Once Upon A Half-Time 2(108)

I recovered from his visit. At least, my body did. My heart? Kinda forgot to hop on board. I wasn’t ready to confront those feelings, it wasn’t safe to admit those feelings, so I buried myself in cake flour and filled every available space in my apartment with ten different types of cookies.

Chocolate chip mended broken hearts.

Macadamia nut were good for forgetting.

The multi-colored meringue cookies helped to focus my concentration, especially when Maddox turned my thoughts from sugar and spice to everything naughty…but nice.

I double-plastic wrapped the more fragile lattice-sugar cookies and tinned the rest in pretty bundles with my shop’s decals. I didn’t have enough to decorate all the packages, but everyone would know where the treats came from.

And one day, they’d line up at my store again to buy their own dozen.

Hopefully.

I loaded my car to the brim with more cookies than I had space in my little Ford. I counted the batches and sighed. I hadn’t tried to sleep after Maddox left on Friday night. Instead I baked straight through Saturday into Sunday and finally dozed off on a batch of oatmeal raisins. I caught the cookies before they burned, but not before I realized I was in trouble.

Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined my apartment door slamming shut again. Part of me hated myself for letting Maddox stay the night. The other part was listening too intently for his return. I told him to leave, but when did Maddox ever listen to anyone?

How was he released from prison so soon?

What was I supposed to do to save him now?

It was too early to head to Nolan’s rally. Fortunately, the event was close to Granddad. I detoured to Willowbend Health Center to check on him…even if Granddad hadn’t been in the greatest of moods for visits.

He hated the home. I wished he hadn’t called it that—especially since the assisted care facility was one of the best and most expensive in the state. I spent every last cent of the insurance money on a room for him, planning for him to bounce back from the injuries so we could rebuild and start fresh together.

That was before I learned about his debts. Then the doctors warned his prognosis was poor.

I didn’t know what we’d do, especially since Granddad wasn’t…himself anymore. He cursed the nurses, refused his treatments, and complained about the butterscotch pudding. I didn’t like that it came from a box either, but at least he was alive to complain about it.

I buttered up the nurses he exasperated with enough cookies to earn their patience. Poor Larry was on duty at the station, hiding behind a hunting magazine. I passed him the plate of chocolate chips and accepted his canonization of my sainthood.

Granddad’s door was closed. I gently rapped on the frame. He grunted, and it was about the best we’d get. He acted like he wanted to smile when he saw me, but Granddad rarely allowed it anymore. Said the oxygen tubes made him look more machine than man.

He looked like the same man I remembered. My loving, wonderful grandfather—just a bit older, just a bit frailer, but he was still there.

Somewhere.

“Hey, Granddad,” I said. “I was in the neighborhood.”

He reached for the remote. For a second, I thought he might turn off the TV. At least he lowered the volume.

“How are you feeling?” I took the seat next to him. Was it possible his hair grayed even more in the few days since I saw him last? “The nurses said you had a bad night?”

“Every night is bad, Jo-Jo.”

His voice rasped. The coughing started. They must have cranked the oxygen up for him—hell, I heard the air hissing through the tubes. His lungs were bad before the fire, but I didn’t know how much smoke and debris he inhaled while he was trapped inside.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” I pulled my phone, prepared for a list. “I’m out and about today. I can go to the store, get you some popcorn or a soda or…”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t sound fine. The words were curt, bitten. Not at all how he used to talk to me. Hell, Nana would have slapped him across the face if he ever took that tone with either of us.

But Nana was gone, had been since I was thirteen. I was glad she didn’t see him like this.

“Know what I miss most about the shop?” I asked.

I tucked my feet under me, settling in. Granddad grunted. He hated when I talked about Sweet Nibbles, but the doctors said it was good for him—something that might draw him out of the depression.

“Remember that picture that used to hang by the register?” I said.

“No.”

“Yes, you do. It was the one when I was little. Me on the counter, you and Nana behind me. She was handing me that ridiculously huge ice cream cone. Four scoops and they were all toppling.”