Page 59 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“It’s pretty,” I say, and mean it. The yarn is the color of the creek at dusk—blue that can’t decide whether it wants to be green.
“It’s a Scotty cap,” she adds, chin tilting with satisfaction. “Named after my Daddy, naturally. Heather says that makes me insufferable. Eloise says I’ve earned it.”
“Of course you have.” My throat tightens. “They’ll love it.”
Footsteps tap the threshold. “We already do,” Eloise sings, sweeping in with Heather a step behind, a tote bag swinging from Eloise’s wrist like a trophy. Eloise is in a floral dress that could out-bloom spring; Heather’s wearing soft pastels and that kind smile that cuts right through a person’s weather.
“We brought lemon cookies,” Heather reports. “And by ‘we,’ I mean a bakery box Eloise bullied out of a poor teenage clerk with her bracelets.”
“They were out front like pirates’ bounty,” Eloise says, unbothered. Then she spots Asher and gives me a look that says she sees everything she’s not saying. “And who is this statuesque oak you’ve brought to sway by your side?”
“This is Officer Vaughn,” I say, cheeks warming. “Asher. He’s a—friend.”
“A helpful one,” Heather adds gently, nodding to him. “Thank you for bringing our girl.”
Asher smiles, polite, small. “Happy to.”
Mom’s eyes bounce between us, bright and a little sly. “You have kind eyes, Officer. Don’t waste them. Keep them on my daughter.”
“Mom,” I whisper.
“What? I’m old, not blind.” She returns to the hat, needles clicking like contented crickets. “The creek house is drafty in winter. We should’ve known, three romantics buying an old place because the porch sighed pretty.” She glances up at me. “Have you been by lately? The trees still kiss over the drive?”
“Of course.” My voice comes out softer than I intend. “Always.”
She nods, satisfied, working another neat row. “People with money think they can buy the way a place feels.” A flicker crosses her face—thought skittering just ahead of the fog. “There was a man years ago—wanted the creek lot. Tall, loud cologne. We said no.” She squints, searching. “Had a way of smiling like a knife.”
Heather leans in, gentle. “You told him the only oil at the creek was in Eloise’s hair treatments.”
“And I was right,” Eloise says, preening.
“Mom,” I ask carefully, “do you remember his name?”
The cloud settles. She shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. We kept what was ours.”
A nurse glides by to check a vitals sheet. Asher catches my eye, tilts his phone. “May I?” he mouths.
“Please,” I breathe.
He frames us in the screen. Mom tucks the Scotty cap-in-progress against my shoulder and leans her head to mine. Click. He shows her the photo.
“Oh.” She touches the image like she can feel us there. “Print it. Will you? Tape it to my mirror. So I remember the face I’m looking for.”
“I will,” I say, anchoring the promise like a tent stake.
Mom’s fingers pause, then pat blindly at the tote on her chair. “Jas, there’s a blue cedar chest under the office window at the diner—your grandmother’s. Did you ever open the false bottom?”
“The what?”
“False bottom,” she repeats, as if it’s obvious. “A little lip of wood that lifts if you know how to look. I tucked things there once. Recipes that matter. A letter, maybe.” She frowns, chases the thought. “From your father? Or to him. I can’t remember which way it went.”
I swallow. “I’ll check.”
“Good.” She nods once, sends the needles dancing again. “Some things don’t want to be thrown away just because time is noisy.”
Eloise pretends not to dab her eyes. Heather doesn’t bother pretending. The nurse circles back, murmurs that it’s almost lunch.
We make our goodbyes slowly. Mom squeezes my fingers, then holds Asher’s hand a beat longer than strictly necessary. “Statuesque oak,” she says gravely. “Don’t topple.”
