The Summer Bones (21 page)

Luckily, her grandmother had been lucid, Rachel had behaved with some grace, and her father had stayed away—all and all, a success.

She nodded and rose, smiling apologetically. “I'm sorry I'm such dreary company.”

“I came to be with you.” He got up as well, sending a questioning glance at the older woman at the sink. Her grandmother hummed a hymn, her voice slightly off-key and her wrinkled hands wrist deep in hot water. Victoria followed his gaze and shook her head, indicating that she thought she would be all right left alone. Last night's lucidity had given way this morning to abstraction and confusion. Twice, her grandmother called Michael by her youngest brother's name, Thomas. Thomas, Victoria had explained with a sigh, had died in World War II.

They went outside together, into a blast of sunshine. Next to the barn, Victoria saw Damon's old truck parked incongruously next to Michael's dark green Jaguar. Her grandfather stood at the back, handing up bundles of fence wire to her cousin. In the sunlight, his white hair was a marked contrast to his reddened face.

She and Michael walked down the steps. The grass was wilting under the current drought, making yellow patches on the lawn. Glancing over, Victoria saw her grandfather hand up the last bundle and then put his hand on the bumper of the truck, bracing himself. His chest moved up and down like a bellows.

Her cry of alarm startled both Damon and Michael. Her cousin straightened, leaping down from the bed of the truck. She ran, reaching her grandfather and grabbing his arm in support. Elmer Paulsen glared at them both, flapping a weak hand in dismissal.

“It's just a little hot,” he said thickly, “leave me be.”

A little hot,
Victoria thought incredulously. She gave Damon a pleading look, as if to say, “do something, say something.”

Her cousin, in old jeans and an ancient white T-shirt that had grown dingy gray over time, stepped back silently. His dark eyes spoke volumes and she understood. If he opened his mouth and suggested that it was too hot to work, nothing on earth would keep their grandfather from insisting on going out to that field. They both knew him, knew that streak of hardworking stubbornness. They had grown up in the shadow of his never-falter philosophy. Yet Victoria could feel her grandfather's pulse throbbing erratically under her clamped fingers.

It was Michael, surprisingly, who saved the day. Standing at Victoria's shoulder, he said mildly, “What are you doing, building a fence?” He eyed the posthole digger in the back of the truck.

Damon gave him a sharp glance and nodded, “Repairing and adding to one of the fences around the east field.” His gaze flew back to his grandfather.

“Where's Jim Baily?” Victoria demanded.

“It's Saturday, Tori. You know Jim.”

She'd forgotten. On Saturdays, Jim Baily and his plain little wife spent the day at her mother's house, cleaning and helping out.

“I'm pretty fit myself,” Michael suggested modestly. “Need a hand? I've never been on a working farm before, but Victoria has told me everyone chips in.”

Her grandfather gave something between a grunt and a painful laugh, pushing himself upright and away from the truck. Michael gave no sign of hearing it. His face remained bland, his hands in the pockets of his tailored shorts. Victoria squeezed her grandfather's arm slightly.

Damon spoke slowly, “Sure, love the help. It's dirty work, though. You might want to go change.”

Michael gazed down ruefully at his pale yellow tennis shirt and tailored shorts and shook his head. “This is as casual as I brought.”

Her grandfather was still breathing heavily. Victoria said quickly, “You two might want to get going then. I'll bring out lunch later.”

Elmer Paulsen lifted his head. “Don't railroad me.” It was a gasp.

“If Michael is willing to help Damon, there's no need for you to go as well.” Victoria's tone was firm.
Get out of here,
she spoke to Damon with her eyes.
Now, while he still feels too weak to throw a proper fit. Now.

He understood. Within a minute Michael was in the passenger seat of the old truck and they were pulling away. In spite of the display of bravado, her grandfather leaned heavily on her arm as they turned toward the house. She knew the conflict facing him, even if she didn't agree—his age, for one, admitting he was slowing down, especially in the face of her grandmother's deterioration; letting loose of the reins even though everyone knew that Damon handled everything from the accounting to mucking out the hog barn. Allowing himself to be regulated to smaller chores and shorter hours was a statement he apparently still wasn't ready to make.

