Something to Prove Read online

  Ah, screw it. If Ryan Tanner wanted to give away his time and money, it was no skin off her nose.

  “Well, Helena? Are we on?”

  She swallowed hard—it wasn’t her pride she was forcing down, but somehow it still managed to feel like it. “We’re on. I’m amazed you’re able to stay in business, but consider your bid accepted.”

  “Then I’ll call you tomorrow. You’ll need to make some decisions on paint and such.”

  “You have my number, and you know where I live. The sooner we can get this done, the better.”

  She hung up and made a face at the phone. Wrenching open the door to Latte Dah, she stomped back over to the table, where her computer had gone to sleep and her coffee had gotten cold. Damn it. He even ruined my coffee.

  Molly came over, her forehead wrinkled in concern. “Everything okay?”

  She forced herself to smile. “Nothing another cup of coffee and another lemon bar wouldn’t fix.” She’d go for a run later to burn off the calories—and maybe some frustration, too.

  Molly patted her shoulder in sympathy and support. “We’ve all had those kinds of phone calls, and on those days, I’m sorry I don’t have a liquor license.”

  “Oh, that would make this place heaven on earth. I’d never leave.”

  Molly laughed as she took away the cold cup, and a moment later Helena heard the cappuccino machine sputter back to life. Shaking off her anger, she put her earbuds in and turned her music up as she went back to work.

  Just a couple of e-mails below the one from Ryan was one from Tate she hadn’t noticed earlier.

  Busy tonight. Dinner tomorrow?

  She hadn’t come back to Magnolia Beach to socialize—and after last night’s exploration of the house told her exactly what she was in for, God knew she had plenty to occupy her time—but this was Tate. And she really wanted to go.

  She glanced up and nodded her thanks as Molly brought a fresh coffee and set it in front of her. If she went to dinner, she could also get a little intel on Molly from Tate—maybe figure out if Molly did have a thing for Tate and whether or not he returned the sentiment.

  Yikes. There must be something in the air in Magnolia Beach. She’d been here less than two days, and she was already being sucked back into small-town happenings.

  This was definitely going to send her back into therapy.

  * * *

  Ryan looked at his phone, half hoping Siri would pipe up with an explanation of the workings of Helena’s mind for him, but had no such luck. He wasn’t sure what about this had gotten her panties in a twist, but it seemed no good deed went unpunished. He was just trying to be nice, for God’s sake.

  To Ms. Louise, of course.

  A crash and a curse pulled him sharply back into the moment, and he ran to see what had happened. Unsurprisingly, a red-faced Tucker stood over an overturned wheelbarrow, the scrap and trash he’d been taking to the Dumpster now littering the Joneses’ front yard.

  Tank barked at the racket, then sat and stared at Tucker disapprovingly as Ryan counted slowly to ten and Tucker stammered an explanation. He’d hired Tucker at his aunt’s pleading to give him something productive to do while Tucker was “finding himself” after an unsuccessful freshman year at Troy State. Ryan was sympathetic to Tucker’s situation—going from being a big trophy fish in a little pond to a tiny minnow in the ocean was a hard blow to the ego and difficult to recover from. That, Ryan knew from experience.

  Sympathy was one thing, however; reality was another. And the reality of hiring his cousin was a steady, dangerous rise in his blood pressure. Nineteen-year-old arrogance combined with clumsiness and feelings of immortality were just a recipe for disaster. “Clean it up. Be sure to run a magnet to get all the nails out of the grass. The Jones kids should be able to go barefoot in their own yard. If one of them ends up with a nail in his foot, it’s your hide on the line.”

  Tucker nodded, righting the wheelbarrow and dropping to his knees to clean up the mess.

  “Good Lord. Tell me you don’t let him loose with power tools.”

  That comment came from behind him, and he answered without even needing to turn around. “God, no. Aunt Claire would never forgive me if Tucker amputated something.”

  “It would ruin Christmas, you know.”

