The Bride Wore Starlight (14 page)

“It's in the basement of the building and was renovated probably five years ago. It's not bad—some cosmetic stuff needs doing, but it's livable. Above me is the thrift store and Cyril Grimes' Jackson Hole Properties.”

“Okay,” he said.

They reached the old building front, its brick façade stained with age.

“Around the side,” she said.

They followed a cracked sidewalk lined with struggling hosta plants and day lilies, and turned the building corner. Joely's optimism died in an explosion of shock. Beneath the small overhang over the stoop of her new door, seated on the concrete, stiff and unmoving with its head slumped awkwardly to the front and side, was a body.

A
LEC PULLED UP
short at the sight of the figure on the cement stoop and reached for Joely's hand at her cry of shock. He didn't blame her. The man clothed in a thin wool overcoat and brown, cuffed dress trousers was certainly still enough to be a corpse.

“Oh, Alec, is he . . . ?”

“It's unlikely.” He stopped her from voicing the word and stroked her thumb with his in a gesture of comfort. Despite his words, he guessed it wasn't completely out of the question that the man was dead. The nights were still dipping into the thirties here in the higher elevations. If the person was old or infirm, he might have succumbed to cold. Or natural causes.

“We should call someone,” she said.

“I'll check on him.”

“Oh, don't. What if—”

He squeezed her hand this time, and she clung to him. He liked the feeling of her body huddling into his side like a nervous pup. He'd seen enough bodies in his life that the idea of checking on this one didn't frighten him, but she clearly didn't want to find out the worst.

“It'll be fine,” he said. “You can just stay right here.”

She nodded and released her grip on his hand and arm.

Alec approached the man and studied him. He thought he saw the coat front rise and fall, so he leaned over him and put a hopeful hand on his shoulder. To his relief the body was supple, not stiff.

“Sir? Sir, is everything all right?”

It took several gentle shakes and a few more called “hellos” before the man opened one rheumy eye and blinked. A second later he started violently with a throaty cry of surprise.

“Don't!” he said. “You can't do this.”

“Whoa, hey, it's all right.” Alec stepped back. “We're not here to hurt you or do anything. Just making sure you're okay.”

He jumped up, as agile and quick as if he'd found himself on fire. The action was all the more impressive when it was clear the man had to be in his late seventies or perhaps older. His coat flew open, revealing a fairly neat, green print, button-down shirt.

“You aren't Alastair,” he said in a strangely proper accent, faintly British.

“I am not,” Alec agreed. “Are you waiting for him?”

The man's features calmed, and his eyes cleared. “I am searching for him.”

“Here on this front stoop?”

He clamped his coat together with one fist. “Of course not,” he said. “I apologize for falling asleep. I am here looking for Joellen Crockett.”

Alec frowned slightly and looked back at Joely. She shook her head, indicating she had no idea who he was. The man was very slightly shabby and wore a multiple days' growth of gray, hedgehog-bristly beard. His clothing, however, was clean, and he had on a thick, blue stocking cap with about five inches of a gray ponytail hanging beneath the back edge.

His eyes shone, bright and astute, and his words were definitely accented—softly European and educated. No smell of alcohol or anything to indicate he hadn't bathed recently or was homeless clung to him, although a large, tightly stuffed cloth bag stood beside the wall on the stoop.

“I'm Joellen Crockett.” Joely arrived beside Alec and leaned forward on her crutches. “Who are you?”

“Since I arrived in town, people are calling me Mayberry,” he said, amusement lighting his eyes. “I have been staying in various places around the area, including one night in the local jail for a complete misunderstanding.”

“Mayberry?” Joely asked, her voice intrigued.

“An old television show.” The old man puckered his brows sympathetically as Joely adjusted her stance. “You're quite a bit too young to remember it, my dear. Broken leg, 'eh?”

“Something like that,” she replied. “What show?”

“It was called
The Andy Griffith Show
. They say I'm like the character Otis the town drunk in Mayberry where the show took place. However, as most people are finding, I am not an alcoholic.”

He was confusing is what he was. He looked like a homeless man, although the tidiest one Alec had ever seen, yet he spoke as if he'd come from a youth spent in England and seemed to know Joely.

