Page 62 of Hockey Wife

“Home help?”

“Yes, Jim Dixon’s family isn’t getting the assistance they need from social services, and I wondered if?—”

“Dixon?” Georgia heard the clack-clack of a keyboard. “That’s one of our clients from last year.”

“Yes, and he’s still with us. But his family is stretched to the limit and?—”

“You mean you went to see him again?”

“I pop in on occasion. They’re a lovely family and I’d like to figure out more ways we can help beyond a birthday gift. I feel as though we’re letting the caregivers down.”

“Georgia,” Carol said, her voice strained. “We’re here for the person who won’t be around much longer. Our resources can’t stretch to helping the families. That’s what the city and county’s social services are for.”

“But they’re not getting the help. Debbie is run off her feet and she’d like to go back to work.”

Carol sighed. “And we don’t have the budget to do that. Now I have you down for a birthday visit with Melinda Cartwright tomorrow. Are you still on for that?”

“Yes, of course.” Banks’s family would be arriving from Wisconsin around noon, and she planned to spend the morning getting the house ready. But she would make time for a birthday gift drop-off.

The doorbell rang.

“Thanks, Carol.” For being singularly unhelpful.

She rang off, annoyed that the charity had such tunnel vision when it came to helping people. Debbie had to give up her job a couple of years ago to become her father’s full-time caregiver. Her husband Mick did his best but had a chronic back injury that didn’t allow him to help much or do any of the heavy lifting. Debbie was on the hook for all of it.

The door chime went again and was soon followed by an impatient thump. Cheddar ran for the laundry room, his typical hide-out when things got noisy.

Another chime sounded as she approached.

“Okay, okay, hold your horses!” She pulled open the door and looked down. The woman was shorter than Georgia, which was saying something, given Georgia’s diminutive stature. Eighty if she was a day, she had a shock of white hair, dancing brown eyes, and a curve to her lips that said she was trouble.

“Georgia!”

“Guilty.”

“Kochanie!” She moved in and wrapped herself around Georgia’s waist with a tight hug. “You’re just as gorgeous as they said!”

“I am?” The words had hardly escaped her mouth when realization dawned. “Are you?—”

“Connie Bankowski, Dylan’s grandmother. Yours, too!”

Another woman, about mid-fifties with dark and softly waved hair, was opening the trunk of an SUV. She removed at least six suitcases.

“Mama, let her breathe!” The woman came up and pulled the old lady back. “Sorry, you’d swear she never gets out. Hi, I’m Trish, Dylan’s mom.”

“I’m Georgia, but I’m guessing you know that. We thought you weren’t arriving until tomorrow.”

Connie chuckled. “The girls are coming up tomorrow, but we figured we’d scout ahead. See if maybe you have any good news for me.” She added a pointed look at Georgia’s stomach.

“Mama!” Trish shook her head.

She thought … “No, I-I’m not. Not yet!” Good Lord, they’d have to do the deed first. “Oh, so sorry to leave you standing on the doorstep. Come in, come in!”

“She could be expecting,” Connie was saying. “They got married almost three months ago. And no one waits until marriage to have sex anymore. She could be five months along for all we know.”

Georgia could only laugh at the logic. Trish was struggling with the luggage, so Georgia stepped in and started dragging.

“Bowling balls,” Connie said with a wink. “Gotta keep my arm loose for the league.”

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