Chapter 3

3

ELODIE

" I have never understood how you can stand to watch this garbage."

Her love for these garbage pseudo-reality shows, like whatever Housewives show she's currently hooked on, is one of my life's enduring mysteries. I've never understood it. Mams is hooked on all of these so-called reality shows that, as far as I'm concerned, are nothing but toxic drama fests. It's a train wreck piloted by the worst people in the world. That could be the appeal, though—people love the drama. Mam turns to me and the expression on her face melts my heart as she mutes the TV.

"Elodie, sweetheart. What in the world are you doing here, child?"

"Hey, Mam."

I stand in the bedroom doorway, looking at the woman who raised me, fighting back the tears welling in my eyes. She looks so small and frail beneath the sheets. And when I perch on the edge of her bed and take her hand, it seems more delicate and fragile. My grandmother has always been a robust woman with a booming and infectious laugh that gave off a larger-than-life energy. But now, propped up against some pillows in her bed, she looks somehow diminished. Even her voice is subdued and lacks her usual vigor. But her face has a little color, and though she looks tired, she's alert, which I take to be a good sign.

"Mrs. Lund called me and told me what happened," I say.

"Well, I'm going to have to chat with Arlene about that. I'm fine, as you can see," she replies. "There was no need for you to come all the way out here. Not when you have so much important work to do back home."

"There's nothing more important for me to be doing right now than being here with you."

Her expression is soft as she pats my hand. Arlene Lund, her longtime friend and neighbor, was the one who found her after Mam's heart attack. Mrs. Lund got her to the hospital and has been caring for her ever since. Thank God for Mrs. Lund. I shudder to think what might have happened had she not been around.

"I can't believe you're here. The flight out must have been expensive," Mam says. "You shouldn't have spent the money. You can see that I'm fine."

"I can see that you're alive. Fine though? I'll let the doctor make that determination. This isn't one of those things you can try to walk off like you normally do."

Mam smiles. She's old school like that. She comes from a generation of people who believed that unless there is bone showing through the skin or you drop dead, you can throw a bandage over it and be fine to carry on.

"Elodie, sweetheart, you don't need to?—"

"The money has already been spent and I'm here, Mam," I say. "And believe me, there is nowhere I'd rather be."

"I just feel terrible that you're giving up your life to be here."

"Bold of you to assume I've got a life, Mam," I reply with a quiet laugh.

"Well, that's the problem. You're young, sweetheart. You should be out there making a life for yourself with that boy you're seeing—Ben, isn't it? Handsome boy, he is. Yes, you should be out having fun with Ben instead of sitting here with an old lady."

"We split up, Mam."

"What? Oh no, I'm sorry?—"

"I'm not. It needed to be done."

"Well … good for you, sweetheart."

My lips curl wryly. I never wanted her to be worried about me, so I always talked up the good times Ben and I had together. And there were a few. But I didn't bother her with the darker details of our relationship, like his temper, his pressuring me for sex, or the way he'd sometimes demean and degrade me. I've never wanted to upset Mam or scare her, so I've hidden that all from her.

"What about work? Surely, you can't miss work."

"That's the beauty of doing what I do, Mam—I can work anywhere. All I need is an internet connection," I say. "Now, any other reasons you want to offer up that I'm going to shoot down? Or can we go ahead and skip to the part where you accept that I'm going to be here for a while?"

Mam smiles as her cheeks flush and her eyes begin to shimmer. "Thank you, dear. I appreciate you coming all this way for me."

"Mam, after all you've done for me, all my life, this is literally the least I can do."

Her eyes are filled with tenderness and warmth and all the love I remember seeing when I was younger and still living here. It's something I've missed. As much as I love my life out in Southern California, I can't say I've ever met anybody who looks at me with the unadulterated love Mam always showered me with.

"How about some tea?" I ask.

"I'd love some tea," she replies. "And I wouldn't mind a splash or two of Mam's Medicine."

I pull a face and laugh. "Until the doctor says it's okay, Mam's Medicine is off the table. Don't even think about it."

"I'm reconsidering how pleasant it is to have you here."

"Get over it," I tease.

The sound of her laughter, a little stronger and more vibrant than when I first arrived, follows me down the hall to her kitchen. Planting my hands on the counter in front of the sink, I stare at her backyard through the window and let out the flood of emotions that have been building inside of me since I first saw Mam. My body trembles and the tears stream down my face. Holding my hand to my mouth, I stifle my sobs, not wanting her to hear me.