“I'm Alec Morrissey.” He held out his hand.

Joely leaned on her crutches and extended her hand as well. “I'm Joely. This is my apartment.”

He took each of their hands in turn with a firm, sure grasp. “I know it is. Joely. Such a lovely name. I found out you were moving here when I asked about your family at the café. Small towns are quite amazing when it comes to knowing everything about their local citizens.”

Alec made a mental note to talk to Joely about the over-willingness of her new neighbors to impart information about her. The man seemed harmless, but telling strangers where people lived went again every safety-conscious rule Alec could think of.

“How do you know my family?”

“I don't really, my dear. I knew your grandmother. I was hoping you would do me a great favor and deliver a note to her whenever you see her.”

He reached into one deep pocket and pulled out a sealed blue envelope with “Mrs. Sadie Crockett” penned on the front in neat handwriting.

“What is this?”

“Just a greeting,” he replied. “Nothing nefarious. I am here looking for my nephew. My great-nephew, to be precise. I discovered Sadie is miraculously still alive, and I thought I would make contact.”

“Who is your great-nephew?” Joely asked.

“Not a local. I've followed his trail, so to speak. The fact that he's come here is just a happy coincidence.”

“I'd be glad to give this to my grandmother. Is there a way for her to find you again? Where are you staying?”

“Mayberry” picked up his stuffed bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“I stay wherever the spirit moves me to each night. Sometimes the local campground. Sometimes with others who rove as I do. Once in a while at a hotel. If Sadie wishes to find me, she can.” He moved from beneath the porch overhang and smiled. “I'm sorry to have startled you this morning, and I thank you most kindly for your help. I'll let you get to your plans for the day.”

“Hang on, can we take you . . . home?” Alec exchanged a quick glance with Joely, who shrugged and nodded.

“No, no. Thank you. I prefer walking.”

“Your nephew. Is that Alastair?” Alec asked.

“I'm afraid so.” Resignation filled his eyes as if he'd just about given up on this person. “Fills my sleep with worried dreams. A good boy with some poor ideas. However, he's the closest thing I have to a grandson, or a son for that matter. And we get on well enough.”

“And you have to find him, why?”

“He's been away from home. I'd like to find him while I'm on my travels.”

On his travels? A lost great-nephew. Secretive notes.

Who was this man?

Mayberry started down the walk. Joely looked at Alec, his own confusion and slight amusement mirrored in her eyes.

“Do you have a real name?” she asked.

“Mayberry actually does fine,” he replied, and continued down the walk.

“But . . . ” Joely shrugged in bewilderment. “How do you know my grandmother?”

“She used to babysit me.”

With that bombshell he continued moving smartly away on his scuffed, white running shoes. If they hadn't just spoken to him and seen the character lines etching his face, Alec wouldn't have known he was an elderly man.

Joely turned to him. “What on earth was that?”

Alec waggled his head, equally mystified. “Talk about a character. You have no idea who he is?”

“Not a clue. Seems like someone with an official town nickname would be known to everyone. Then again—I was away for years and incarcerated for the past three-fourths of one. What would I know?”

“Thought maybe you'd remember him from when you were a kid.”

“He wasn't here when I was growing up.”

“Well, let's hope he is truly who he says he is—not that it helps overly much. I don't honestly know a thing about him. Which leads me to the next point. Why are people so careless as to tell a stranger where you'll be living?”

“He could have found me a hundred ways. This is Wolf Paw Pass—by this time next week everyone will know what I have for breakfast.”

“It's not safe.”

“It's safe.”

He liked that she thought so. And he hated that she thought so. Arguing would be pointless. He'd just have to keep an eye out on her behalf for a while. Joely was a puzzle, too. In their short time together he'd seen her as both a lost woman who seemed determined to wallow in self-pity and a stubborn little spitfire who forged ahead without thinking. This was definitely the latter.

She let the topic of the mysterious Mayberry go and made her way to the porch stoop. She took it alone, placing her crutch tips deliberately, her concentration obvious. She went to the front door of the apartment and peered through a sidelight before taking the key out of her pocket. “Want to come in?”

