“You’re just saying that because I brought casserole.”
Mrs. B looked at the pan on the coffee table apprehensively. “Oh, is that what that is?”
“It’s good. At least try it. Aren’t casseroles customary when someone’s lost a loved one? Thought I heard that somewhere.”
The old woman laughed. “You’re right, actually. I have at least three that came from neighbors over the past few days. Let’s just put this in with the others.” She rose from the sofa.
Mick followed her into the kitchen. He took his usual seat, a stool pulled up to the counter. Doc had replaced the old ceramic tile counter with granite as a surprise for his wife. Mick missed the old tile. He missed the mustard yellow appliances they had when he was at the Academy. Some kitchens weren’t meant to be renovated.
He saw the trash was full and started to take it out to the can.
“Garbage is tomorrow morning for you, isn’t it? Let me take this out,” he called over the creaking of the garage door as it opened.
From the end of the driveway, he looked at the house in the glow of dusk. He felt an ache he had come to know too well in the past several days.
He missed Doc. He missed his deep, throaty laugh every time Mrs. B said anything even slightly funny. He missed seeing his weathered hand rub Mrs. B’s back affectionately and the way she’d lean into him just a little, probably without even knowing it.
He couldn’t imagine how much Mrs. B must be hurting.
Back in the kitchen, he heard the familiar sound of her chopping vegetables. Mrs. B could do it fast, like the chefs on TV.
“Thought I’d make some soup, Mick. Just not in the mood for more casserole. You’re welcome to stay.”
“How about I take my favorite lady out instead? Since my casserole’s not a hit, I still owe you a good meal.”
“Oh, honey, I’m not in the mood to go out just yet. I need time.”
Mick kissed the side of her head with gusto. “I give you two weeks and that’s it, lady, or I’ll be insulted. I already got turned down once by a woman this month.” Damn. He hadn’t meant to let that slip out.
Mrs. B stopped chopping. She didn’t even have to say a word. Mick knew he was required to give an explanation.
“Just that woman at the funeral. The one who fell. I asked her out to dinner. Shot me down.”
“The real estate agent, right? I think she gave me her card. What was her name?”
“Lacey. Tracey. Something like that,” Mick said causally, pretending not to have cared enough to remember.
“Lacey. Yes, that was it.”
Mick threw a raw diced carrot into his mouth and immediately regretted it, chewing on it with disdain. He always admired people who could eat raw vegetables as a snack. He was not one of them. “Well, it’s good to get turned down every once in a while. My ego gets too big otherwise.”
“Is she married?”
“I didn’t see a ring.”
“Why would she turn you down then?”
Mick shrugged off the question. “How do you think Doc knew her anyway? He wasn’t planning on selling the house or something, was he?”
“Lord, no. She probably just gave money to the hospital at some time. Or maybe she advertises in their newsletter. I didn’t get the impression she knew him well. Just admired him from afar, like everyone else. A man who saved lives like my Don brings on a bit of hero worship, let me tell you.” She laughed, tossing him a glance over her shoulder. “She was a pretty young woman. But not overly showy like those others you always seem to date.”
Mick let out an exaggerated sigh.
She barreled on. “And such a sweet girl. Very thoughtful of her to send those lilies.”
Mick’s expression warmed, remembering how Lacey had made Mrs. B smile at a time when he had worried she would never smile again. “I thought so, too,” he said, gazing with a hint of longing at the wedding photo of Doc and Mrs. B across the room. Their smiling faces reached across the decades and spoke of a love that is uncommon, but might be worth looking for.
His eyes drifted back to Mrs. B, noticing a curious expression on her face as she looked at him. “What?”
She quickly looked away. “Oh, nothing,” she said innocently, tossing a handful of chopped carrots into a pot.
***
There was nothing like the smell of fresh paint, Lacey was reminded as she guided Carolyn Miron through her beautifully staged home. The open house was set for Sunday, and Lacey was brimming with pride as she showed off the transformation to the owner who had already moved into a nearby retirement village.
It was Lacey’s first waterfront listing, and she had put more work into it than she had ever imagined would be necessary. Listings gained by crashing someone’s funeral were a lot more difficult than the average house sale, she had learned. Now, she had contact information for everyone from grief counselors to assisted living homes to the Social Security Administration.