Bad to the Bone

  “Oh, and one other member of the crew,” she added.

  Again, he glanced beyond her to see Pru opening the back of the vehicle and reaching in, and then a honey-colored paw poked out. One still wrapped where an IV had been.

  “Meatball!” As he stepped forward, Molly moved to the side to let him practically run to his dog. But he slowed himself and turned to her. “Thank you,” he said to her.

  There was nothing but warmth in her eyes. “I thought that would make you happy.”

  He didn’t know how to respond to that, taking a halting step toward the dog as an unexpected emotion rocked him. She cared about him being happy. She really did.

  He couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared about that. His mom, once in a blue moon, when she wasn’t harping about his many flaws. Sometimes Wally. But no one else. No one had cared about his happiness since the day that judge dropped the gavel and Trace officially became a “murderer.” Even before.

  He wasn’t sure he was worthy of it, but now wasn’t the time to wonder. Meatball was here, and Meatball sure as hell loved him.

  “Take it easy with him,” Molly called. “No running or playing. He’ll have to be crated if he moves too much.”

  “Same with me.” The little old grandma popped out of the passenger seat, sporting a black-and-white checked sweater and a camera hanging around her neck. “I’m kidding. I’m only here for the pictures and color commentary.”

  He threw a smile at her, but Meatball was the center of Trace’s attention right then. Kneeling down, he got face-to-face with his mutt, closing his hands around his tawny head and meeting his gaze.

  “There’s my big boy,” Trace murmured into a kiss against fur.

  Meatball lowered his head, then turned to sniff the ground, trotting off without so much as a bark, heading straight to Molly. Oh, come on.

  “I got a treat, Meatman,” Trace called.

  He glanced over his shoulder with the most disinterested look Trace had ever seen, then continued to his target, looking up at her like she was the queen of his world.

  “Sorry,” Molly said with a self-conscious laugh. “We’re still bonding.” She reached down and gave Meatball a nudge to go back to Trace. “Go see your master. Go say hello.”

  He dropped his head and started sniffing the gravel around Molly’s sneakers.

  “Hey, bro,” Trace said, trying to keep it light. “I wasn’t the one that ate a bag of dog food and ended up in the ER.”

  Molly came up next to him, putting a light hand on Trace’s arm, probably totally unaware that he felt that contact right down to his toes. “He’ll come around and love you again,” she assured him. “He’s understandably disoriented. How long were you here at this house before he got sick?”

  “Couple of days.”

  “So this place is still new to him, and he’s used to me right now.”

  He looked down at her, smiling. “Dog shrink, too?”

  “They’re not that complicated,” she said. “Not like people.”

  Pru marched by carrying another huge carton, talking into a headset with earbuds under her hair. “I know that—”

  She veered away as Trace automatically reached to help her with the box.

  “Uh uh,” she said to him. “You can’t help unless assigned.”

  He did a playful salute. “Ready to join the Umproo Crew,” he said, making her laugh heartily.

  “The Umproo Crew! Did you hear that?” she said into the microphone as she headed to the house. “We have a name.”

  Her friend carried some mops and a bucket, but gave him a shy smile. “Mr. Bancroft?” When he nodded, she offered a smile full of the same orthodontics as Pru’s. “Hi. I’m the best friend, Brooke, second-in-command of the Umproo Crew.”

  “Hello, Brooke.”

  Molly headed to the SUV, Meatball hot on her heels. “I have permission to take some supplies in, and I transfer that permission to you,” she said to Trace. “Can you get that box of brushes and trays and grab the paint can? Pru selected a lovely neutral shade of white. Plain as Day White, I think it’s called. Maybe Boring as Hell White. Certainly Uninspired White.”

  “Any kind of white will be an improvement over Decades-Old Dull.” He came up next to her, peering into the back where the big cage they’d used for Meatball stood open. A rush of memories almost knocked him over.

  “That looks…familiar.”

