Page 59 of Resisting Isaac
“He was.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “We lost him a little over a year ago.”
“I’m sorry. I saw that in the script, but I didn’t know how much of that was factual.”
I glance down at my food. “I’m good. I’ve made my peace with it.” Well, most of it. I don’t tell her about Asher’s most recent letter and what his connections have found during the investigation into my father’s murder. I haven’t even told my brothers yet.
She studies me for a second.
“I’m glad you brought me here,” she says.
“Me too.”
She glances at a laminated placemat on our table. “Ooh, they have sopapilla.” She licks a bit of sauce off her thumb, then smirks. “What are your feelings on dessert?”
I pretend to think it over, grateful she’s lightening the mood. “I’m definitely pro-dessert.”
Her smile widens. “You know, cowboy, I’m almost starting to like you a little.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
isaac
Even though we’re neighbors, I don’t get by the Peterson place as often as I should. Definitely not since cowboy training camp started.
Jimmy was a friend to Dad, and he’s always been decent in that gruff, mind-your-manners-boy sort of way. Technically, we share a property line. But the old run-down farmhouse is miles out past the bull pasture, through a long-dead orchard, and tucked behind a fence that sags like it’s given up the ghost.
But it’s Sunday and I’ve got a fresh bramble-berry cobbler my mom insisted I drop off, and after talking about Dad with Elena at dinner, the Petersons were on my mind.
When I knock, there’s only silence. I wait a minute, knock again. I’m about to try a different door when the front one cracks open just enough for a bloodshot eye to peer through.
“Jimmy,” I say, offering a half grin. “Brought you somethin’ sweet.”
He blinks like he’s seeing me through smoke. “What for?”
“Because you’re so sweet, old man,” I tease. I lift the boxwith the cobbler and a few jars of jam Mom and Ivy canned. “Berries are ripe. Mom figured Ida might want a cobbler. Said it was her favorite.”
I think my mom knows the favorite dessert of half the county.
Something flickers across Jimmy’s face, fast and sharp.
“She can’t eat much these days.”
I nod. “I’m sorry. I heard she hasn’t been well.”
He doesn’t respond, just swings the door open wider, like it’s a chore he doesn’t want to do.
I step inside. The place is dim. Stale. A far cry from the warm little nest I remember Ida Peterson keeping. She always had cinnamon apples simmering on the stove or one of those country candles burning that made you feel like you were in a gingerbread barn.
Now it smells like bleach and something sour in here.
“She asleep?” I ask gently.
Jimmy nods, wiping his hands on his threadbare jeans. “Restin’. Been restin’ a lot lately.”
I glance around. Set my hat on a side table. There’s an inch of dust accumulated on every surface. I don’t hear a television like usual, just the low hum of a fan blowing in another room.
“I’m real sorry, Jimmy,” I say quietly. “Mom told me they said it was too late for treatment.”
He flinches.
