“I don’t have far to go. My grandpa’s farm is about six miles out of town.”
“Well, drive safely.”
“Thanks. And I’m sorry you had to get so wet.” She looked up at him. “Can I pay you for your time?”
He held up his hands. “Nope. That was my good deed for the day.” He pushed the trash barrel closer to the building so the rain couldn’t go into it, then smiled at her. “Now, you be safe out there, ma’am.”
She returned the smile. “The name’s Dillon.”
“Dillon?” He nodded with a thoughtful look. “Interesting.”
“It’s Celtic. A boy’s name, really. It has something to do with the sea.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Dillon.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Jordan.”
The warmth of his hand soaked into hers, and perhaps she held on a bit too long. Then, her face flushed with embarrassment, she hurriedly thanked him once more and dashed through the pouring rain to her car. As she slowly drove through town, relieved to be able to see out of her windshield, she wondered about this Jordan fellow. Was he simply an attractive former Boy Scout employed by the local hardware store? Or was there more to him than met the eye?
CHAPTER
3
Dillon felt a rush of excitement as she drove down the familiar farm road. And, as if to reassure her, the rain began to let up and the sun peeked out from behind a bank of clouds in the western sky. Then, just as the farm buildings came into sight, a rainbow began to appear, suspended over Grandpa’s white clapboard farmhouse like a sweet promise of better things ahead. It was so pretty that Dillon was tempted to stop and snap a photo on her phone, but shivering from the damp and cold, she couldn’t wait to get inside the house.
As she parked in front, she considered her tactic—should she knock on the door or slip inside and surprise him? Either way might startle him since he didn’t usually get many visitors out here. As she went up the porch steps she decided to simply let herself in and quietly call out. She paused in the living room, taking in the old plaid sofa, Grandma’s gold velveteen rocker, and Grandpa’s worn brown recliner. Nothing much had changed since she’d lived here during high school. But the dust-covered end tables, old newspapers, stained coffee mugs, and clutter spread about was a stark reminder that Grandma was gone. The room looked depressed. Grandpa probably was too. Dillon hadn’t come a moment too soon. She couldn’t wait to hug him.
“Grandpa?” Dillon said. “Are you home?” Hearing noise in the kitchen, she imagined him in there. Probably still wearing his dirty overalls and a plaid flannel shirt . . . maybe heating up some canned soup. “Hello?” she called out as she pushed open the swinging door.
“Dillon!” Margot dropped a frying pan with a loud clang. “What on earth?”
Dillon tried to hide her disappointment. “Hi, Margot,” she said with a fixed smile. “Is everything okay? Is Grandpa here?”
“Grandpa’s just coming in.” She nodded to the back door, just opening. “Does he know you’re coming?” she whispered.
“No, I wanted to surprise him.” Dillon waited as Grandpa came into the kitchen, hanging his barn coat and John Deere cap by the door without spotting her.
“Hello, Grandpa,” Dillon said cheerfully.
He turned to face her, breaking into a wide grin. “Well, if it’s not my favorite granddaughter.” He spread his arms and she ran into them.
“Yes, look what the cat dragged in,” Margot said.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Grandpa held Dillon at arm’s length, looking her over carefully. “Still my pretty girl.”
“Looks like a drowned rat to me.” Margot tweaked a soggy strand of Dillon’s hair.
“Thanks a lot.” Dillon wrinkled her nose at Margot.
“But Margot’s right. You’re all wet, Dillon.” He rubbed his bristled chin. “What happened?”
She explained about her windshield wipers and Grandpa encouraged her to go put on dry clothes. “Don’t need you getting sick on us.” He patted her cheek. “And then we’ll have supper and catch up on everything.”
Dillon grabbed a bag from her car and hurried back into the house, heading straight up the stairs for her old bedroom. But when she opened the door, it looked as if someone else was staying here. Clothes were spread on the bed and over the chair with various personal items littered over the bureau. Had Grandpa taken in a roommate? Perhaps a live-in housekeeper?
Feeling disgruntled over losing her old bedroom, she went to the spare room that her grandmother had used for sewing and crafts. But it was packed even more than she recalled, with barely room to stand. Finally, she decided to just change clothes in the bathroom. As she towel-dried her shoulder-length hair, which had gone from wavy to frizzy, she wondered about the items in her old room. What was going on here? Did Grandpa have a girlfriend? No, Margot would’ve mentioned this.
Feeling warmer and dryer, she hurried downstairs to find Margot still in the kitchen. “Where’s Grandpa?” Dillon asked.
“He went to clean up for dinner. He even said he was going to shave.”
“Good for him.” Dillon watched with concern as Margot attempted to peel an onion with an oversized knife. Hopefully she wouldn’t need stitches tonight. “So . . . are you really cooking dinner?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Margot held up the knife with a furrowed brow.
“Well, I didn’t think you knew how to cook.” Dillon attempted a weak smile.
“That just shows how much you don’t know, silly Dilly.”
“Uh-huh . . . Do you want some help?”
“Yes.” Margot handed her the onion. “Chop this for me. It’ll just make me cry, anyway.”
Dillon cut the onion in half. “It looks like someone’s been staying in my room. Has Grandpa taken in a—”
“That would be me.” Margot filled a large pan with water.
“You’re staying here—at the house?”
“That’s right.”
“You mean for just tonight?”
“I’ve been here since Friday.”
“But I talked to you on Friday. You never mentioned—”
“Yeah . . .” She put the pan on the stove with a clunk.
“So did you come to help with Grandpa . . . because you were worried?”
“That’s part of it.” She turned on the gas stove.
“Well, since I’m here, I can help with him. You won’t have to stay any longer now.” Feeling relieved, she started to dice the onion.
“Thanks, but I’m not going anywhere.” Margot put her hands on her hips, glaring at Dillon with defiance.
“Huh?” Dillon paused from chopping. “But what about Don? Won’t he miss—”
“Don is history.” Margot tore open a box of pasta.
“What do you mean? I thought you were just celebrating seven—”
“I thought so too.” Margot pointed at Dillon. “But thanks to you, we’re not.”
“What?” Dillon frowned. “Thanks to me?”