The Great Escape (Wynette, Texas #7)(44)

“My mom ran away not too long after I was born.”

“It doesn’t sound like she was a great mom, either.”

“My grandma was great.”

“And you miss her.” She set aside the banana and finally turned to face him, only to watch tears gathering in his big brown eyes. Tears he wouldn’t appreciate her witnessing. “We have a lot of work to do.” She moved briskly toward the sunroom. “Let’s get to it.”

For the next several hours, Toby helped her carry broken furniture, moth-eaten cushions, and desiccated draperies to a spot at the end of the drive where she’d get someone to haul it away. Panda might not have any respect for this house, but she did, and if he didn’t like it, he could sue her.

Toby tried to make up for his lack of muscle with a seriousness of purpose that touched her to the core. She never got to work one on one with kids anymore, not unless they were related to her.

Together she and Toby struggled to carry out an ancient television that no longer worked. He filled trash bags with the decades-old magazines and tattered paperbacks she handed him from the sunroom bookcases, then wiped the shelves as she rearranged what was left. Although they tried, the awful green kitchen table proved too heavy for them to move, and they both ended up with nasty splinters for their efforts.

When she’d had enough for the day, she carried some money out to the screen porch Toby had just finished helping her scrub down. His eyes widened when he saw what she was paying him. He quickly shoved the bills in his pocket. “I can come back anytime,” he said eagerly. “And I’ll clean the house, too. I know it didn’t look too good before, but I’m a lot better now.”

She regarded him sympathetically. “Panda’s going to need a caretaker who’s a grown-up.” As his face fell, she went on, “But I have some other jobs in mind for you.”

“I’m just as good as a grown-up.”

“He won’t see it that way.”

He stomped across the porch and banged the screen door behind him, but she knew he’d be back, and he was.

Over the next few days, they swept up cobwebs and scrubbed floors. She covered the worst of the outdoor cushions with more beach towels and discovered the metal baker’s rack that looked clunky in the front hallway fit perfectly on the porch. Gradually the ceramic pig, chipped canisters, and other detritus that had cluttered up the counters disappeared. She filled a blue pottery bowl with ripe strawberries and a jelly jar with roses she found growing on an old rambler behind the garage. The arrangement was a far cry from the incredible creations that came out of the White House flower shop, but she liked it just as much.

By the fourth day after Panda had left, they were ripping up the ugly carpet in the gloomy den. “You got any more bread?” Toby asked as they finished the job.

“You polished off the last slice.”

“Are you gonna make more?”

“Not today.”

“You should make more.” He studied her newest accessory, a gorgeous dragon tattoo that curled from her collarbone around her neck with its fiery mouth pointing toward her earlobe. “How old are you anyway?”

She started to tell him she was eighteen, then stopped herself. If she wanted him to be truthful, she had to be straightforward. “Thirty-one.”

“That’s old.”

They moved outside, and Toby held the stepladder while she pulled away the vines that had grown over the den’s only window. Once this room wasn’t so gloomy, it would be a good place for her to start writing.

Through the window, she could see the warm, honeyed tones of the hardwood floor. From the moment she’d stepped through the doorway, the house had called out to her. Panda didn’t deserve this place.



BREE UNDRESSED IN THE TINY laundry room at the back of the cottage and dropped her dirty clothes directly into the washing machine, right down to bra and underpants. The smoker she used to calm the bees had left her smelling like she’d spent the day around a campfire. She wrapped a towel around herself and made her way to the bathroom shower. She’d never worked so hard in her life, and every muscle in her body ached.

For the last few days, she’d been outside from dawn until nightfall getting the hives ready for summer. Following the directions in the manuals she’d read, she moved frames, checked for queens, replaced the old brood comb with fresh comb, and added more brood boxes. She’d also cleaned the honey house from top to bottom, wiping the dust from hundreds of jars filled with last summer’s harvest. When that was done, she’d attached Myra’s labels.

Carousel Honey

Charity Island, Michigan

Bree had once dreamed of being an artist, and the illustration of the gaily beribboned carousel on the labels came from a watercolor she’d painted when she was sixteen as a birthday gift to Myra. Myra had liked the watercolor so much she’d asked to use it for her labels.

Bree dried herself off, working gently around the numerous bee stings she’d accumulated, the oldest of which were itching like crazy. But she hadn’t gotten stung once today. It was nice to feel proud of something.

She found Toby sprawled on the living room couch playing with the Nintendo portable game player she’d brought as a gift when she’d arrived. The room had changed little over the years. Peach walls, a blue and navy floral carpet, overstuffed furniture, and a pair of ceramic Siamese cats on each side of the fireplace mantel. She and Star had named them Beavis and Butt-Head.