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Boone stopped the truck in front, and though not usually into comparisons since he wasn’t the materialistic type, he couldn’t help being struck by the contrast between his sister’s place and his own.
He sighed and shoved open the driver’s side door, keys in hand. He’d been wishing he’d taken the time to shower and put on something besides fishing clothes ever since the run-in with Tara Kendall outside the bank in Parable, if only to prove to the world in general that he did his laundry and even ironed a shirt once in a while. Now, faced with the obvious differences, he felt like a seedy drifter, lacking only a cardboard begging sign to complete the look.
The screen door opened and Molly stepped out onto the porch, waving and offering up a trembling little smile. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and she wore jeans, one of Bob’s shirts and a pair of sneakers that looked a little the worse for wear. Mom-shoes.
“Bob’s been admitted,” she said right away, coming down the porch steps and meeting him at the front gate, opening the latch before Boone could reach for it. “He’s getting a new knee in the morning.”
“Maybe I’ll stop by and say hello to him on the way out of town,” Boone offered, feeling clumsy.
“He’s pretty out of it,” Molly answered. “The pain was bad.”
Boone put a hand on his sister’s shoulder, leaned in to kiss her forehead lightly. “What happened, anyhow?” he asked. Bob was the athletic type, strong and active.
Molly winced a little, remembering. “One of the regulars brought his nephew along today—he’s never played before—but he has one heck of a backswing. Caught Bob square in the knee.”
Now it was Boone who winced. “Owww,” he said.
“Owww, indeed,” Molly verified. “The nephew feels terrible, of course.”
“He should,” Boone said.
That was when Molly made a little sound of frustration and worry, and hugged him close, and Boone hugged her back, his chin propped on top of her head.
“I’m sorry, sis,” he told her. The phrase sounded so lame.
Molly sniffled and drew back, smiling up at him. “Come on inside. I just made iced tea, and the kids will be back soon. My crew went to pick up some pizza—late lunch, early dinner whatever—and Griffin and Fletcher went with them.” Her eyes misted over. “I’ve told them about the operation and rehab and how they’ll be going back to Parable with you, but I’m not sure they really understand.”
Boone nodded and followed his sister up the porch steps and on into the house. While it wasn’t a mansion, the colonial was impressive in size and furnished with a kind of casual elegance that would be impossible to pull off in a thirdhand double-wide.
“I imagine they’ll have plenty of questions,” he said as they passed beneath the glittering crystal droplets dangling from the chandelier in the entryway. An antique grandfather clock ticked ponderously against one wall, measuring out what time remained to any of them, like a heartbeat. Life was fragile, anything could happen.
Molly glanced back at him over one shoulder, nodded. “I told them they’d be coming back here in a couple of months,” she replied. “After their uncle Bob has some time to heal.”
Boone didn’t comment. Despite his trepidation—he definitely considered himself parentally challenged—a part of him, long ignored but intractable, remained stone-certain that Griffin and Fletcher belonged with him, their father, on the little spread beside the river. Home, be it ever so humble.
This wasn’t the time to discuss that, though. Molly loved her nephews like they were her own, and with so many things to cope with, she didn’t need anything more to worry about.
And worry she would. With all that roiling in Boone’s mind, he and Molly passed along the wide hallway that opened onto a big dining room with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side overlooking the side yard, where a small stone fountain stood spilling rainbow-colored water and surrounded by thriving rosebushes. The scene resembled a clip from HGTV.
They’d reached the sunlit kitchen when Molly spoke again, employing her being-brave voice, the one she’d used during the hard days after their parents had died. She’d been just nineteen then, to Boone’s fifteen, but she’d managed to step up and take charge of the household.
“Griff is excited—already has his bags packed,” she told Boone, as she opened the refrigerator door and reached in for the pitcher of tea. Bright yellow lemon slices floated among the tinkling ice cubes, and there were probably a few sprigs of mint in there, too. Molly believed in small gracious touches like that. “Fletcher, though—” She stopped, shook her head. “He’s less enthusiastic.”
Boone suppressed a sigh, baseball cap in hand, looking around him. The kitchen was almost as big as his whole double-wide, with granite surfaces everywhere, real wood cabinets with gleaming glass doors, top-of-the-line appliances that, unlike the hodgepodge at his place, actually matched each other. There was even a real brick fireplace, and the table, with its intricately mosaicked top, looked long enough to accommodate a serious crowd.
Back at the double-wide, more than three people at a meal meant someone had to eat in the yard, or on the back steps, balancing a throwaway plate on their lap.
Molly smiled somewhat wistfully, as if she’d guessed what he was thinking, and gestured for Boone to sit down. Then she poured two tall glasses of iced tea and joined him, placing the pitcher in the middle of the table. Sure enough, there were little green leaves floating in the brew.
“Fletcher will adjust,” Molly went on gently. Her perception was nothing new; she’d always been able to read him, even when he put on a poker face. She was the big sister, and she’d been a rock after the motorcycle wreck that killed their mom and dad. Somehow, she’d seen to it that they could stay in the farmhouse they’d grown up in, putting off going to college herself until Boone had finished high school. She’d waitressed at the Butter Biscuit Café and clipped coupons and generally made do, all to prevent the state or the county from stepping in and separating them, shuffling Boone into foster care.
In the aftermath of the tragedy, the whole community of Parable had helped, the way small towns do, with folks sharing produce from their gardens, eggs from their chicken coops, milk from their cows, clothes from their closets, all without any hint of charity. Boone had done odd jobs after school and on weekends, but the main burden of responsibility had always been Molly’s.
Oh, there’d been some life insurance money, which she’d hoarded carefully, determined that they would both get an education, and the farm, never a big moneymaker even in the best of times, had at least been paid for. Their mom had been a checker at the supermarket, and their dad had worked at the now-closed sawmill, and somehow, latter-day hippies though they were, they’d whittled down the mortgage over the years.
The motorcycle had been their only extravagance—they’d both loved the thing.
When Boone was ready for college, he and Molly had divided the old place down the middle, with the house on Molly’s share, at Boone’s insistence. She’d sold her portion to distant cousins right away and, later on, those cousins had sold the property to Tara Kendall, the lady chicken rancher. Thus freed, Molly had studied business in college and eventually met and married Bob and given birth to three great kids.
And if all that hadn’t been enough, she’d stepped up when Corrie got sick, too, making regular visits to Parable to help with the kids, just babies then, cook meals, keep the double-wide fit for human habitation, and even drive her sister-in-law back and forth for medical treatments. Boone, young and working long hours as a sheriff’s deputy for next-to-no money, had been among the walking wounded, mostly just putting one foot in front of the other and bargaining with God.
Take me, not her.
But God hadn’t listened. It was as if He’d stopped taking Boone’s calls, putting him on hold.
Now,