  Molly sucked in a little breath and elbowed him. “Hush. Gramma Finnie is right there.”

  But her grandmother was already walking through the open door to the house, leaving Trace and Molly alone. “Tell me that doesn’t remind you of…” He leaned down to whisper in her ear, but she slipped away.

  “You can’t do that,” she said softly. “You can’t make casual references to…that.”

  “Nothing casual about it, Irish, but I get what you’re saying. Still…” He put his hand on the wire rim of the crate and gave it a noisy shake. “Brings back fond memories.”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “Not fond?”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “Then there’s hope.” He scooped up the paint tray and hooked a paint can handle on his finger.

  “Hope for what?” Molly asked.

  “That I can make you laugh about it. Remember it with anything but regret.”

  “I don’t regret that night,” she said quickly. “I got Pru.”

  He turned, arms full, and looked at her. “Would you do it again?”

  “Are you asking me to?”

  He laughed at that. “Let’s see how the Puppy Parade goes tonight.”

  Her jaw dropped, and if he’d had a free hand, he’d have tapped it back in place. Instead, he winked at her and went inside, where he was bombarded with plans, a schedule, assignments, and something called a Project Management Workflow Coordination Map.

  “She’s taking a business class,” Gramma Finnie explained as she snapped a picture of Pru lining up her paperwork on the crappy Formica counter. “I think she’s going to be a CEO.”

  Pru turned to them all, hands on narrow hips, her thick, dark hair—precisely the color and texture of Trace’s—in two long braids over her shoulders. She talked, and he tried to listen, tried to process the sequence of events she had planned not only for today but for at least a few weekends into the future, but her words were muffled and lost in the thumping pulse in his head.

  That’s my daughter. That’s my girl. That’s my offspring, flesh and blood, DNA, child of my loin. I made her.

  Most fathers had years to look at their kids and get used to the thrill of that, but it was so new to Trace. And all he wanted to do was throw his arms around her, lift her off the ground, twirl her, and tell her and…and…

  And watch her face fall in horror when she realized her father was an ex-con with a murder rap and she was the granddaughter of an ex-con with a felony sheet longer than her to-do list.

  “Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Mr. Bancroft?”

  No, he knew it was a very, very bad idea. “Let’s start by not calling me that,” he said, grabbing the first thing that came to mind, since he had no idea what she’d asked.

  “Okay, Trace,” she said, shrugging off the request like she had so many more important concerns than his name. “But can we split up and each take an assignment in a different room? It might mean you live in more of a mess than if we did it room by room.”

  “I’m not living here,” he reminded her. “Mess it up to your heart’s content.”

  She grinned at him, showing braces and a shocking similarity to…his mother. Good Lord, she did look like his mother. In the high cheekbones and delicate chin especially. The eyes were Molly’s, but everything else was his, even that cleft.

  Without thinking, he rubbed his chin, aware that in his determination to be clean-shaven, he’d left a telltale clue right out in the open.

  He glanced at Molly, but she was tracking Meatball, who wa
s making his way around the room, sniffing everything at nose level and below.

  “Remember, you can’t do anything that’s not part of an assignment I’ve given you,” Pru continued. “Gramma Finnie will monitor the workflow and document to be sure we meet all contest rules. Mom will start emptying things and Mr.…uh, Trace, you can give your permission as to what to throw away and what to keep.”

  “Throw away everything.”

  Pru lifted her brows. “Oookay. We’ll use discretion. Brooke and I will start with the back bedroom. That first one? With the, uh, cannabis décor bedspread?”

  Trace looked skyward. “My mother was…eccentric. This was her house. I only slept here. Sometimes.”

  “You don’t have to explain, sir,” Brooke said. “We know where you’ve been.”

  “Brooke!” Pru shot her a warning look. “I told you not to talk about it.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, holding up two hands. “I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be such a great service project if I’d been traveling around Europe for the past fourteen years.”

  Pru gave him a shaky smile. “I don’t want to be rude.”

