headed for the pier.

By morning, the storm had passed, and the silver box waited. Adrienne slept late, and the aching in her muscles confirmed overwork. Sanding an entire fireplace mantle that had fifty-plus years of layers of paint would do that to a body. She could count off the decades as she sanded. The yellow of the sixties, avocado green of the seventies, and then white. Layers and layers of white. But she’d almost completed the project. Just a few finishing touches remained. The desire for completion had fueled her for the better part of the day. Morning had turned to midday, and midday to dusk as she sanded and scraped like a maniac, shoving loose strands of hair from her eyes, blotting the sweat from her brow, barely stopping to take a break. Now she was wishing she’d used a little wisdom. Every muscle screamed. She needed a massage.

But the new home was finally becoming a warm replacement for the cold marriage she’d endured. Poetic justice. Her divorce settlement had purchased the house and would pay for restoring it while she figured out what she was going to do with the rest of her life. For now, the house would be her sole profession and her most appreciated companion. Its beautiful antebellum back porch stretching the length of the house, framed stunning views of the Gulf of Mexico. Gentle waves brushed toward her each morning as she sipped good coffee and contemplated the day’s project. But her body bore the abuse the renovation entailed. Adrienne needed to learn to ignore it. Today, she intended to ignore everything about the house. Not that she could pick up a hammer if she wanted to. She couldn’t—her muscle groups were all on strike. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Her attention had drifted elsewhere. She hurried downstairs, made coffee, and settled into a comfy chair to read. She placed the photograph beside her and dove into the letters.

August 1944

Dear Gracie,

I may be brief with this letter, but I promised to share with you all that I experience. War makes a man different. I’ve no other way to explain but that. Though this is a gray and dying world around me, there are tiny glimpses of vibrancy on the muted canvas. I live for those splashes of color and light. But I met death today. He stalks us even when we rest, giving no mercy. He knows no bounds. We sat in camp, some talking, others playing cards, awaiting word on our next mission. Runner—we call him that because his father makes moonshine in the South Carolina mountains—was relaxed at a table one moment, then collapsed the next. We’ve been trained in combat death, but not the kind that sneaks silently into the hallowed place of one’s daily order of life. This death touches me deeply because we had stayed up late into the night, talking about the ocean and fishing and life. His plans for return. And mine. I told him of you and Sara and deep-sea fishing on the Gulf. We joked that we would compare fish stories—him on the Atlantic and me on the Gulf. He’d decided to stop running moonshine. I told him that was good. And today he is gone. We’ve lost many. And more arrive to take their place, but that is the nature of war. And war is the nature of death. But death is not the nature of life. And yet, I am beginning to see that it is. Death is not an anomaly. Life—life is the anomaly. And what a glorious gift it is.

I won’t shelter you from what I see. You are strong, Grace. If I don’t share with you, I feel there will be a part of me that closes off. I must not let that happen. I won’t close any part of myself from you. I love you. Forgive me for loving you so much.

William

By the time she’d finished another letter, Adrienne formed a plan. She grabbed a quick shower and headed out the door, the address scrawled on a scrap of paper and the photograph tucked into her jacket pocket.

She forced her thoughts from the scenarios fluttering through her mind and concentrated on the drive, still loving the fact that she frequently passed things like signs pointing the way to the Gulf beaches and tiny little saltwater tackle shops that looked like a strong wind could drop them. Looking at palm tree–lined roads passed the time.

Less than twenty minutes and she was there. Adrienne chewed the inside of her cheek because her bottom lip couldn’t take any more abuse, and regarded the house. Her initial excitement waned. All morning—before the short drive from her home in Bonita Springs to Naples—this had seemed like a good idea. Now, apprehension crawled over her skin like fire ants. This was silly. She pressed her palm to her forehead and scanned the pretty dwelling at 41123 Canal Boulevard. She checked the address against the ornate numbers over the front door. What on Earth would she say? Hi, I’m a pathetic divorcée who has to live vicariously through letters about people I’ve never met. Adrienne put a hand to her stomach. Divorcée. She still hadn’t completely reconciled with that. The divorce, yes. Eric—brilliant cardiologist and adulterer—made it easy to walk away, but being a divorced woman at age twenty-eight, that was still difficult to swallow. It’s not like she was old. She’d married right out of college and now she was divorced. Which made her feel like a failure. Her fingers threaded through her hair in an attempt to erase her frustrations, but things like disillusionment and divorce didn’t go away easily.