  “And we can’t have that.” Satisfied that Tucker was taking the cleanup seriously enough, he turned to Jamie. “What are you doing here?”

  “I just dropped off my mom at your mom’s, and she asked me to bring you this.” Rolling his eyes, he held out a plastic container. “Pound cake.”

  Ryan looked at it suspiciously. His cousin wouldn’t have been pressed into food delivery service without a good reason. “Are there strings?”

  “Why else would Aunt Mary send me to deliver baked goods unless she wanted something?”

  “And that would be?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I rushed out of there before I could get the details.”

  “I’m glad you’re fast on your feet, then.”

  Jamie grinned. “Years of practice.”

  Ryan opened the container and took out a piece before offering it to Jamie. The cake was delicious, moist, and flavored with just a hint of maternal interference, as always. Mom would call him later with whatever it was she wanted, so he could enjoy this guilt-free for now. He broke off a small piece and tossed it to Tank.

  “A couple of the guys are coming over to play poker tomorrow night. Want to come?”

  “Can’t,” he said around a mouthful of cake. “I’ve got to install cabinets at the Millers’ tomorrow, and then I’m headed to Ms. Louise’s to get started on her place.”

  Jamie gave a low whistle. “That’s some dangerous territory.”

  “How?”

  “Hell-on-Wheels, of course.”

  Ryan laughed. “Really? You’re still holding a high school grudge? Quit being such a baby.”

  “She didn’t humiliate you in front of the entire school,” he grumbled.

  Ryan shook his head. “You won’t get any sympathy from me. You brought that on yourself. And it was quite a fair revenge, considering what you did to her.”

  Jamie didn’t have an answer for that. “Still . . .”

  He tossed the now-empty container into the cab of his truck. “Seriously, grow up.”

  An eyebrow went up. “When did you become Helena’s champion?”

  “What?”

  “You two weren’t exactly friends.”

  “True, but unlike some people, I’ve outgrown my adolescence.”

  Jamie looked at him carefully. “So that’s how it is.”

  “So that’s how what is?”

  “You’ve got a little crush on her, don’t you?”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I don’t think so. Why else would you be pulling overtime at Ms. Louise’s if not to get into Helena’s good graces?”

  “I’m just trying to get a nice old lady back into her home.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What?”

  “That’s a good story. You should stick to it.”

  Good Lord. “I don’t need a ‘story.’ It’s a job. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “And you’re doing it all yourself?”

  “You think I should send Tucker over to do it? I’m trying to get Ms. Louise back into her house, not get the place condemned.”

  “How much are you charging for the overtime?” Jamie cocked his head when Ryan hesitated. “Since I’m the person who does your books, it’s a fair question for me to ask.”

  Note to self: Get new accountant. “I admit I’m giving Ms. Louise a hefty discount, but she’s a nice lady who’s in a bad spot right now and deserves to get into her home as soon as possible.”

  If there was such a thing as a sarcastic nod, Jamie had it
down pat. “Okay, then. Get your Good Deeds Done for the Elderly merit badge.” He dropped his voice. “I hear Hell-on-Wheels grew up pretty, though.”

  “Go away. I’m trying to work here.” For once, Ryan was glad he’d hired Tucker on this summer, as he’d just managed to drop the magnet on his foot, giving credence to Ryan’s otherwise lame excuse to get rid of Jamie. “Saving that boy from himself is a full-time job in and of itself.”

  Jamie let it go. “Good luck with that. And if you change your mind about the poker, there will be a seat at the table for you. Otherwise, see you at the game Friday.” With a wave, he was gone.

  While Ryan appreciated the pound cake, he could’ve done without the visit from Jamie and his insinuations. It was a sad state of affairs when a single man couldn’t be around a single woman without someone making more of it. And while a man would have to be blind or dead not to see the attraction of Helena’s charms—regardless of her reputation with the locals—it was scary to think folks were already expecting him to be charmed by them. Especially since he hadn’t made up his own mind on the matter yet.

