Read Online Playing Dead in Dixie by Paula Graves - Free Book Online
Authors: Paula Graves
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the floor."
Carly leaned in toward him, tucking her arm through his. "Try doing it in high heels, mister," she quipped.
The look of puzzlement on J.B.'s face nearly made Wes laugh aloud. "You were a friend of Steve's?"
"Sort of. I met him on the bus right before it crashed, but you know Steve. He was a real easy guy to like." Carly walked J.B. to the table. She glanced back at Wes, nodding her her head toward the mess in the floor before sitting beside J.B.
Wes stared at the two of them for a moment, his anxiety-fogged brain slow to realize that he'd just been relegated to mop-up duty. Biting back a grumble, he found a broom and dustpan in a closet off the kitchen and started sweeping up the mess, keeping his ears open for the conversation at the table.
"My grandmother, God rest her soul, had a stroke when she was only forty-five years old," Carly told J.B. "She lost use of her right hand, too. After the stroke, she concentrated on working on her legs, on walking. She sorta gave up on her hand, because it wouldn't anything she wanted it to do." Carly chuckled softly. "She called it her 'dearly departed hand.' Mind if I take a look?"
Wes looked over his shoulder and found Carly reaching for his father's crippled hand. He almost called out a warning to her—J.B. could be like a dog with a bone about his claw—but to his surprise, his father let Carly take the bad hand in her own.
"Oh, yeah, you've definitely got a hand problem here."
"What are you, some kind of therapist?" J.B. shot Wes a suspicious look.
Carly shook her head. "Not me. I'm just an accountant like you. Floyd tells me you did his books for him."
"Used to. Now I can't write."
"Nope, not with this hand," Carly agreed. "Too bad you couldn't get it working for you again."
Wes emptied the dustpan into a garbage sack and put it aside, crossing to the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, where Carly and his father sat. Carly was gently massaging J.B.'s hand, her touch so light that Wes wasn't sure his father realized what it was she was doing.
Carly looked up at him, her expression growing wary when she caught him watching her. He offered an encouraging smile, and she relaxed, a smile forming on her pretty pink lips.
"Did you realize you use your hands for walking? You swing your arms while walking to keep a steady gait, or put out your hand to steady yourself if you start to lose balance. If your hand's not working right, your legs have to learn a whole new way to walk. When my grandmother finally figured that out, she started putting as much effort into improving the function of her hand as she did her legs. Soon, she was walking better and using that hand in ways she never thought she would again."
J.B. pulled his hand away from her. "If my hand was ever going to be worth a damn again, it would've happened already."
"How hard did you try to get it working again?"
J.B. whirled around to glare at his son. "You been talkin' about me?"
Wes shrugged. "I haven't told her anything."
Carly stood up, holding up her hands. "Sorry if I stepped on your toes or something." She didn't sound very apologetic, Wes noted. "I was just telling you about my grandmother, God rest her soul, and how she dealt with her stroke. If you don't want to be able to write again with that claw you got there, fine with me. Not my problem. Floyd seems happy enough with Sherry Clayton doing his books for him."
J.B. made a rude snorting sound.
Wes had to bite back another laugh. Everyone tried to coddle J.B., encourage him, tiptoe around his cranky moods and bitter self-pity. Wes should have known a woman like Carly Devlin wouldn't put up with J.B.'s crap for long.
"I ain't ever gonna write with this hand again," J.B. muttered.
Carly fixed him with a pointed, green-eyed gaze that oozed a mixture of pity and disappointment. "No. I guess you won't."
J.B. stared up at her. To Wes's surprise,
Carly leaned in toward him, tucking her arm through his. "Try doing it in high heels, mister," she quipped.
The look of puzzlement on J.B.'s face nearly made Wes laugh aloud. "You were a friend of Steve's?"
"Sort of. I met him on the bus right before it crashed, but you know Steve. He was a real easy guy to like." Carly walked J.B. to the table. She glanced back at Wes, nodding her her head toward the mess in the floor before sitting beside J.B.
Wes stared at the two of them for a moment, his anxiety-fogged brain slow to realize that he'd just been relegated to mop-up duty. Biting back a grumble, he found a broom and dustpan in a closet off the kitchen and started sweeping up the mess, keeping his ears open for the conversation at the table.
"My grandmother, God rest her soul, had a stroke when she was only forty-five years old," Carly told J.B. "She lost use of her right hand, too. After the stroke, she concentrated on working on her legs, on walking. She sorta gave up on her hand, because it wouldn't anything she wanted it to do." Carly chuckled softly. "She called it her 'dearly departed hand.' Mind if I take a look?"
Wes looked over his shoulder and found Carly reaching for his father's crippled hand. He almost called out a warning to her—J.B. could be like a dog with a bone about his claw—but to his surprise, his father let Carly take the bad hand in her own.
"Oh, yeah, you've definitely got a hand problem here."
"What are you, some kind of therapist?" J.B. shot Wes a suspicious look.
Carly shook her head. "Not me. I'm just an accountant like you. Floyd tells me you did his books for him."
"Used to. Now I can't write."
"Nope, not with this hand," Carly agreed. "Too bad you couldn't get it working for you again."
Wes emptied the dustpan into a garbage sack and put it aside, crossing to the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, where Carly and his father sat. Carly was gently massaging J.B.'s hand, her touch so light that Wes wasn't sure his father realized what it was she was doing.
Carly looked up at him, her expression growing wary when she caught him watching her. He offered an encouraging smile, and she relaxed, a smile forming on her pretty pink lips.
"Did you realize you use your hands for walking? You swing your arms while walking to keep a steady gait, or put out your hand to steady yourself if you start to lose balance. If your hand's not working right, your legs have to learn a whole new way to walk. When my grandmother finally figured that out, she started putting as much effort into improving the function of her hand as she did her legs. Soon, she was walking better and using that hand in ways she never thought she would again."
J.B. pulled his hand away from her. "If my hand was ever going to be worth a damn again, it would've happened already."
"How hard did you try to get it working again?"
J.B. whirled around to glare at his son. "You been talkin' about me?"
Wes shrugged. "I haven't told her anything."
Carly stood up, holding up her hands. "Sorry if I stepped on your toes or something." She didn't sound very apologetic, Wes noted. "I was just telling you about my grandmother, God rest her soul, and how she dealt with her stroke. If you don't want to be able to write again with that claw you got there, fine with me. Not my problem. Floyd seems happy enough with Sherry Clayton doing his books for him."
J.B. made a rude snorting sound.
Wes had to bite back another laugh. Everyone tried to coddle J.B., encourage him, tiptoe around his cranky moods and bitter self-pity. Wes should have known a woman like Carly Devlin wouldn't put up with J.B.'s crap for long.
"I ain't ever gonna write with this hand again," J.B. muttered.
Carly fixed him with a pointed, green-eyed gaze that oozed a mixture of pity and disappointment. "No. I guess you won't."
J.B. stared up at her. To Wes's surprise,
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