Five years ago, I left Emerson—I left Mam—after getting a scholarship to attend UCLA. Over the years, I carved a life for myself out there. Mam always tells me how proud and happy she is for me. And I genuinely believe she is. Although she'll never admit it, I can see she's been a bit lonely out here since I left, even though she's got lots of friends and stays active. That's why I come out as often as I can to spend time with her, although it's admittedly not nearly often enough. It's why I always have this heavy weight of guilt on my shoulders about building and loving the life I've carved for myself out in Southern California. I love my world out there, but it will never truly be home. Not like Emerson is, and that's because of Mam.

Growing old and eventually dying is all part of life. It happens to us all. One day, I'm going to get old and pass on. It's the natural course of things. But Mam has always seemed larger than life to me, and I've never once stopped to consider her mortality. I've never considered a life or a world without her in it, and frankly, I really don't want to. My grandmother is my hero and a constant source of inspiration for me. I don't want to think about losing her.

I turn on the sink, splash some cold water on my face, and dry it off with a paper towel, taking a moment to breathe and get my emotions under control. After that, I put a kettle on the stove to boil and fetch a mug for her tea, then walk to the cabinet and pull it open to grab the jar of tea and find the bottle of bourbon sitting next to it.

"Mam's Medicine," I say with a laugh.

She always believed that a snort or two of bourbon a day helped fortify a person's immune system and kept the blood flowing. She'd been saying that as long as I lived with her. And it's something she always held to—no more than two glasses of bourbon a day. She's disciplined about her alcohol consumption—I don't think I've ever seen her even close to tipsy. But she indulged in her couple of glasses. I'm guessing it's an old wives' tale she learned from her parents back when she was a kid. The habits of our youth often carry over into adulthood.

I fix up a tray with tea, all the trimmings, and a couple of cookies for her. Mam has a wicked sweet tooth. Once it's all done, I carry it into the bedroom and set it all down on the table next to her bed, then dress her tea the way she likes it. After that, I hand her the mug and set the tray with the cookies down on her lap.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Mam says.

"You're very welcome."

She takes a sip as I perch on the edge of the bed and watch a couple of minutes of the garbage on television, which is just two women screaming at one another. Of course, it doesn't differ much from today's newsie talk shows, so there's that.

"I am glad you're here," she says.

"I'm glad to be here too."

"Your bedroom is still just as you left it."

"I'm about to go get settled in."

A knock on the front door draws my attention.

"You expecting anybody, Mam?"

She shakes her head. "Not that I know of."

"It's probably Mrs. Lund checking in."

Jumping to my feet, I run to the door, and the moment I open it, my stomach turns over on itself as my heart falls into my shoes. Standing before me is the most handsome man I've ever seen. About six-four with hair the color of honey and eyes like brown sugar, the man has a chiseled jawline, high cheekbones, and sharp, rugged features. His shoulders are wide and his waist narrow. He's trim, fit, and entirely masculine. The sleeves of his light blue button-down shirt are tight around his thick biceps and rolled up, revealing forearms corded with taut muscle. The man looks like he was chiseled from marble. A Greek god come to life.

"Hi," he says. "I'm Dr. Collier."

My mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. Instead, even though my brain is screaming at me to say something, I just stand here gaping at him like a freaking moron. His lips are full and bow-shaped, and I can't stop myself from wondering how soft they'd feel against mine—or on other parts of my anatomy. As the silence between us lingers and grows more awkward, the corners of his mouth flicker upward.

"You must be Elodie," he prompts.

My heart goes from my shoes immediately into my throat. This gorgeous man knows my name. How does he know my name?

"I—I am," I say. "Yes. I'm Elodie."

"It's nice to meet you," he says, his voice a deep rumble that slides deliciously across my skin, reaching down to my most intimate parts. "Your grandmother told me all about you. She's very proud of you."

"Uh. Hi," I say lamely and immediately want to kick myself.

"I'm here to check up on her. Is she awake?"

"A house call? I forgot they still do that here."

His smile nearly stops my heart. "Took me a minute to get used to it, too. But yeah, we do a lot of things differently here. Is Maryanne doing all right?"

"Uh. Yes. Of course," I say. "She's lying down in her bedroom. Please. Come in."

Dr. Collier walks in and offers me a patient expression. As I watch him walk down the hallway toward Mam's bedroom, I watch him go, my eyes lingering on his backside, which, judging by the way his slacks cup it, looks to be as perfectly sculpted as the rest of him. And when he disappears from view, I slap my own forehead and groan as I close the door, then disappear into the kitchen, praying the earth opens up and swallows me whole.