  Just another joy of living in Magnolia Beach.

  Chapter 4

  A person would think, for practicality’s sake if nothing else, that a bridge from Dauphin Island to Fort Morgan would be a good thing. It wasn’t like it was a long, impossible stretch of water or anything, and it would certainly cut down on the travel time from the west side to the east side of Mobile Bay. Helena figured the lack of a bridge probably had something to do with boat access or something, but surely some smart person could figure out a way around that—like making it a drawbridge or just really tall, maybe. Instead, the hassle of lining up for the ferry and chugging slowly across the pass made a short-as-the-crow-flies trip into a nearly two-hour affair.

  But the ferry ride brought back a touch of nostalgia, too, of high school weekends spent in Gulf Shores—where, in her teenage mind at least, the parties were better, the boys were cuter, and life in general was more exciting than in Magnolia Beach. She smiled to herself. The suspicion that life was better somewhere else was exactly the feeling that fueled small-town boredom and inspired frustrated wanderlust in the teenage population. Unfortunately, she hadn’t figured that out until she found herself in Rome, Georgia, with a guy who wasn’t nearly as cool or as cute once the summer was over and reality crashed down along with the fall temperatures.

  Did she have regrets? Sure. But she didn’t regret leaving—only the manner in which she did. But, then, if she hadn’t left when and how she did, she probably wouldn’t be where she was today, and she was really okay with today.

  Well, not today, exactly. There were a lot of places she’d rather be than here right now.

  But the ferry ride did offer a nice, calming view, and Helena returned to her car in time to disembark feeling refreshed from the sea air—even if she looked rather windblown.

  From the ferry dock, it was only a few miles to the New Day Convalescent Center, a tidy stucco building that looked more like a hotel than a care facility. She hadn’t chosen this place—hell, she hadn’t even known about Grannie’s fall until she was about to be moved here because Grannie hadn’t wanted to worry her—but she couldn’t complain. The staff was friendly and well trained, and when she’d come down the first time a couple of weeks ago, she’d been pleasantly surprised and relieved to find that it was clean, welcoming, and not nearly as depressing as the TV news exposés on elder abuse in nursing homes had led her to expect.

  As she signed in at the visitor desk, the nurse informed her that Grannie was still in physical therapy and not back to her room yet. There was something in her voice, though, that had Helena’s antennae twitching.

  “I thought y’all had changed her PT time so she wouldn’t miss her afternoon soaps.” That had taken three phone calls to the home’s administrator and medical adviser to arrange, but in the end, even they’d agreed it was a worthwhile schedule change just to stem the complaints. You didn’t interrupt Grannie’s stories for anything less than a genuine blood or fire emergency. Everyone knew that.

  “We had,” the nurse began carefully, “but we’re having some . . . difficulties now.”

  Helena’s heart began to beat faster as the adrenaline kicked in, and she braced herself for bad news. “Difficulties?”

  “Mrs. Wheeler is fine,” the nurse assured her, and the panic ebbed some. “But since you have a few minutes before she’s ready to receive visitors, maybe you’d like to speak with Dr. Abrams.”

  “Of course.” If Grannie was physically fine, then something else was going on, and Helena went through a mental list as she followed the nurse down the hallway to Dr. Abrams’s impressively decorated office.

  Dr. Abrams stood as she entered. “Miss Wheeler. Good to see you again.” He motioned for her to sit.

  “Is everything all right with Grannie? Your nurse mentioned difficulties.” Maybe it was a problem with the insurance or something. Adulthood had certainly slapped her in the face with paperwork and decisions she had to make as Grannie’s next of kin, but . . .

  “Mrs. Wheeler is fine. The difficulties are more mental than physical.”

  That brought her up short. Mental? Grannie might not be as physically robust as she used to be, but she’d never shown any signs of losing any of her mental capacities. The woman was still scary sharp, with a memory an elephant would envy. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  He looked like he was choosing his words carefully. “Mrs. Wheeler is starting to tire of being here.”

