Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(88)

“It’s me. I brought a friend. I’d like you to meet Kensi, Grandpa,” Owen says, his voice no longer hard and angry, everything about him softening, as if his grandfather is a flame to his ice.

“Oh, yes…yes…Kensi. This is the one, the girl you…the metronome, right?” Owen’s grandpa says, his feet shuffling forward, his weight being assisted by Owen’s hold on him. I meet them in the middle of the room and look to Owen, whose eyes flit to me briefly with a smile. It disappears just as fast.

“Yes, Grandpa. That’s the one,” Owen says.

I reach my hand out, and Owen’s grandpa squeezes it in between both of his. His skin is dry, and his hands are cold. His gray eyes are cloudy, and I wonder how old he is. “Well, aren’t you lovely,” he says, his smile so much like Owen’s that I can’t help but giggle a little seeing it.

“Thank you, sir,” I say.

“Call me Gus. Tell me, Kensi…do you like Rosemary?” he asks, and I look to Owen for help. He shrugs and steps back as his grandfather hands over his cane and slides toward a small dresser against the far wall.

“I guess so…” I say, wondering what he means. Every step he takes is small and cautious, and his hands hover out in front of him, shaking a little. I slide closer, my hands ready to catch him, but when I look to Owen, he just winks and gives a small shake of his head. Gus pulls a record from a paper sleeve on top of his dresser, then lifts the lid on an old turntable sitting next to it, leaning forward, his hand shaking with the weight of the player’s needle and arm. He drops it down with careful precision on the record’s edge, and soon, soft music spills out into the room.

It’s Rosemary Clooney. I recognize it immediately, and it makes me chuckle. “You know, not many people your age appreciate things like this. But I had a feeling you might. Owen says you’re quite the musician,” he says, reaching both hands out, his fingers twitching, calling me closer to him.

“White Christmas is my favorite,” I smile, and Gus pauses, raising his plump chin toward me before turning to glance at his grandson.

“Did you hear that, Relish? This one’s got good taste,” he says, turning back and taking one of my hands and then the other. He holds my arms out to the sides and begins to sway me slowly from side to side, his chest humming along with the tune crackling from his record player.

“Why do you call him Relish?” I ask, catching a glance of Owen over his grandfather’s shoulder. He’s standing in the bedroom doorway, his head leaning against the frame, both of our coats draped over his arm while he watches his grandfather dance with me. His chest rises once with a short laugh when I ask about his nickname, his hand rubbing his face, then resting over his mouth, hiding what I think is a smile.

I wish he weren’t hiding it. I’d give just about anything to see Owen smile.

“Shall I tell her?” Gus asks.

“I couldn’t stop you, could I?” Owen says back.

“Ha…I guess not,” he says, letting go of one of my hands and encouraging me to spin out and then back to his arms. “This one summer, when Owen was little, maybe four or five, before Bill died, we went to a lot of ballgames out in Kane County. Owen would beg us to take him. But then he’d get there, and the little bugger couldn’t sit still. So…I started making a deal with this kid; I said that any time he could pick the winner in the hotdog, ketchup, and relish race, I’d give him a quarter. He picked relish every time. But what’s weird, is relish won…every single time!”

I look back over my shoulder to Owen. With lips tight, he shrugs, his smile faint, maybe a little sad. Memories seem to do that to him.

“Well, this little son-of-a-gun, he found out that the announcers only had one video to show on the board, with one outcome. After about six dollars in quarters, I asked the ticket man about it and he told me. He’s been Relish ever since,” Gus says, a sense of fondness in his voice, despite the way his laugh taunts and teases.

“Yep, that’s me. Relish,” Owen says, his voice more distant. “Hey, I’ll be back in just a minute. Take care of her, okay Gramps?”

Gus spins me away from him one more time, then brings me back, waving his hand to send his grandson off. Owen steps away from the door, back in the direction of the main room. Before he turns, I notice his brow pulled in, a deep wrinkle at the bridge of his nose.

“Have I told you about Grace yet?” Gus says, his gravelly voice so thick he has to pause our dance and reach into his front pocket for his handkerchief to cover his mouth as he coughs.

“I don’t believe so,” I say, wondering if this is going to spin into another interesting story about Owen’s youth. I wish he enjoyed hearing them and sharing them more.

“Ah, Gracie. I met her at the Apple Festival, ya know,” he says, and I can’t help but smile when I realize he’s talking about his wife. “She used to date one of the Wilson boys, the family that owned the orchard?”

I nod.

“Huh,” he chuckles. “She would have made a mint in life if she just stayed with that fella. Those boys made millions off that land. Sold hundreds of acres to developers.”

“I bet she was happy with her life just as it was,” I say, spinning myself out for a turn during our dance now. I’ve only known him for five minutes, and already I think I would be willing to marry Owen’s grandfather.