Adrienne threw out a breath and slid from the car, giving the door a good slam to trap the aggravation inside the hot vehicle. Off to the side of the house lay an impressive garden like one might see on the cover of one of those DIY magazines she’d started collecting when she purchased the house. But she didn’t have time to examine it now.

Before she could change her mind, she headed to the front porch, her back arrow straight. The crisp white two-story sported pots of flowers arranged on a long front patio. A wooden swing anchored one corner, and the luscious scent of all the brightly colored flowers filled her nose. The wicker patio table and chairs waited for someone to sit, offering colored cushions to sink into. The home was about the size of her towering Victorian monster, but newer and in that beautiful Tuscan style of terra cotta rooftops and stucco walls. Without so much as a pause to catch her breath, she knocked.

When the door swung open, the blood drained from her face. Deep-green eyes greeted her. Beautiful eyes, she noted, for an instant forgetting why she’d come. He was handsome. But sadly, about fifty years too young to be whom she sought.

“Can I help you?” A light smile tilted the corners of his mouth, and his shoulders filled the doorway.

“Yes,” she muttered. What had she practiced saying? She couldn’t remember. Something about how she’d just moved here and bought a house on Hidden Beach Road in Bonita Springs. For support, she clutched the photo in her jacket pocket. “I’m looking for William Bryant.”

He considered her a moment. “I’m William Bryant. But everyone calls me Will.”

“Well, the Mr. Bryant I’m looking for is a World War II veteran and—”

“Good ol’ war days,” she thought he mumbled.

She leaned closer. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” But it was something, and she could see it clearly in the instant of frustration framing his mouth and the slight flare of his nostrils. “I’m certainly no war veteran. Sorry I couldn’t help you.”

He moved to close the door, and her hand flew up, palm flat against the cool wood. There was something familiar about this man. She rubbed the photo in her pocket. “Look, I’m not trying to cause any problems or anything, but . . . ” This wasn’t going at all the way she’d imagined. She should just walk away, but the fact was, this man and the William from the letters shared a name. They had to be relatives.

The emerald eyes hardened. “But what?”

“Well, I’d like to talk to Mr. Bryant about his war experience. I have—”

“Let me get this straight. You’re looking for a WWII veteran so you can get him to talk to you about the war. And that doesn’t seem insensitive to you?”

Adrienne’s cheeks heated, and her palms turned clammy. “Insensitive,” she echoed. She hadn’t even thought of that.

“As I said, I’m no war veteran, and I can’t help you with finding this other Mr. Bryant. But if I were him, I’d seriously have my doubts about someone who showed up at my doorstep wanting to know about the hardest time of my life.”

A strong wind surged around the house and smacked her face with the precise force his words smacked her. She needed to explain, but her voice left her, all that energy going into holding the stranger’s door open and fighting to stay erect against the wind’s onslaught. Nervous tension flew off her in waves solid enough to drift away upon. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

The man stood there like a statue, brows riding high and daring her to explain.

Well, when he put it like that, there was no explanation that could suffice.

After a few horrible seconds, his eyes slid from her face to her hand, still flattened against his front door.

Adrienne followed his gaze to her left hand, the tiny band of lighter skin on her ring finger that, after three months of daily sunshine, still didn’t match the rest of her flesh. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

He noticed. His gaze softened on her, only marginally, but enough for her to feel it.

“Miss, I’m very sorry I can’t help you.” He offered a weak smile. Maybe it was sincere, maybe not. She’d heard pity before. And she hated it. Worse than anything . . . except maybe Eric’s condescension.

He tossed a thumb behind him. “I’m, uh, in the middle of something.” But his body language told a different story. The tension around his eyes had lessened, mouth relaxed. A tenderness worked its way toward her.

