door and then shut it behind him. “Come on.”
The house was lined in walls colored in various natural tones, the living room a taupe color that somehow worked well with beige-and-red striped furniture and lighter taupe pillows. Her mother had taken a home design class at a community college after she’d officially retired from the local league council and had promptly put her education to use throughout the home she’d lived in for thirty years.
They made their way to the kitchen, passing the large formal dining area, which had also felt the touch of her mom’s design class, before walking through the entryway into chaos.
Her mother stood at the gas stove, apron covering a pair of slacks and a blouse. Brenda’s father, Walter, peered into the refrigerator.
“No, not the margarine,” her mom exclaimed as he pulled a yellow tub from the depths of the fridge. “The real butter. It’s on the top shelf.”
Her dad muttered something and stuck his head back in the refrigerator, and her mom turned her attention to her guests. “Brenda! Oh good, set the cobbler on the island.” She waved toward an empty section of the counter, and Justice obediently set the dish down.
“Mom, Dad, this is Justice. Justice, these are my parents, Walter and Mabel Booth.” They shook hands and her mother returned to the stove while her father went back to search for the butter. “Your brother’s in the backyard; why don’t you take Justice out there and introduce him.”
“You don’t want me to help?”
Brenda must have sounded as incredulous as she felt, because Mable laughed and said, “Oh, after dinner for sure, but show your guest around for now.”
Plush with thick grass, the backyard was so long it appeared too thin, but it was wider than the house it hid behind. It was the backyard she’d grown up in, practicing soccer and watching over her younger brother.
Paul stood there now, bottle of beer in hand, back set to the house as he surveyed the yard. He turned when they opened the French doors that led onto the deck, face breaking into what Brenda mentally termed his professional smile.
He was dressed casually, in cargo shorts and a polo shirt. He’d long since stopped being Brenda’s “little” brother in anything except age, towering over her at only an inch or two shy of Justice’s six-foot two-inch frame. Paul held out a hand, smile firmly affixed to his face.
“This is my brother. Paul, this is Justice.”
The men exchanged a quick handshake and polite greeting, and then Paul grabbed Brenda in a big hug.
“Sis! It’s been way too long.” He released her and gave her a pat on the back that almost made her stumble before turning his attention back to the tall man behind her.
Before Paul could start the small talk, their mom stuck her head out the French doors. “Brenda, I do need your help after all. Your father is hopeless.”
Brenda laughed. “Be right in, Mom.” Her mom disappeared back into the house.
The guys were already talking about baseball, and Justice shot her a quick smile without interrupting his conversation. She smiled back and headed for the kitchen.
***
“So I guess I should be asking the inevitable question; what are your intentions toward my sister?” Paul asked, as soon as the door shut behind Brenda.
Justice raised an eyebrow at him. Paul’s expression was still friendly, but the edge to his tone made Justice’s muscles tense.
“In that case, I’d say my intentions, such as they are, are none of your business.” Like Brenda’s brother, he kept his smile firmly set.
Paul handed him a beer from the cooler sitting next to a large table on the deck. “Oh? Would you be satisfied with that answer if she were your sister?”
“We’re working together,” he said finally. Blonde hair and Brenda’s bright smile flashed in his mind, and he fought to maintain his polite expression. He could hardly blame the man for being protective about his sister.
“I’ve
The house was lined in walls colored in various natural tones, the living room a taupe color that somehow worked well with beige-and-red striped furniture and lighter taupe pillows. Her mother had taken a home design class at a community college after she’d officially retired from the local league council and had promptly put her education to use throughout the home she’d lived in for thirty years.
They made their way to the kitchen, passing the large formal dining area, which had also felt the touch of her mom’s design class, before walking through the entryway into chaos.
Her mother stood at the gas stove, apron covering a pair of slacks and a blouse. Brenda’s father, Walter, peered into the refrigerator.
“No, not the margarine,” her mom exclaimed as he pulled a yellow tub from the depths of the fridge. “The real butter. It’s on the top shelf.”
Her dad muttered something and stuck his head back in the refrigerator, and her mom turned her attention to her guests. “Brenda! Oh good, set the cobbler on the island.” She waved toward an empty section of the counter, and Justice obediently set the dish down.
“Mom, Dad, this is Justice. Justice, these are my parents, Walter and Mabel Booth.” They shook hands and her mother returned to the stove while her father went back to search for the butter. “Your brother’s in the backyard; why don’t you take Justice out there and introduce him.”
“You don’t want me to help?”
Brenda must have sounded as incredulous as she felt, because Mable laughed and said, “Oh, after dinner for sure, but show your guest around for now.”
Plush with thick grass, the backyard was so long it appeared too thin, but it was wider than the house it hid behind. It was the backyard she’d grown up in, practicing soccer and watching over her younger brother.
Paul stood there now, bottle of beer in hand, back set to the house as he surveyed the yard. He turned when they opened the French doors that led onto the deck, face breaking into what Brenda mentally termed his professional smile.
He was dressed casually, in cargo shorts and a polo shirt. He’d long since stopped being Brenda’s “little” brother in anything except age, towering over her at only an inch or two shy of Justice’s six-foot two-inch frame. Paul held out a hand, smile firmly affixed to his face.
“This is my brother. Paul, this is Justice.”
The men exchanged a quick handshake and polite greeting, and then Paul grabbed Brenda in a big hug.
“Sis! It’s been way too long.” He released her and gave her a pat on the back that almost made her stumble before turning his attention back to the tall man behind her.
Before Paul could start the small talk, their mom stuck her head out the French doors. “Brenda, I do need your help after all. Your father is hopeless.”
Brenda laughed. “Be right in, Mom.” Her mom disappeared back into the house.
The guys were already talking about baseball, and Justice shot her a quick smile without interrupting his conversation. She smiled back and headed for the kitchen.
***
“So I guess I should be asking the inevitable question; what are your intentions toward my sister?” Paul asked, as soon as the door shut behind Brenda.
Justice raised an eyebrow at him. Paul’s expression was still friendly, but the edge to his tone made Justice’s muscles tense.
“In that case, I’d say my intentions, such as they are, are none of your business.” Like Brenda’s brother, he kept his smile firmly set.
Paul handed him a beer from the cooler sitting next to a large table on the deck. “Oh? Would you be satisfied with that answer if she were your sister?”
“We’re working together,” he said finally. Blonde hair and Brenda’s bright smile flashed in his mind, and he fought to maintain his polite expression. He could hardly blame the man for being protective about his sister.
“I’ve
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