Read Online Playing Dead in Dixie by Paula Graves - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paula Graves
Ads: Link
house. She was surprised when he parked the truck and got out to walk her to the house.
He cleared his throat when they reached the porch. "Thanks for trying to help with my father. I'm sorry he was so rude."
"He was a pussycat compared to my grandma," Carly assured him.
"He needs to quit blaming the world for how things have gone wrong for him. He's mad at me and everyone else because his body doesn't work like it used to, but when the rehab people tried to teach him exercises to get back his motor functions, he dug in his heels and fought them like a tiger."
"The stroke changed who he is. How he thinks. What might make sense to you or me—how sticking your hand down in a can of warm rice and working it helps to stimulate the nerves and muscles of a stroke-injured hand—doesn't make any sense to your father at all." Carly leaned against the door frame, gazing up at Wes. "All he knows is that he used to have a hand that worked, and now he doesn't, and he can't see how a pile of warm rice is going to change that."
"Your grandmother had to do that, too?"
Carly nodded. "Yeah. And she hated it. It took a long time for her to see that the crazy things the therapist was telling her to do really did work."
"How long did it take to convince her?"
"Three years."
Wes sighed, leaning against the door frame. "Dad's been that way for almost ten. Even if he changed his mind now and tried some of the things they're suggesting, how much control of his arm and hand could he get back?"
"I don't know," Carly admitted. "But it would have to be more than he has now, right?"
"I should probably check on him on my way home."
"No." Impulsively, she caught his hand. "He'll be all right now, I think, and it'll make him feel worse if you turn back up tonight. Just make an excuse to phone him when you get home if you're still worried."
Wes squeezed her hand. "J.B. may not be glad you were there tonight, but I am."
Warmth spread up her arm from the spot where their palms met. "You take care of everybody around here, don't you? Your dad, your aunt and uncle, this whole town—"
"You give me too much credit." He released her hand and took a step back. "It's late. I'd better go."
She curled her tingling fingers into a fist and pressed it against her stomach, trying to ignore the little voice inside that urged her to make him stay. "Thanks for taking me to meet Shannon. She's nice."
"You'll find most folks around here are." He looked as if he wanted to give her a warning as he turned to leave, but he settled for a brief nod as he headed to his truck.
As he drove away, Carly lingered on the porch, sitting in the rocking chair by the door and gazing out at the darkness beyond the yellow glow cast by the porch light above.
The evening had been remarkably short on tension between them, despite the events at his father's house. She'd felt like a teammate, helping him deal with his difficult father. And although she knew he'd soon be back to playing suspicious cop to her secretive outsider, she was glad they'd ended this night, at least, as allies instead of enemies.
"JUST RUN YOUR FINGER ALONG the hull seam, like this." Bonnie Strickland slid the pea hull open and raked the peas inside into the bowl on her lap.
Carly picked up a fat purple hull and mimicked the movements of Bonnie's nimble fingers. The hull popped open, and a couple of peas tumbled into the bowl on her lap. She gave the other peas a nudge with her fingertip and they plopped into the bowl beside the others. She picked up another purple hull and repeated the process.
So this was shucking peas. Hmm. Not as alien a process as she'd expected when Bonnie first suggested it.
Outside the kitchen, the light had taken on a warm, golden glow as the sun dipped toward the horizon, a reminder that day number six in Bangor, Georgia, had almost passed, and Carly was still hanging around town.
She'd promised
He cleared his throat when they reached the porch. "Thanks for trying to help with my father. I'm sorry he was so rude."
"He was a pussycat compared to my grandma," Carly assured him.
"He needs to quit blaming the world for how things have gone wrong for him. He's mad at me and everyone else because his body doesn't work like it used to, but when the rehab people tried to teach him exercises to get back his motor functions, he dug in his heels and fought them like a tiger."
"The stroke changed who he is. How he thinks. What might make sense to you or me—how sticking your hand down in a can of warm rice and working it helps to stimulate the nerves and muscles of a stroke-injured hand—doesn't make any sense to your father at all." Carly leaned against the door frame, gazing up at Wes. "All he knows is that he used to have a hand that worked, and now he doesn't, and he can't see how a pile of warm rice is going to change that."
"Your grandmother had to do that, too?"
Carly nodded. "Yeah. And she hated it. It took a long time for her to see that the crazy things the therapist was telling her to do really did work."
"How long did it take to convince her?"
"Three years."
Wes sighed, leaning against the door frame. "Dad's been that way for almost ten. Even if he changed his mind now and tried some of the things they're suggesting, how much control of his arm and hand could he get back?"
"I don't know," Carly admitted. "But it would have to be more than he has now, right?"
"I should probably check on him on my way home."
"No." Impulsively, she caught his hand. "He'll be all right now, I think, and it'll make him feel worse if you turn back up tonight. Just make an excuse to phone him when you get home if you're still worried."
Wes squeezed her hand. "J.B. may not be glad you were there tonight, but I am."
Warmth spread up her arm from the spot where their palms met. "You take care of everybody around here, don't you? Your dad, your aunt and uncle, this whole town—"
"You give me too much credit." He released her hand and took a step back. "It's late. I'd better go."
She curled her tingling fingers into a fist and pressed it against her stomach, trying to ignore the little voice inside that urged her to make him stay. "Thanks for taking me to meet Shannon. She's nice."
"You'll find most folks around here are." He looked as if he wanted to give her a warning as he turned to leave, but he settled for a brief nod as he headed to his truck.
As he drove away, Carly lingered on the porch, sitting in the rocking chair by the door and gazing out at the darkness beyond the yellow glow cast by the porch light above.
The evening had been remarkably short on tension between them, despite the events at his father's house. She'd felt like a teammate, helping him deal with his difficult father. And although she knew he'd soon be back to playing suspicious cop to her secretive outsider, she was glad they'd ended this night, at least, as allies instead of enemies.
"JUST RUN YOUR FINGER ALONG the hull seam, like this." Bonnie Strickland slid the pea hull open and raked the peas inside into the bowl on her lap.
Carly picked up a fat purple hull and mimicked the movements of Bonnie's nimble fingers. The hull popped open, and a couple of peas tumbled into the bowl on her lap. She gave the other peas a nudge with her fingertip and they plopped into the bowl beside the others. She picked up another purple hull and repeated the process.
So this was shucking peas. Hmm. Not as alien a process as she'd expected when Bonnie first suggested it.
Outside the kitchen, the light had taken on a warm, golden glow as the sun dipped toward the horizon, a reminder that day number six in Bangor, Georgia, had almost passed, and Carly was still hanging around town.
She'd promised
Similar Books