She plucked her hand from the door, feeling more defiance than despair. She didn’t need anyone’s pity. “Of course. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“No problem.” He almost sounded sincere; the taut muscles of his chest had loosened, releasing some of their strain; his shoulders, broad and tight beneath a T-shirt, dropped a few millimeters.

Expecting him to shut the door and let her leave, Adrienne’s gaze fell to the porch floor with its fresh stain. Her fingertips were stained a similar shade. Maybe that’s what he’d noticed, not the missing ring on her hand. Walnut stain looked better on porch floors than on skin.

When Will didn’t close the door, she glanced up. His head tipped to the side, and his weight fell against the doorjamb. He cocked one foot in front of the other.

Those green eyes probed again, this time filled with sparks of curiosity. It caused a prickly sensation along her neck. Just close the stupid door! I made a mistake. She tried to turn and leave. Unfortunately, her feet didn’t cooperate. As her upper body pivoted, her lower body stiffened. She felt the frown crease her brow and deepen. Embarrassment flushed her, because Adrienne really, truly wanted to believe in love. It was a shocking realization, one she’d rather not visit while standing on a complete stranger’s property. But the words drifted through her mind again. I know there’s real love out there. The kind she’d read about in William’s letters. Now, standing on the front porch of a man she didn’t know, her desperation almost overwhelmed her.

Divorcée.

Tiny lines crinkled at the edges of his eyes. “Have we met?”

Absently, she tucked her hair behind her ear. “I don’t think so. I’ve only lived here a few months.”

His gaze coasted from her head downward. A smile slashed his face. “You seem familiar.”

“I, uh, get that sometimes. People say I favor—” She fumbled with her walnut-stained fingers.

“Angelina Jolie?” he finished for her.

“No, Jennifer Garner.”

His eyes narrowed playfully. “I can see that. But your mouth is full, like Angelina’s.”

Adrienne swallowed hard. Seriously? Mr. Rude and Grumpy wanted to stand around and flirt? No thanks. Mortification caused a person to want to climb into a hole, not play games. She lifted her hand into the air. “Well, as I said, I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

He pointed a finger at her. “The bank.”

“Excuse me?” Please, please, feet, step off this porch.

“You recently opened an account at the bank where I work.”

Frowning, she thought back. She had opened a savings account at the Naples branch of her bank. But if this guy had waited on her, surely she would have remembered. “You helped me?”

“No, but I noticed you from my office.”

She raised a brow.

He laughed. “Hard not to.”

She should say thanks or something. But honestly, this whole interaction had thrown her off her game. Who was she kidding? She didn’t have a game. And—she began to realize—she was really bad at interacting with men. She stared at a pot of plants to the left and chewed on her stained fingernail. Not with all men. This kind of man. The handsome, strong kind that made her stomach tighten a little. Adrienne was going to need practice before entering the dating world.

With Ryan it had been different. He’d shown up in her life right after the divorce and helped her unload her baggage. Well, if a guy sees that much of your baggage and doesn’t run off screaming, it sort of endears him to you. But Ryan wasn’t the kind of man she could see herself ending up with. A college boy might be a great playmate, but he was a long way from dating material. Too many years of fun still wrestling under his skin.

Adrienne blinked. “Oh, I’m sorry. Got lost in my thoughts there for a second.”

A half smile appeared on his face. “Obviously.” He stayed positioned in the doorway, his faded jeans stretched over muscular thighs and his T-shirt over a set of pecs that hardly screamed “bank teller”. She forced a smile. “It was nice to meet you, William. I really am sorry I interrupted your Saturday morning.”

“I go by Will, remember?”

“Will, then.” Adrienne drew in a breath and turned to leave. A breeze ruffled her hair as she reached the bottom of his steps.

“Do you live in Naples?” he called out.

She paused, her fingers gripping the railing, and glanced back at him. “Bonita Springs.”

“Why’d you go to the Naples branch to open your savings account?”

Her grip tightened on the railing. Well, best to stop this whole flirting thing right here and now. “Why?” she repeated.

“I’m just curious.” His brows quirked, and she noticed a tiny dimple on one side of his face.

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

His eyes widened. He probably already thought she was crazy.