Nor was he ready to talk about it. They walked slowly across the drive together. His face was an alarming shade of red, his breathing raspy. Victoria said nothing.

They reached the porch and went up the steps. The kitchen was empty, clean and shining. Her grandfather dropped heavily into a chair and put his forearm on the tabletop. Without asking, Victoria moved to the cupboard and got a glass, then filled it with cold water from the tap. This she handed to him.

He nodded thanks and lifted the cup. Victoria averted her eyes as she saw the telltale wobble, the small waves of water that trembled at the rim, the veins that stood out like drawn tendons in his hands and wrists. He drank, spilling a modest amount on the table and his shirt, and then thankfully set down the cup.

“Should I call a doctor?” she asked.

“Nonsense,” he replied waspishly. His eyes, faded as well-washed denim but as fierce as ever, challenged her to disagree. Then he glanced around the room. “Where's your grandmother?”

His breathing had improved. Victoria saw the steadying of respiration with some relief, but his color was still unnaturally high and his hands were pressed flat on the table to stop their palsied movement. She said, “I don't know. She was just in here, cleaning up breakfast.”

He made as if to rise to his feet. His boots scraped the floor. Victoria stopped him in alarm, putting her hand on his shoulder and saying quickly, “I'll go find her.”

She left the room, going down the hallway toward her grandparents' bedroom. That was another change that marked the transformation of Mildred Paulsen from self-sufficient and energetic woman to aging and confused. She seemed to sleep easily and often, napping in odd places and nodding off during conversations. Sure enough, when Victoria peeked through the door, her grandmother was on the bed, her mouth slightly open, shoes still on her feet, her dress rumpled and twisted.

She closed the door and went back to the kitchen. Her grandfather sat very still, braced on the table as if his life depended on staying upright and balanced in his chair. To his questioning look, she said, “She's napping. She's fine.”

He nodded, the muscles around his mouth loosening slightly. He looked very old at that moment. Victoria felt a pang in her heart as she gazed at him. He had always been the one she knew—knew in her soul—who would be there to take care of things if all went wrong. If one had to run home, he was the one who made sure home was still there to run to. He
was
“home,” as a matter of fact—him, and her grandmother, and the old farmhouse that housed her memories.

The kitchen was not much cooler than it was outside. Victoria gave her attention to the counter, picking up a cloth and wiping up a damp spot her grandmother had missed.

“Seems all right,” her grandfather said then, jerking his head slightly toward the east.

Confused, Victoria stared. “What does?”

“Your friend. The lawyer fellow.” It was a grunt. “Seems decent enough.”

“Oh, yes.” She weighed her words, not wanting to mention Michael's intervention that now had him digging postholes in a record midwestern swelter. She had the sinking feeling he had not known what he was getting into. “He's a nice man,” she murmured inadequately. Surely, if she was thinking of marrying him, she could come up with something more effusive.

“Good job?” White eyebrows moved.

She thought of Roberts, Williams, and Roberts, of Michael's posh office, of his apartment on Michigan Avenue. She glanced out the window. The Jaguar sat in gleaming expensive glory in the morning sunlight. “Yes.” She smiled faintly.

“Nice family?”

Michael's mother was a well-groomed and elegant woman who had never seen the inside of a kitchen and tended to kiss the air three inches from your cheek rather than touch you. His father was a lawyer, which in his case meant smooth, polished, and evasive. Victoria had always felt their approval of her fell somewhere between resignation and indifference. They didn't precisely make her uncomfortable, but neither did she relax in their presence.

Her grandfather, of course, felt that family was paramount. So she simply replied, “They're different. Not so close.”

“Huh.” The old hands shifted on the table. He hadn't removed his boots upon coming inside, which told Victoria how bad he must feel. Bits of manure and dust had sifted onto the floor, usually an unforgivable sin.

He moved his head. It was a tired gesture. “Just be sure now,” he admonished her, staring out the window, not looking at her. “Don't make a mistake. Don't tie yourself to the wrong man.”

