I couldn’t flirt and have it mean nothing, not like Roscoe could do. It was a defect in my personality.

My neck became hot and scratchy, and I felt tears gather behind my eyes.

He seemed to see or sense that I was close to crying because he pulled me forward and wrapped me in a hug. “Don’t cry. I always hated it when you cried.”

I sniffled and squeezed my eyes shut. “You did?”

“Yes. Who do you think left you bunches of wildflowers outside your door when Jethro or the twins pissed you off?”

My arms came around his torso and I rested my head against his shoulder. “That was you? I always thought that was Momma.”

“No, dummy, that was me.”

I sucked in an unsteady breath and hugged him tighter. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He kissed my hair then pushed me back a foot so he could look into my eyes. “If you want to be miserable, there’s nothing I can do to stop you. I’m miserable about losing her too, but I’m not going to spend the next few weeks wringing my hands. I’m going to enjoy the time she has left and live life like she always wanted us to do, and that includes getting my flirt on with the scoop of chocolate ice cream that just walked in the door.”

I choked out a laugh and hit his shoulder. “Watch out, or I’ll tell Marissa you just called her a scoop of chocolate ice cream.”

He shrugged. “That’s fine with me. While you’re at it, find out what she thinks of vanilla.”

***

I knew Sandra and Elizabeth had arrived because I was awakened from my nap by a sound, and it wasn’t one of those damn roosters for once. It was a very specific kind of sound. It was the sound of a man crying. And the sound woke me up.

I’d been dozing, curled up on the recliner in the den next to my momma’s hospital bed. Judging by the light outside, it looked to be close to sunset. The day’s events had left me all the various kinds of tired: physically, mentally, emotionally, and knitterly.

Knitterly tired is when you’re too tired to knit. It’s a depressing and desperate place to be.

I stretched, blinked the tired haze from my eyes, and glanced around the room. A male nurse—who I guessed was Joe —was sitting in the other recliner. It had been pushed back a distance from the bed. He seemed to be reading a newspaper in the dwindling light of the window. He was older, maybe in his fifties, and looked more like an orderly than a nurse. His head was bald, his neck was thick, his shoulders were wide, and he had a tattoo of a dragon on his forearm.

Then, to my astonishment, when I turned my head the other way, I found Drew sitting in a wooden chair pulled up next to mine.

I frowned at him.

He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the book in his hands, which he was reading aloud. I wondered for a split second that his voice hadn’t woken me, but then I realized why. As much as I wanted everything about him to be repugnant, his voice—especially while he read—was nice. It was soothing, yet as I listened, I discovered it was also well inflected. He enriched the text as he read.

This was terribly inconvenient, as I’d promised myself I would leave Tennessee with no admiration for Drew Runous.

“‘Just that,’ said the fox. ‘To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes.’ Drew glanced up, his eyes immediately finding mine. They flickered over my face, taking in my sleepy appearance. Then, with no visible change in his expression, he returned his attention to the book. “‘But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world.’”

He stopped reading, his eyes lingering on the page before he closed the book, though he held his place with a finger. I studied him unabashedly, likely because I was still half-asleep, and it didn’t occur to me that staring at him was weird.

Drew’s gaze lifted to where Momma lay asleep in the bed. His expression was warm and affectionate, and his voice gentle as he said, “Bethany, Ashley is awake.”

I started, blinked at him, then looked at my mother just in time to see her open her eyes. She lifted her hand and gave me a little wave.

“Hi, Baby,” she said with a smile. “Did we wake you up?”

“No. Something else did…I think.” My voice was raspy from sleep.

Just then, the sound of a sob sprang into the room, and I remembered that men were crying someplace in the house. This, of course, reminded me that Sandra had arrived.

Momma laughed lightly, her grin growing as she looked at me. “I like your friends. Sandra is a hoot.”

I returned her smile and reached for her hand. “How long have you been up?”

“Oh…a few hours I guess. We’re good in here if you want to go say hi and visit. Your doctor friend, Elizabeth, made everyone ravioli. It was real good. She said her husband owns an Italian restaurant.”

“Her mother-in-law owns the restaurant.” I frowned because my mother knew all about Elizabeth. I’d told her all about how Elizabeth had grown up with Nico Moretti—now a famous comedian—and how they’d been married last year in Las Vegas.

“No matter who owns it, she knows how to make really fine Italian food.”

“It was really good.” This came from the nurse in the corner.

My attention shifted to him and I gave him a little wave. “Hi, you must be Joe. I’m Ashley.”

He nodded, smiled. “Hey, Ashley. You’re the nurse, right?”

“Yep. That’s me.”

“Let me know if you have any questions. I just checked your momma; she’s doing real good.” Joe’s brown eyes shifted from mine to where my mother was sitting up. He gave her a warm smile.

“Thank you, I will.” I said, considering this Joe who was a nurse with a tattoo of a dragon.

“You should go thank her for making dinner for your family,” Momma said. “I know she wants to see you.”

I nodded, distracted by Drew and the suspicion that my mother was losing her memory. Or rather, I suspected the pain medication was making her recollections fuzzy. I shifted to stand and noticed that a blanket had been placed over me.

I frowned at the blanket then at Drew.

It seemed everything was earning my frown of confusion.

“Go on, get.” Momma prompted, squeezing my hand then letting it go.

Drew didn’t move as I stood to depart, so I was forced to walk past him in the tight space made by our chairs, my bottom brushing his shoulder. Nor did he meet my eyes. Instead, he opened the book, which I recognized as The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, and started again where he’d left off—with talk of taming and need.

I shook off the lingering Drew-disquiet, and my stomach rumbled as I walked. It was a reminder that food was needed in order to function, and thankfully, the smell of good food—garlic and fried onions—was wafting toward me. I followed the smell of Italian food and the sound of crying through the kitchen and into the dining room.

The scene that greeted me was not unlike something from a Dr. Phil episode.

Sandra had Cletus and the twins arranged in the family room—which was just off the dining room—and was holding some kind of impromptu counseling session. Her face was clear of expression, neither cool nor warm but rather accepting, open, and interested.

The loud sobbing, I realized almost immediately, was coming from Cleatus. He was sitting in the chair closest to Sandra, and his face was buried in his hands. She was rubbing his back, but her attention was affixed to Beau, who also looked like he’d been crying at one point, but now he seemed to have his expressions of sorrow under control.

I didn’t want to interrupt them. Sandra was an excellent psychiatrist, though she usually treated only pediatric patients. It was obvious that my brothers were receiving something from her that they needed, some kind of catharsis. This was her modus operandi.

A throat cleared behind me and caused me to jump. I turned and found Elizabeth standing at my shoulder, an affectionate and sympathetic smile on her face.

“Hey, girl,” she said.

“Hey,” I said.

Then she pulled me into a wrap-and-hold hug.

Elizabeth was shorter than me by about four inches, but she was also curvy and soft, and her hugs felt like being surrounded by a warm, beautiful cloud. Adding to this affect was the paleness of her skin, the golden blonde of her hair, and the ethereal blue of her irises. We gave and received comfort for a short moment before we were interrupted by Sandra’s voice, which was closer than I’d expected.

“Ashley Winston.”

Sandra was standing next to us, staring at me. She was smiling—from her big green eyes to her flaming red hair to her large white teeth—but it wasn’t at all sympathetic. It was just a big, old, happy smile.

She launched herself at us, her arms coming around both Elizabeth and me, and kissed me on my cheek and then my chin.

“It is so good to smell your hair right now,” Sandra said. Of course this made us both laugh, because who says that?

She squeezed us, causing Elizabeth to squeak. “Sandra…I…can’t…breathe….”