Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(56)

“Sorry. I had a key.”

Of course. Doesn’t everyone?

“I probably shouldn’t have let myself in. Sorry,” he says again.

“It’s okay. Odelia told me about you.” Warned her, really.

“Oh yeah? What did she say? Wait, let me guess. She said I’m a ne’er-do-well?”

“Actually, she mentioned you’re a . . . do well.” Despite her effort at restraint, the quip escapes her lips with a flirtatious little smile and is met by a devilish grin.

“Well, I ne’er expected to hear that. I’ve always had the feeling Odelia doesn’t think very highly of me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She may have mentioned it on the phone last week,” he says with a laugh. “She doesn’t mince words—and she doesn’t take kindly to being awakened in the middle of the night, either. But I couldn’t seem to keep my time zones straight.”

“Where were you?”

“On a camel trek in Mongolia.”

Bella starts to laugh but then sees his expression. “Wait—seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” he returns with a shrug. “Anyway, I had to fly back to New York and get my car. I got here as soon as I could, and it wasn’t exactly easy to walk into this house just now without Leona waiting for me. She and Edgar were the closest thing I ever had to parents. They took me in when I was a kid in trouble with nowhere else to go.”

“That’s what family does.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. I never had any family—I mean other than Leona and Edgar, but they weren’t blood relatives. Just a nice couple who couldn’t have children of their own, and instead of pressing charges against the juvenile delinquent who broke into their house to rob them, they took him in and turned his life around.”

Bella’s mouth falls open.

“What’s the matter? You can’t believe I was a teenage thug? Come on, it’s not so hard to imagine, is it?”

She doesn’t know what to say to that.

He doesn’t wait for a response. “I used to blame my bad behavior on being abandoned by my mother. It was a long time ago, though. And lousy luck doesn’t give you license to live by your own set of rules. Leona and Edgar taught me that. I wish I’d met them sooner, but I owe them everything,” he adds, bowing his head.

“I just . . . I thought you were Leona’s nephew,” Bella says lamely. “That’s what Odelia told me.”

“I guess that’s what Leona told her. It probably made things easier. Although I have to say, I’m astounded that Odelia didn’t figure out the truth, considering she’s psychic.” Judging by his tone, he’s not astounded at all.

She doesn’t respond to that comment either, feeling unexpectedly protective of Odelia—and of the others, and even of the wacky goings-on here in the Dale. Ironic, given her own newcomer status and blatant skepticism, not to mention the loss that ripped a gaping hole in her life.

If the people who inhabit this serene little village are convinced that they have all the answers and that you never really lose anyone you love, well then, more power to them. It must be nice to dwell in this luminescent little bubble, protected from the harsh realities of uncertainty and bereavement.

Bella gestures at the half-made bed. “I have to finish up in here,” she tells Grant. “I made sure your room is vacant, though.”

“Which room?”

“The one with the trains. Odelia said it’s yours.”

He smiles. “It is. I loved trains when I was a kid. Probably because I used to hitch a ride on a freight train out of town whenever I didn’t like whichever foster home I happened to be in. Which was all of them, until I met Leona and Edgar.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s the past.” He shrugs. “Anyway, it’ll be nice to sleep in a familiar bed for a change.”

“I take it you’ve been on the road a lot?”

“On the road, the rails, the water, in the air . . . This has been one heck of a trip.”

“You forgot the camels.”

“Right—on camelback, too.” His grin gives way to a yawn. “I’m so beat, I think I’ll go to bed right now, if you don’t mind.”

“Why would I mind?” she asks defensively, wondering if he somehow thinks she’ll miss the pleasure of his company this evening.

As if she imagined the two of them sitting together on the porch swing in the twilight . . .

“You know, the room. Is it ready?”

“My son slept in there the first night, but I changed the sheets, so it’s all set for you.”

“You have a son?”

She nods.

“How old?”

“Five.”

“And your husband . . . ?”

“He died,” she says flatly. No wide-eyed delusions here.

“I’m sorry.”

Yeah. Me too.

She gives a little nod and turns away, staring at a print on the wall: lithe, carefree Parisian girls in frothy tutus lined up at the barre, not a care in the world.

She can feel Grant watching her for a long moment, as if he wants to say something else. But he doesn’t.