It was so unlike him to make such a personal comment that she felt the astonishment creep into her face. “Don't make … but you just said you liked Michael. I don't think I—”

He went on, interrupting, “Never did like Ronald—too high strung, too edgy. Emily wasn't going to be happy long, you could see that.”

Curious now, Victoria sat down opposite, her gaze on his face. The sun poured in the windows, heating the room to an uncomfortable degree. The clock ticked mechanically in the corner. “Was Emily unhappy, Grandpa? Did she tell you so? Did she say why?”

“She didn't have to tell me,” was the gruff answer. “She was here all the time. Restless. Poor, sweet child.” His face went closed suddenly, shuttered and expressionless. He got painfully to his feet. “I'm going to lie down with your grandmother.”

Startled, Victoria watched him walk slowly out of the room, his gait uneven. Her lip began to throb. She was biting it, she realized, as she tasted salt. She was bleeding.

* * * *

Damon Paulsen followed Michael Roberts into the house. Observing the droop of the other man's shoulders, his sweat-soaked shirt, his sunburned legs, he was slightly ashamed of himself. He hadn't set out to prove some sort of point that morning. In fact, it had been Roberts who had volunteered to help with the fence. An offer prompted by generosity, which Michael probably had begun to regret even before they made it to the east field and took the supplies out of the truck.

The temperature had been harsh. The work was grueling at best, even to those used to being out of doors and doing such physical labor. Digging fence postholes fell into the category reserved for the most hated of jobs, the ones that Damon had to force himself to get done, simply because they needed doing.

So what had made him keep on long after he would have normally stopped and gone back to the house? He walked slowly up the steps, feeling aches in his arms, in his back and legs. It wasn't pleasant to think that he'd been deliberately punishing them both to prove how difficult his job was in comparison to whatever Michael Roberts might do every day. He had never thought of himself as that insecure, besides which, he knew that the trappings of expensive cars and plush offices didn't necessarily mean that one didn't have to work hard to attain them. In fact, it was usually just the opposite.

He opened the door and saw Tori bent over at the refrigerator. She took out a pitcher and began to pour iced tea into two glasses. Michael leaned limply against the counter, his face streaked with dust, his brown hair dark with moisture.

Sympathetically, Victoria handed him a glass and then offered one to Damon. Michael drank, throat pumping, and then wiped his hand over his mouth. He didn't bear much resemblance to the suave young man who had walked so casually down the stairs that morning.

“You poor things,” Victoria murmured. “We set a record today. One hundred and two degrees. I heard it on the radio.”

Damon drank, feeling the cool liquid slide down his throat. He half expected Victoria to be angry with him, and maybe he deserved it. But she said nothing. The table, he noticed, was piled with erratic stacks of paper and a laptop computer sat open, the screen half filled with notations of some kind. The glass felt cool and clean in his hand.

Michael had noticed the table as well. He finished his glass of tea, refilled it with water from the tap, and said hoarsely, “Been working?”

She gave him a small smile. “Not, I'd guess, as hard as you. I haven't gotten much done.”

Michael made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “That's probably right. You might have warned me about the slave driver here.” He glanced at Damon with careful good nature. As far as Damon could tell, there was no resentment, just fatigue, which was reasonable.

He responded mildly, “It was hot out there. But we got a lot done.” He sought Victoria's gaze. “How's the old man?”

She moved from the sink to the table, lightly touching the papers. Her brow was furrowed. “He took a nap.”

“A nap?”

“Yes.” Her teeth touched her lower lip.

“A nap,” Damon repeated. His own fatigue suddenly increased tenfold, tugging at his shoulders. Elmer Paulsen did not take naps. He didn't rest, or sleep in, or take off holidays. He was a farmer, which to him meant a way of life, not a way to make a living. Since his grandmother's small accident and Emily's disappearance, the change in his grandfather had been marked.

“I couldn't believe it,” Victoria admitted, still ruffling the papers with her fingers. She looked almost as tired as they did, with dark circles under her eyes. “They both slept most of the day, Damon.”