Adrienne pulled in a breath and let the wind have its way, leaning into the gusts instead of fighting them. “I don’t know the area very well. I hardly know anyone who lives here except my next-door neighbor who owns a coffee shop in Bonita, and a guy who helped me move in. Oh, and a myriad of subcontractors that I call when I get myself in over my head. You know what? That’s too much info. I went to the bank in Naples to expand my world.” She threw her hands up and waited for him to suggest calling the white coats.

Will Bryant ran his tongue over his teeth and gave a quick nod. “Makes sense.”

“Okay, so nice to meet you—What did you say?”

He shrugged. “You’re new to the area. Makes perfect sense. It’s your bank. You need to take ownership. Feel at home at both branches.”

She blinked. Wow, she didn’t fully understand her logic, but he seemed to. Or maybe he was making fun of her. She watched him with suspicious eyes for a long moment.

“I guess I’ll see you at the bank sometime?”

She waited a bit before nodding, but he didn’t burst out in laughter, so Adrienne let some of the tension in her muscles drain. She took one last look at him, then turned and started toward her car. She didn’t look up, but she was pretty certain he still stood there staring at her.

Adrienne gripped the steering wheel and scolded herself. Why hadn’t she just called and saved herself from this whole thing? Then again, Will couldn’t know how pathetic she was, right? Right. There was no one to judge her. No one knew why she’d really come. That solidified just how alone she was.

Movement in an upstairs window drew her attention.

She saw a hand tilt the curtain. A shadow, a silhouette of someone watched her from the darkened room. Slowly, the fingers released, and the curtain fell into place.

Adrienne turned her attention back to the car and tapped her thumb on the steering wheel. “You’ll see me again, Will Bryant.”

Will ran up the stairs and got back on his rowing machine, his mind on the woman who’d just left. He remembered seeing her at the bank in all her tanned glory, long dark hair floating down her shoulders and back. Up close, she was even more stunning, with giant coffee-colored eyes. He blew through his workout, thinking about those eyes and wondering what made them so sad. Like she carried the weight of the world on her narrow shoulders, and the load was getting heavy.

He shouldn’t have let her leave his house so quickly. She’d pretty much thrown him the proverbial bone. I’m new in town. Don’t really know anyone. Man, he was dense when it came to women. It hadn’t even occurred to him that that might have been an invitation, until she was gone.

Will didn’t hear Pops, so he peeked out his upstairs bedroom window, knowing what he’d find. The backyard was too slick for Pops to walk down to the boat, but he had a feeling that’s exactly what Pops was doing. Before he could get the window open and call for him, he heard the boat motor come to life. Will shook his head and returned to the rowing machine. An extra-long workout couldn’t hurt. After all, it was Saturday.

Thirty minutes later he heard the boat return. He moved to the window and peeled back the shade. The bright Florida sunshine streamed in as his eyes drifted to the canal that began where his backyard ended. A perfect morning. The kind Pops couldn’t resist.

Using a hand towel, he dabbed at the sweat he’d accumulated and rubbed menthol cream into his knees. I shouldn’t have to do this yet. I’m only thirty.

Below, his grandfather tied up the boat at the pier’s edge.

Strips of liquefied gold bobbed across the beckoning cobalt water. The thirty-two-foot cuddy cabin bounced in the gentle movement as its own wake caught up to the fiberglass hull and lapped at its sides.

Will shook his head at his grandfather’s antics—the way Pops hurried toward the house, all the while glancing around like a teenager creeping in from a forbidden date. Pops fumbled to get the boat key in his pocket, but stopped halfway across the lawn. His gaze traveled the distance from the yard to the second story. The older man forced a smile to hide the guilt.

Will crossed his arms accusingly.

William Senior shrugged and headed to the back door. Although he pushed a hand against his knee, Pops’s leg remained stiff with each step. Will knew he’d grown so accustomed to the old injury, the gentle climb through grass and sand was nothing more than a Sunday stroll.

But not for Will. Every time his grandfather negotiated a climb, it reminded him of all the pain the old man had lived through. Pain that the pretty brunette who’d knocked on his door wanted to bring to the forefront of Pops’s mind.

