Page 9 of July's Bad Boy: Blaze

"I'm also supposed to remind you about your doctor’s appointment next week."

"Here it is! Will you sign it for me?" The old lady walks in with a CD case of my first album, in almost brand new condition, and a Sharpie.

"Of course. What's your name?" I ask.

"Martha. Just wait until I tell my sister about this. She will just cry herself to sleep!" she says with a huge smile.

I sign the CD for her with a personal note and even pose for a photo before we head out.

As we leave, I notice the worry in Grace's eyes. "Are they going to be okay?"

"For now," she says. "But Earl's medications are getting more expensive, and Martha's too proud to admit she can barely see anymore."

The pattern repeats at each stop: Grace delivering supplies, checking on specific needs, and promising follow-ups. She knows everyone's medications, their grandchildren's names, and which houses need roof repairs before winter. The town is a complex web of interconnected lives, and somehow Grace holds all the threads.

By our sixth delivery, I'm actually being useful, carrying the heavier boxes and even managing some small talk with the residents. But I can't stop watching Grace. The way she listens intently to each person, how she adjusts her approach from house to house. Businesslike with some, gentle with others, or firm when needed.

She catches me staring as we leave the Johnsons' place.

"You waiting for applause, rock star?" she asks, but there's less bite in it than before.

"Just trying to figure out how you keep this all going," I admit.

She studies me for a moment, as if checking for sarcasm. Finding none, she sighs. "Someone has to lead."

"And that someone is you."

"Not by choice," she says, sliding back into the driver's seat. "Just by necessity."

Our last stop is a small cottage on the outskirts of town. A woman with silver hair sits on the porch, knitting something blue.

"Grace, right on time," she calls. Then her eyes land on me and widen. "Well, I'll be. Little Blake Nelson."

I step closer, confused. "I'm sorry. Have we met?"

"You don't remember Violet Mason?" Grace asks, surprised.

The name triggers a distant memory. "Miss Violet? Ruby's friend?"

The woman beams. "The very same. You used to run wild with those Nelson kids in the summer. Always climbing my apple trees."

Memories flood back. Summer visits with Orville, skinned knees, and stolen fruit. "You used to make those apple hand pies."

"Still do," she says with a wink. "Your grandfather was mighty proud of you, you know. Always talking about his musician grandson."

Something in my chest tightens. "He never told me that."

"Men of his generation weren't big on saying things out loud." She reaches for my hand. "You had a good heart then."

Had. Past tense. The word lands like a punch.

"Let me help with those boxes, Miss Violet," I say, needing to move.

Inside, while Grace checks Miss Violet's blood pressure, I notice the photos on her mantel, including one of my grandparents with a much younger Violet.

"They were good people," Miss Violet says, catching me looking. "I bet Ruby is happy you're back, helping out."

"I'm just passing through," I correct automatically.

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