  “No offense, but she tired of being here about two days after she arrived.”

  “Yes, but, until recently, she was cooperative. An active participant in her own recovery.”

  “And now she’s not?”

  “She wants to go home, and she seems to think the best way to achieve that is to irritate us to the point we’ll kick her out.” The doctor’s mouth curved up a bit as he said it, as if he saw the humor in the situation.

  Mercy. She’d always known she’d pay for her upbringing, but she’d expected it would be with the antics of her own loinfruit—not a role reversal with Grannie. As she sat across from Dr. Abrams, listening to his list of examples of Grannie’s “recent uncooperativeness,” she felt a stab of remorse for all the times Grannie had been called down to the school. And the police station. And the sheriff’s office. And that one time to the Coast Guard station . . .

  She sighed. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Good. If we can get Mrs. Wheeler actively participating in her recovery again, she should be able to go home in a couple of weeks.” He smiled, but there was something oily about it. “Which is what everyone wants.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” She picked up her bag and the chrysanthemums she’d cut from Grannie’s front flower bed and let herself out of Dr. Abrams’s office. As she made her way to Grannie’s room, she felt as if every staff member she passed were giving her annoyed looks over Grannie’s antics.

  Oh, paybacks are hell.

  She knocked on Grannie’s door at the same time she opened it, sticking her head through the opening to say, “You decent?”

  Grannie was in a recliner near the window, looking a little tired but overall much better and less fragile than she had when Helena last visited. Her beautiful white hair was back to being perfectly coiffed, her blue eyes were bright, and she’d painted her nails a perky shade of pink to match the caftan she wore. “Helena!” She looked surprised but then opened her arms wide for a hug. “It’s good to see you, baby. What on earth are you doing here?”

  Helena hugged her carefully, not sure what might still be sore, and inhaled the familiar scent of Shalimar and talc. “I came to see how you were doing, of course. Why is that so surprising?”

  “Well, you said you were coming down, but I thought you’d need a few days to settle in at the house before you came to visit.”
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  “I’ve come home. Why would I need time to settle in to my own home?” It was a small lie, but one she wouldn’t feel bad about. She stuck the chrysanthemums in a vase and carried them to the windowsill where they’d be in Grannie’s line of sight. “These are blooming like crazy right now.”

  “I shudder to think of what my beds must look like.”

  “Actually, they look great.” She stacked the magazines she’d brought on the small side table and filled the candy bowl with the hard toffees Grannie loved. “Mrs. Wilson has been sending her grandsons over to keep the grass cut and the weeds out of your flowers.”

  “That’s very kind of Margaret and the boys.”

  Helena took the chair next to Grannie’s and squeezed her hand gently. “Everyone loves you, Grannie, and they just want you to concentrate on getting better.”

  “I’ll be fine once I get out of here.”

  “Which brings me to my next topic.” She leveled a stern look at Grannie—the same look Grannie had leveled at her many, many times. There was no need to beat around the bush. “Dr. Abrams says you’re being difficult.”

  Grannie was the picture of genteel, Southern pearl-clutching dismay. “I am not being difficult.”

  “You can’t be released until the doctors say so, and if you’re not cooperating with them—”

  “I’ll recuperate better in my own home.”

  “Which isn’t ready for you, anyway. Ryan’s starting the work tomorrow, but it’s going to take him some time to finish.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know. He’s very busy and working us in around his other projects, so a definite finish date isn’t set.”

  Grannie didn’t seem pleased to hear that.

  “So you might as well make the best of your time here so you’ll be ready as soon as the house is.”

  Grannie patted Helena’s arm. “You’re a sweet girl, Helena, coming to take care of your old grandmother.”

  Nice dodge, Grannie. “You’re worth it, and you’re certainly not old. If there’s a reason you’re unhappy here—other than simply being here,” she amended quickly, “tell me, and I’ll do my best to get it fixed or find another place for you to go to.”