If it were up to Will, his grandfather would only trek on safe, level concrete. But Pops was a stubborn man. Kind, but stubborn. He didn’t seem to realize that an eighty-year-old body couldn’t do everything it once had. And early morning boat trips alone topped the list.

Will showered and headed down to the kitchen.

“Morning,” Pops said as Will descended the stairs. The morning paper lay at Will’s spot.

“Morning, Pops.” Will perused the headlines while his grandfather placed a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast on the table, next to the paper.

Obviously anxious to avoid the conversation sure to ensue, Pops tapped his finger on the newsprint. “There’s a lot going on in town this weekend.” He rolled up the sleeves of his gray flannel shirt, arthritic fingers fumbling to make the folds smooth. He vanished from the doorway and reappeared with a stepladder.

“Yeah?” Will shook pepper over the eggs and took a bite. “Like what?” But he knew where this conversation was headed. He watched Pops maneuver the ladder under the kitchen light.

“Out at the Animal Sanctuary, they’re having a hike.”

Will grunted.

“You might like it. You used to hike all the time.”

That was before grandma died and I brought you here, Will thought. “Nah, I’m not really in the mood for a hike today.”

“It’s to raise money for the new shelters.” Pops produced a lightbulb from the cupboard.

“It’s hot.” Will nodded toward the wall thermometer in the kitchen window. “But we can send them a donation to help out, if you’d like.” When silence followed, he glanced up at Pops. “Or were you thinking of adopting a pet?”

Pops seemed to consider the suggestion, eyebrows riding high on his forehead. He moved back to the sink. “Would you like one?”

Will wasn’t interested in dealing with dog or cat hair or the endless responsibility of caring for an animal. But if it would make Pops happy, he’d do it. “If you do.”

Pops rubbed a hand over his chin.

Will attempted to embrace the idea. “It might be cool to have a dog to take out on the boat with us. And he could keep you company while I’m at work.”

Pops nodded. “And dig up my garden and eat our shoes.”

Will chuckled. “I think only puppies do that.”

They both exhaled and discharged the idea as quickly as they’d welcomed it.

Pops pointed to the advertisement section. “Well, there’s also a coupon for a one-man kayak rental at Manatee Park. Five bucks off. And I hear the manatees have moved upriver.”

“Pops, I don’t want to go see manatees today.” This was getting old. Every Saturday brought the same conversation. Today, Will just wanted some downtime. From work, from everything. He dropped his fork on his plate. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re trying to get rid of me?”

Pops’s tender cornflower eyes saddened. “I’m not trying to get rid of you.” He slowly settled into the chair, his words so gentle that they shot a bullet of shame through Will’s gut.

He leaned over the table and took the older man by the arm. “I’m just teasing. I mean, if you’ve got some hottie from the senior center coming over or something, I promise to stay out of the way.” He slid the lightbulb from Pops’s hand and moved to the stepladder, readjusting it under the fixture.

A bright red hue materialized on Pops’s cheeks. “I don’t have any hottie.”

Will smiled. How empty would his world be without his grandfather here? Less frustrating perhaps—especially on Saturday mornings—but completely hollow. He changed the light, giving Pops a nod to flip the switch, and returned to his breakfast, completing yet another task that demonstrated the symbiotic relationship the two men shared.

When Pops had come to live with him after his grandmother died, Will questioned the wisdom in his own offer. Being a busy, dedicated bank executive, did he really have time to care for an aging grandfather? Five years later, he couldn’t imagine a life that didn’t include daily chats, playing checkers on the front porch, and fishing in the Gulf of Mexico.

He patted Pops on the shoulder. “What do you want to do today?”

Pops sighed. “I guess we could take the boat out.”

“Did you leave any gas in it?” Will asked, voice flat, but the smile that tugged at his lips melted the accusation.

Pops concentrated on a water ring on the table. “Yeah, I think that sounds fun.” It was their Saturday ritual. Take the boat down the canal and out into the Gulf of Mexico. Most days they’d fish, catch dinner—anything from red snapper to tuna, and return home at dusk. After dinner, they’d sit on the front porch until the stars came out. It was a good life.

