Page 32 of Crazy Little Thing Called Love

“Oh, he’s good, honey.” The older woman fanned herself. “You’re in trouble with this one.”

Didn’t she know it.

Shandra turned to fill the glasses of the other customers.

Del released Cassie’s hand, grabbing for his drink again. “Tell me more about your grandmother’s house. I don’t think I’ve ever actually been inside it before.”

No. He wouldn’t have. Her Grandmother, loving and amazing woman though she was, would never have let a boy in to play with her granddaughter. Such things were not done, and Gran was a stickler for propriety.

“It’s beautiful, but that’s not why I’m doing this.” She grabbed her glass, taking a large sip of her mimosa before continuing. “From the time I was born, my parents were always on the move. We never stayed in one place more than a year.”

Del shifted in his seat, facing her, giving her his full and undivided attention.

“I know it was their job and they helped a lot of people, but…”

“You hated it,” he guessed.

She sank her teeth into her lower lip as she nodded. “I did. I feel guilty sometimes because I know their cause was noble and they saved thousands of people, I’d wager. But as a kid, none of that mattered to me. All I wanted was my own place. A house, a bedroom, a familiar place I could come home to every day. Something stable.” She laughed, the sound far from humorous. “I never even had a real friend until I moved here. I always felt so…lonely.”

“And being an only child must have made it worse.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to get any alone time with three older siblings. And don’t even get me started on bathroom time. I had to mark a favorite tree out in the yard just to relieve myself most mornings.”

She laughed, covering her mouth as a small snort escaped. “You did not.”

“Did so.” He grinned. “Charlie saw me one morning and told Mom. She flipped. Made me spend all summer planting petunias around each and every tree on our property. Course, then she also instituted a bathroom time chart and anyone who went over had to scrub the toilets that week.”

Dorothy Jackson was a smart woman.

“Your mom’s amazing.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty great.”

A cold stab of guilt wrenched Cassie’s chest because secretly she wished her mother had been more like Mrs. Jackson.

“We spent a few Christmases with my grandmother whenever we were in the States. I loved it.” She smiled, staring into the distance as memories came flooding back. “The house was decorated with lights. Her tree was always real, and it made the whole place smell like fresh pine. I loved sitting under it late at night when everyone had gone to bed. I even wrote a letter to Santa one year wishing I could stay there forever. It felt like home. The one I’d always wished for.”

Little did she know her wish would come true only a few short years later.

“When my mother died, my father and I came back to Gran’s to stay. After a few months, Dad left saying he needed to get back to work. I understood. People needed him. He left me behind, at Gran’s. Later I found out my grandmother insisted. She said a young girl needed stability in her life.”

“Your dad just dumped you off on his mother and left?”

Startled by the harsh tone of his voice, she glanced up. Pale blue eyes heated.

“He had to get back to work. He was a doctor. People needed him.”

“You needed him. His grieving daughter needed him. He may have been a doctor, but he was a father first. Kids should always come first.”

She agreed, but not everyone saw it that way.

“Was that how your dad was?” She knew Mrs. Jackson would die for her children. The woman loved with a fierceness Cassie ached for.

Del sat back, grabbing his glass and downing the rest of his mimosa. “I don’t remember Dad much. He was away a lot, on missions, and he died when I was just a kid.”

Sadness pinched her chest. Sometimes because Del acted so happy and carefree, she forgot the man had lost his father as just a boy. A profound wound she knew all too well. A life event that impacted and shaped a child in a way nothing else did.

“What I do remember are his stories.” The corners of Del’s lips turned up in a small smile. “Dad always had the best stories. Most of his tales were passed down from Pappy Mel. They were hilarious and totally inappropriate for a kid, but we loved them. We loved him.”

Clearly, since the siblings had fulfilled their father’s dream of opening a distillery.

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