Only, by then, outside, it was hot enough to fry bacon on the pavement. Her rental car’s air conditioner coughed and sputtered like a pneumonia case.
She got Mr. Renbarcker back to his relatives, then finally was free to drive back to Griff’s. By then she was frustrated and itchy-hot, and verging on cranky. Her cell phone registered five calls-all from her sisters. Admitting to Cate why she’d come back to Pecan Valley this summer had clearly alerted her sisters’ alarm bells. Now there’d be no end to their advice. And she’d call them both back.
But not yet. Right then, she just wanted Griff.
“Hey, Griff, I just want to…”
“Griff, what do you think of…”
“Griff, how can I…?”
Griff considered hurling out the back and beating his head on the closest rock. He’d been patient all morning, but at this point he was hot, cranky, frustrated and just plain fed up. There were too many problems-all of which needed addressing immediately. There were way too many questions with no answers, and a zillion people hovering every damn time he had a chance to dig in.
This time, when he turned around there was Mrs. Georgia Maryweather, four-foot-eleven in heels and a ribboned hat, holding a peach-pecan pie. “Griff, I felt certain you’d need a little pick-me-up, bless your heart. The mister and I, we were so sorry to hear about the fire. It sure is a mess.”
“What a kind thing to do. Thank you, Mrs. Maryweather.”
Griff gave himself credit. He didn’t blow his temper, because of course he’d never bellow at a sweet old woman. Or a crotchety old woman. Or any woman. As anyone in town knew, he didn’t have a temper. He was low-key, never moved fast, never expressed anger.
Damned if he would behave like his dad. Ever. No matter what the provocation.
Mrs. Maryweather, of course, wanted a complete, chatty version of what had happened, who did it, what the damage would cost, what she and Mr. Maryweather could do to help, when he’d have the store back in business, the problem with young people today, the terror of crime and the story of her sister’s daughter’s cousin’s break-in last year.
Griff could feel the start of a tic in his right eye. His stomach had shrunk to the size of a small, tight knot. Early-afternoon heat had come in like a prize-fighter, fast and sharp, a hot blow that could fell anybody.
“Now, Griff, sugar, you just tell me if you…”
“Griff…?”
For four hours now, he hadn’t accomplished anything substantial. Couldn’t finish a conversation. Couldn’t end a sentence. Either the cell phone was buzzing or a fresh batch of people showed up. It wasn’t as if this was the fire of the century. It was just a mess.
“Now, Mr. Maryweather and I, we’d-”
A sudden movement caught his attention-the shine of glossy brown hair braiding through the crowd. Lily. Ignoring everyone, including a few accusing stares directed her way, she seemed solely focused on him, his face, his expression. Herman Conner, who’d been unshakable all morning, hitched up his trousers and aimed to block her path.
But nothing was stopping Lily. She barged past elbows and looks and conversation, the frown on her brow deepening as she finally reached him. “I’m really sorry. I assumed I could get here a lot earlier. I got caught up.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he assured her. “In fact, I should have called your cell, told you to forget it. There’s nothing anyone can do to help me right now.”
She searched his face, barely whispered, “Yeah, right.” And then, in a sudden loud soprano, “Griff, I’m feeling sick with the heat. Could you just help me sit down for a minute? I’m afraid I’m going to faint.”
She wasn’t going to faint. He couldn’t imagine why she’d pull such a drama, grabbing his arm, lifting her other hand to her forehead like a swooning Scarlett O’Hara. It was the hokiest acting job he’d ever seen…but he couldn’t be 100% positive of that. Lily did have trouble with heat, and it wasn’t as if he could ignore a woman asking for his help.
Much less Lily.
He’d have brought her into the nearest air-conditioning-which was the shop next door-but somehow Ms. Drama Queen, even as she moaned and groaned, elbowed him around the side of the store, down the alley, to a patch of shade. Faster than a snake, she wiggled through her purse and emerged with two water bottles. The first one she opened and poured over his head before he could even think about sputtering.
The second, she handed him for a drink. “Sit,” she said.
“What the hell are you doing?” He pushed a hand through his dripping hair, refusing to enjoy the sudden burst of cool. Although Lily couldn’t possibly know it, there were certain things Griff never did. Obey orders was one of them. Allow himself to be “handled” was another.
“We’re going to cool you down and calm you down. Or you can vent a bunch of yelling on my head, if you’d rather. Both choices are okay with me.”
“What?”
“Griff, you looked seriously ready to explode.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah? I’m a teacher. I told you that. I work with gifted students. I think I told you that, too. Extra-bright kids.” She nudged the cold water bottle toward him again and couldn’t help miss how he glared at her, but still, he took a long, long pull. “I’m used to knowing when they’re going to blow.”
“I don’t blow.”
“Of course you blow. Everybody gets angry sometimes.”
“I couldn’t be less angry.”
“Right. See, my kids-they’re used to high expectations put on them. They’re used to meeting those expectations, getting a thrill when they even do more. But when they can’t quite make that A-plus grade, they can go through a mighty crash. They hate it.”
“I’m not one of your kids, Lily. And I sure as hell don’t need caretaking. By anyone.”
“There’s no reason in the universe why you can’t come unglued now and then.”
There sure as hell was. His father capitalized every reason why a man-A Good Man-expected control from himself. Always. No exceptions. No discussion. “I’m not unglued.”
She didn’t take a breath, didn’t look patient, didn’t keep pushing the psychology crap. He had to get back to that infernal commotion, he knew that. He’d been talking all morning, couldn’t waste time on any more useless talk. Stuff had to be done.
But somehow-not because he was unraveling or unglued or any nonsense like that-he did spill a little. “Everyone’s talking about the fire. Hell, me, too. It’s arson. That’s damned upsetting, but reality is still…there are some practical things that have to be done. I got hooked up to a temporary generator, but it doesn’t have enough juice for what I need in the back room. Debbie-of Debbie’s Diner-has taken the fresh ice cream, going to sell at the restaurant. But I’ve got my batch freezers, my barrel freezers, the high-sheen blenders, the flavor tanks. All the equipment it takes to make and test serious ice cream. I don’t care about some stupid financial loss. It’s the mess. It’s-”
She interrupted. “I get it. So what do you need first? An electrician to work on the power? Or do you need to move the equipment? Have to find a place? What?”
“It’s sort of…all of the above. I need some straight information-from an electrician, a plumber-before I can make a move. But every time I turn around, there’s a dozen people, the police, Herman, the insurance investigator…my kids. The darned kids are so worried they can’t stay out of it, but I-”