Pops knew this. Yet he constantly insisted on shaking up a perfectly good schedule, a perfectly balanced routine, with ideas like hiking and kayaking. Time to end the inquisition, once and for all. “Seriously, Pops. Why do you keep trying to get me to go do things I’m not in the mood to do? This happens every Saturday.”

Pops stopped clearing the dishes and faced him. “Will, you’re thirty. And you spend your weekends with an old man.”

“I happen to like that old man.”

“You’re a good young man.” Pops wagged a finger and pinned him with a sharp glare. “But you are a young man. Since I moved here, you’ve stopped doing so many things you love.”

Will shook his head, but Pops continued. “I know you used to go hiking and kayaking, scuba diving.”

Will grinned, lifting an index finger. “I went scuba diving last month.”

“Yes, and I practically had to force you. You used to go every month.” His face clouded. “I’ve turned you into a geezer.”

Will leaned back and laughed. “That’s absurd.”

“You don’t even go to the gym anymore.” Pops motioned up the stairs. “You put that metal beast thing in your room, and you work out there.”

On the opposite wall, the clock ticked, blinking away moment after moment of time. Precious time. Pops was eighty-one. The death of Will’s grandmother, when she was seventy-five, had been sudden. No warning of the illness that took her in a few short weeks. It had rocked Will’s world. He wouldn’t waste the time he could spend with Pops. He also couldn’t tell his grandfather that.

Pops was philosophical and poetic and would somehow twist it into Will just hiding behind the fear of loss. Pops wasn’t scared to die.

But Will was terrified of losing him.

Will pressed his palms over his eyes and exhaled. “Look, how can I explain this?” Yes, life had changed five years ago, but Will wasn’t a kid anymore. The things that had seemed important to a twenty-five-year-old weren’t important to a thirty-year-old. Now, life had meaning. It had purpose. Still, no real way to explain that without it all coming back to Pops and the time they had together. “Five years ago I was working to get the promotion to executive loan manager.” Within the same week, he’d received the promotion and welcomed Pops as a roommate. “When I got the job, I knew I had to clean out some clutter in my life.”

“The hobbies you had were clutter?” Pops’s voice filled with sadness.

“They’re a distraction,” Will said, hoping Pops believed it. “The job is extremely demanding. Mentally, it’s exhausting. Before I got the promotion, I had a lot of pent-up energy to burn. I don’t have that now. My life had to become more organized, streamlined, to be successful in my new position.”

“You make a convincing argument.” Pops straightened. “But it’s an awfully technical and practical way to look at life. And it doesn’t sound very lively or exciting.”

“Well, everyone can’t lead an exciting life. Some of us just have to work hard, be honest and persistent.” Will did love his work. And some childish things had to be set aside to do his job to the best of his ability.

It was all good. Orderly. No surprises, no shocks. Everyone wanted that kind of stability, that security, right? And Will wanted time. More time to spend with Pops. But the more of a routine Will and Pops developed, the more troubled his grandfather became. Though Pops didn’t say much, Will could sense it. And he wasn’t interested in Pops ruining their unspoken yet carved-in-stone Saturday morning plans.

“Sounds like a rut,” Pops admitted.

“Maybe I like my rut.”

“You know what they say. A rut is just a grave with both ends kicked out.”

“Then it’s not a rut.” Will frowned and tugged at his shirt collar. Honestly, what thirty-year-old man lived like this? None he could think of, but it didn’t matter. He enjoyed his life. There were worse things than losing a few hobbies. Like regret. Yeah, that was a big one. He’d never have to look back and regret how he’d spent his time. “Look, Pops, things are just the way I want them. If they weren’t, I’d make changes.”

The older man watched him through narrowed eyes. “So, if I wasn’t here, you’d still be doing the same things you are now?”

“No, I’d have to fix my own breakfast.”

Pops threw a soft punch into Will’s shoulder. “Funny.” He grew serious again. “It’s not because you’re taking care of me?”

Will laughed. “I think you have that backward. You’re the one who’s taking care of me.”

Pops’s face lit up. “I guess that’s what families do.”