  “It’s not rude,” he assured her. “And it’s not the first time my shortcomings had me in line to be someone’s service project.”

  As soon as he said it, he realized his mistake, mostly because of the nearly inaudible and sudden intake of Molly’s breath. Damn it! What was he doing, saying things like that? He tried to cover by making a move toward Meatball, who was eyeing the sofa for a jump.

  “No, no, boy. You can’t do that.” He caught the dog’s collar and glanced up at Molly, seeing the wild warning in her eyes, exactly as expected.

  “That’s right,” she said sternly, coming over to where he was. “You can’t do that.”

  She made it sound like she was talking to the dog, but he knew better. Pru had no idea they’d even known each other in high school. She wasn’t dumb. Good God, she was the smartest person who ever swam in his gene pool.

  “We’ll be careful, right, Meatball?”

  The dog barked, looked at Molly, and curled up at her feet.

  Oh, this could be a long day.

  * * *

  Molly wasn’t alone with Trace again for at least an hour, when they were assigned to the kitchen to empty cabinets into cartons divided for donations and trash.

  “You’re starting to make me nervous,” Molly whispered when they were alone.

  “Starting?” He whipped open a cabinet and eyed the contents, then shot her a smile. “Kidding. I’ll be careful. I’ll be quiet.”

  “No, but if you’re not ready for her to know, then you have to be careful.”

  “She’s very intelligent and perceptive,” he agreed. “She’s also beautiful, funny, sweet, and respectful. God, you’ve done an amazing job with her, Molly. I can’t…” He swallowed noisily, as if finishing the sentence was difficult. “I can’t get used to it.”

  “Shhh. You will.” She pulled out a stack of chipped dishes. “Keep or throw?”

  “Throw. Did you tell her about the Puppy Parade?”

  “Uh, not yet.”

  “Chicken.”

  “You should talk.” Molly pushed up on the counter, then got to her knees to start pulling out glasses one by one. “Wow, there’s not a match in the set.”

  “She liked flea markets,” he said with a dry laugh.

  “You don’t have to apologize for her, Trace. Being a single mother isn’t easy. I don’t know how she did it. I had a whole giant family behind me.”

  “And went to vet school.”

  “The family is how I went to vet school.” She gingerly pulled out a cracked martini glass that had seen better days. “Do not underestimate the power of a big family. I’m not raising Pru alone.” She stretched for something in the back, but couldn’t quite get it. “And I can’t reach the top shelves. You’re up.”

  He reached for her hand, but she wobbled a little, and he grabbed her waist to assist her down, holding her tight so she wouldn’t slip off the counter. For a long beat of time, probably too long, he kept his hands there, setting her down and holding her gaze.

  “But you’re her mother. You get the gold star for amazing work.”

  She looked up at him, at his whisper of a smile that she longed to see more of. “A gold star?”

  “Unless you want something else.”

  Like…a kiss. She could read the word in his eyes, feel it in the way his grip tightened.

  What were they talking about? Oh, Pru. “I don’t deserve a gold star for raising her.”

  “I get at least some of the credit.”

  At Gramma Finnie’s voice, they jerked apart, as guilty as two people could possibly be.

  “That’s true,” Molly said, nervously clearing her throat. “Gramma and Pru are like…salt and pepper, next to each other at every family dinner.”

  “I’d be the salt,” Gramma said, giving her wispy white hair a pat.

  Molly didn’t answer as she mentally recapped the conversation and wondered if her grandmother had been listening. Not that she’d eavesdrop, but they’d been talking all morning about family and life and her school. They hadn’t said anything revealing, she was certain. They’d talked like two adults about her life and child, not like he was Pru’s father.

  “The love goes both ways,” Gramma said. “After all, she taught me how to blog, and I’ve taught her everything an old woman can know in eighty-six years.”

  “That must be quite a bit,” Trace said with that same note of jealousy when he joked about how attached Meatball was to Molly. Maybe he was jealous of any and all who helped raise Pru.