She unlocked the door and he followed her inside. Tan carpeting had been freshly cleaned in the living room they entered. Straight ahead lay the kitchen with appliances and a small eating area. To the right of the living room was a hallway leading to a decent bathroom and two small bedrooms.

“Seems nice,” he said.

“I think it'll be fine.”

He leaned against a wall near the front door and crossed his arms casually over his chest. “Can I ask a question? I don't want you to think I'm criticizing, because I think this is great.”

“Okay. What?”

“Why
not
just go back to the ranch? You're jumping from despair over having to move because your support staff will be gone, to living completely alone. Wouldn't there have been a happy medium?”

She hung on the padded arm rests of the crutches and lifted her chin slightly. “Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

“You.

“What?” His heart dropped a little. Encouragement was all he'd intended—not dictating a life change. He didn't want to be responsible for this. “I didn't mean—”

“I know what you meant. This is because of one simple thing you asked me: why did I think I needed a nurse at my beck and call? Then you proceeded to show me the answer is that I don't. And just so you're clear, that's me hating to admit you were right. Unfortunately after that I had two choices, neither of which I wanted. I could live alone or live with my hovering sisters.”

“You don't like people hovering?”

“The truth is I don't know what I like. That's why I finally decided to try this. It might be a complete disaster, but I can't stay where I am. So I signed a month's lease. I can survive that long.”

“I knew I spotted a little spark of bravery in there.” He pointed at her heart and smiled, hoping to see the spark shine in her eyes.

“It's not bravery.” There wasn't a spark, but the glowing ember of latent excitement he did see satisfied him. “It's confusion mixed with stubbornness. I want to be where people don't know me. I still figure people will feel sorry for me and want to help but not because they think they know what I feel. I know. It doesn't make sense.”

“You'll figure it out. For the record, though? I don't know you, but I don't feel sorry for you either.”

“I knew that within three seconds of meeting you.” She almost smirked.

“So where does that leave me?”

“Locking up and taking me to Ina's, I guess.”

“Good enough.”

Ina's mini scones and ice cream were phenomenal—awful nutritionally but a great breakfast dessert if all a person cared about was contented indulgence.

They talked about nothing—the most relaxed nothing Alec had ever experienced. He told her about buying his house. She told him about the house in California. She liked chocolate. He preferred salt. They both liked animals. They both liked movies, but she hated death and violence, and he liked the
Kill Bill
duo. Still, she admitted, she couldn't help watching
Die Hard
for Bruce Willis, and he admitted to having a soft spot for Disney. He'd never tried so hard not to impress someone only to end up being impressed himself. Joely was no diva ditz. She was reasoned and funny and smart. They didn't talk about their injuries or their accidents. She didn't bring up the impending divorce, and he didn't talk about the rodeo. There was plenty of other nothing to discuss.

After the scones were long gone, Alec sat back in his red-and-white-striped booth seat and absently rubbed his knee just above the socket of his prosthetic. He normally paid little attention to it during the day, unless something particularly stressful made it chafe, but today it sobered him. He was fine, but what was he really doing playing the all-knowing expert for Joely Crockett? She was lovely. She was fun. She might need a mentor. But he was really the blind leading the blind. In a support group or system, like the one Gabe had set up, two injured people wouldn't be a cliché. But he and Joely kind of were. One limping body attracted to another.

“Oh my gosh, how did we spend ninety minutes here?” Joely straightened in her seat and stared at him like a shocked rabbit. “I need to get back to Mia—she's doing all my work for me.”

“Easy conversation,” he said, condensing his musings into one simplified observation. “That old time flies thing.”

“It was good,” she said. “And I'm no longer fuming about Tim. Thanks.”

“Have you decided what to do about his papers? Are you going to take them to a lawyer?”

“Yeah, about that.” She lowered her eyes. “Admission time. I already have. I just didn't want to tell him. I can fight for spousal maintenance, but I wouldn't get much if anything after just four years of marriage. The house was his before we got married. And, the other thing is—if insurance money comes through from the accident, I don't want him to have any future claim on it. I have every intention of handing him the papers. I just didn't want to do it because he stood there and demanded them.”