Will stiffened and hoped Pops wouldn’t notice. He tried to swallow the rock lodged in his throat but couldn’t get it down. He rose from the table. That’s what families do. That’s what he did. Certainly what Pops did. Now, Will’s mom and dad? Not so. “I’ll clean up. Why don’t you pack us a couple of sandwiches for the day?”

Pops nodded and pulled the cooler from the pantry. “I heard from your folks. They have to cancel their trip home.”

Will nearly dropped the plate he was carrying to the sink. He spun to face Pops. “Are you kidding?”

Pops looked down. Will could tell his grandfather didn’t want him to see the disappointment.

“Did they give a reason?” Will asked through gritted teeth and dropped a glass in the sink with a loud clink.

“No.” Pops tried to sound cheery, but his voice cracked, betraying him. He forced a smile. “They didn’t.”

A familiar burn settled in Will’s gut.

Pops brushed a hand through the air. “Their work is very important. I don’t have to tell you that. It’s okay that they can’t come. We’ll still have us a humdinger of a time.”

Will filled the sink with warm bubbly water, keeping his back to Pops because, where his mom and dad were concerned, he had a lousy poker face. They’d let Pops down. Again. How could they do that? How could anyone be so heartless?

In the stark silence that followed, Pops worked to fill the cooler. Will glanced over his shoulder. The slight tremor in Pops’s fingers only allowed for slow meticulous movements while working with small things like sandwich bags and Snack Packs.

“It’s your birthday, Pops.” Will forced out a breath when his anger got the better of him. Peace Corps workers or not, his parents were wrong to devalue Pops’s birthday like this. Two years between visits. Two years. With each passing day, the gravity of Pops’s age weighed. Eighty-one. How many more birthday celebrations did they think he’d be having?

Their trip home from Africa was all Pops had talked about for weeks—making plans, arranging the spare room to their liking. And now, with no explanation, they simply weren’t coming. Will’s fury burned. But letting Pops know how mad he was would only make matters worse. He forced a smile and glanced over his shoulder. “Humdinger, huh?”

“We’ll go to a nice dinner, then maybe hit one of those discothèques,” Pops teased.

“A discothèque?” Will laughed, releasing the anger for Pops’s sake. He crossed the kitchen and hugged his grandfather’s shoulders. “I don’t think so. I’m not even sure they have discothèques anymore. But we’ll come up with something.”

Sun streamed in through the window, bathing them in its light. Pops turned to it, letting it warm him in the cool kitchen. “It’s a beautiful morning. I hope the fish are biting.”

“They’ve never let us down.”

Pops pivoted enough to look Will in the eye. “You’ve never let me down.”

“I hope I never do.”

“Couldn’t happen.” Pops grinned. “You come from good stock.”

The lump, again. The muscles in his jaw tightened. Even if it did skip a generation.

“I’ve got to water the garden before we go. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“After all the rain last night, you need to water?” Will held the cooler lid open and looked inside.

“Can’t be too careful,” Pops said. “I planted some new seeds. Thought it’d stay cloudy today, but the sun broke through.”

“And when you noticed it, you thought it would be a good idea to take the boat out alone?”

Pops brushed at the sides of his pants. “It was just a little trip down the canal.”

“Pops, next time I’ll go with you.” Will studied his grandfather’s face. “I’m just trying to protect—”

Pops’s sigh cut him off. “I know, protect me. A man who jumped from airplanes during a war, and I need to be protected from slippery grass.”

“You’d do the same for me. Now, go water that garden.”

Pops nodded. “Right after I change into shorts.” With a spring in his step, he headed out of the room, pausing in the doorway.

Will glanced over, wondering what stopped his grandfather’s momentum.

Without looking back, Pops said, “Love you, boy.”

Will squeezed his eyes shut. All that had gone unsaid over the years about Pops and his war filled the space around Will’s heart and filled the room around both men. Will closed the distance. He didn’t trust his voice to speak without shattering, so he placed a solid hand on each of Pops’s shoulders.

A gentle squeeze created the slightest of tremors through Pops. Pops knew Will was all he had.

Head held high, he stepped away from his grandson and was whistling a tune before he reached the stairs. Through the window, the sun kissed Will’s face.