  “Aye, but I fear I might be gettin’ into sticky territory that only a mother can handle,” Gramma said. She leaned in, cupped her hands, and stage-whispered, “Heads-up for someone named Cody Noonan.”

  “Cody Noonan?” Molly nodded. “I’ve heard the name from the front seat of the car. I think he’s new at the middle school, and the very thought of him elicits some giggles. Why is that sticky territory?”

  Gramma gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Apparently, the lad recently moved here from Texas.” She said the word as though it were equal with Hades. “He should be in ninth grade but is in eighth, allegedly because the ‘school calendars’ didn’t line up or something, but he’s nearly fourteen, drums in a band, and looks like Harry Styles.”

  For all her youthfulness and social media savvy, Gramma Finnie was still an octogenarian. The kid was probably in a drumline, not a rock band, and anyone with a mop of hair and a pretty smile looked like Harry Styles to Pru and her friends.

  “It’s okay, Gram—”

  “Is it?” Trace asked sharply. “I’m not sure I like this.”

  Was he serious? Molly and Gramma both turned to look at him, but probably for entirely different reasons. Her grandmother might be surprised by Trace’s opinion, but Molly just wanted him to be quiet. If anyone could figure this out, it would be Gramma Finnie. Who was staring at Trace a little too hard right then.

  “I mean, she’s obviously a sweet and innocent girl, and I don’t know who Harry Styles is…” He stumbled, knowing exactly what his mistake had been. “But a fourteen-year-old drummer? Molly, that’s…”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I got this,” she said. “She tells me everything, and you two don’t have to worry.”

  Trace’s dark brows flicked enough for Molly to read his silent question. Didn’t you tell your mother everything, too?

  Gramma Finnie’s eyes showed the same wariness. “You sure about that, lass?”

  Her subtext—the same as Trace’s—was clear, too, despite the Irish brogue. “Don’t you have pictures to take, Gramma?”

  “Actually, I do have to go outside.” She pulled out a phone. “I want to check my blog comments, and there’s no wireless in here. I’ll have to find some cell service.” She gave a little wave goodbye. Trace and Molly stood stone-still until she was gone.

  “Sor
ry,” he murmured after a second. “I shouldn’t have reacted like a…you know.”

  Like a father. “We should tell her,” she said, the urgency pressing on her. “You aren’t going to keep this secret for long,” she said in a soft whisper. “It’s all over your face when you look at her and talk about her. Gramma can do math, too, you know, and she’s one of the wisest people I know.”

  “And how do you think she’s going to take it when you tell her?” he shot back.

  “Better than if she figures it out on her own.” Either way, it could change everything, and Molly simply wanted that over with.

  “She won’t figure it out,” he said. “I swear, I promise, I give you my word I won’t slip up again. But, Molly, not yet. Please. I want her to know me as a person before she has to accept me as a—”

  She put her finger over his lips before he said it. “Shh. Don’t say it.”

  “Please,” he repeated. “You might be ready, but I’m not.”

  The honest pain in his eyes did something to her deep inside, and so did the warmth of his breath on her fingertips. “Okay,” she relented. “We can wait. But be careful.”

  “I will be.” He reached up and closed his hand over hers, pressing that finger against his lips and kissing it lightly. Just then, a sudden burst of giddy laughter came from the back of the house, and once again, they shot apart before getting caught.

  As Molly moved back to the cabinet, Pru came into the kitchen, holding a shoe box. “Excuse me, Trace? I don’t think you want to throw this away.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It looks like journals. You know, diaries? I opened the top one, but it had an entry, and I swear I closed it immediately. I would never read another person’s journal.”

  Molly fought a smile at Pru’s sincerity, peering around Trace’s shoulder at the box. It held cloth-covered books, and the sides were stuffed with loose papers and envelopes.

  “That’s my mother’s,” he said. “You can toss it.”

  Pru sucked in a breath, her jaw loose. “Throw away journals?”

  “They’re junk.”