Page 49 of Stolen By the Hit Man
Joaquin sighs. “Colorado sounds nice, but I’m gonna lay low in Montana for a while. Enjoy some peace and quiet with our godchildren.”
My husband parks the Charger named Sonja in front of Georgie and Jefferson’s house.
“That sounds like a plan,” I say.
Epilogue
Fifteen yearslater
Joaquin
My wife slips her hand in mine and squeezes.
I glance to my right and catch her look that says, “You okay?”
I’m okay and I’m not.
I’m keeping it together just to get through the eulogy.
My vision is blurred as we all take turns gently tossing a handful of soil over Grady’s final resting place.
When it’s all finished, our little one picks some dandelions nearby and places them on Grady’s grave, and the two graves next to it.
She wipes away the dirt and traces her chubby four-year-old finger over the carved letters, spelling each one out loud in her tiny voice. “Millie and Jack Bouchert.”
Jefferson beams at her. “Great job reading, kid.”
The late spring breeze tousles her hair, and a brown curl blows into one eye. She brushes it away. After Grady passed away, we brought my parents' ashes home and buried them in our backyard, next to Grady, with all of our friends and family here.
Our little family makes its way to the barbecue area, and I pop open the cooler, grabbing four beers and a bunch of juices, and pass them out to the gathering around the fire pit.
Seeing Sofia dote over our loved ones at the cemetery reminds me of a story.
“Remember when Grady would babysit?” I ask Jasmyn.
She chuckles. “And he would put up the baby gate, thinking the cats would stay out of the nursery.”
Jefferson laughs. “I never knew that.”
“He didn’t want to leave the cats unsupervised with the baby.”
I add, finishing Jasmyn’s story, “But eventually he got so tired of trying that he finally gave in.”
“And when we came home,” Jasmyn finishes, “Grady was asleep on the floor next to her crib. Mister Bananas was lying on top of his chest, and Peaches was at his side.”
“No way,” says Georgie.
I nod. “And Grady Jr., the gray one, was at the door meowing like crazy, like there was an emergency. I thought the old man had fallen and hurt himself, or worse. Scared the shit out of me,” I laugh. “I never thought he’d snuggle with the cats. He was never a cat person.”
“That’s a bad word,” shouts the seven-year-old Nelly. Her namesake, the 47-year-old Nelly, points at her. “You’re right. Tell Uncle Joaquin to put a dollar in the swear jar.”
“You owe us a dollar, Uncle Joaquin.”
Jake lets go of the elder Nelly’s hand and asks the little ones if they’re ready to help him make s’mores.
“Come on, Nelly,” Sofia says, grabbing her older cousin’s hand.
“I can barely believe that crusty old guy was such a softy,” Jefferson says.
