“Your little boy?” he asked. Maybe an expression of interest in her child would ease the ice between them.
His words seemed to have the opposite effect. She moved, putting herself into position to block his view of the child.
“I told you. Mr. Hawkins is resting. He wouldn’t be able to help you, anyway.”
“We won’t know that until we ask him, will we?” He put a little steel into the words. Obviously this Mrs. Norwood wasn’t going to fall victim to the notorious Bodine charm. “When can I see him?”
She clamped her lips together for a long moment. She could either give in, or she could threaten to call the sheriff on him. Which would it be?
Finally she gave a curt nod. “All right. Come back tonight around six.” She gave a pointed look from him to his car.
Nobody would say he couldn’t take a hint. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be back at six.”
She didn’t respond, bending again to her tomato plants as if he weren’t there.
He gave the sleeping house a final glance. He’d be back. With any luck, this long search would end here.
Cathy cleared the supper dishes quickly, half her attention on the clock. Somehow she hadn’t managed to tell her grandfather yet about the visitor, and the man would be here in minutes.
She slanted a glance at her grandfather. He was whittling a soft piece of pine, turning it into a boat for her son. Six-year-old Jamie sat next to him, elbows on the table, his blue eyes fixed on the boat as it emerged from the wood.
A smile softened her lips. Grandpa had done the same for her as a child, creating fanciful animals and even small dolls. She’d been as close to him then as Jamie was now, and she’d never have dreamed that could change.
But it had. Her mind winced away from the bitter memory.
Grandpa and Jamie were the only family she had, but her willfulness had created a seemingly unbreakable wall between her and her stepgrandfather.
As for Jamie—her heart swelled with love for her son. Jamie needed so much, more than she could possibly provide unless things changed.
Her mind went round and round, back on the familiar track. She had to take care of her grandfather. She had to provide the surgery and therapy her son needed. How? How would she do that?
She suddenly realized that Jamie’s prattle about the game he’d been playing with his toy cars had turned in a new direction.
“…and he drove a silver car, and Mama said he should come back to talk to you.”
Grandpa’s gaze swiveled to hers, his bushy white brows drawing down over his eyes. “What’s all this, then, Cathleen? Who was here? Somebody selling something?”
She wiped her hands on the dish towel. “He said he was looking for information about someone. Someone he thought you might know, apparently. A man named Edward Bodine.”
Grandpa’s hand slipped on the carving, and the half-finished boat dropped to the floor. For an instant silence seemed to freeze the old farmhouse kitchen.
Then he shoved himself to his feet, grabbing his cane. “I won’t see him.” His face reddened. “You know how I feel about strangers. Tell him to go away.”
She quaked inside at the anger in his tone, but then her own temper rose. She wouldn’t let him bully her. She glanced past him, out the kitchen window.
“You can tell him yourself. He’s just pulled up.” She touched her son’s shoulder. “Jamie, you go play in your room for a bit.”
Without waiting for a response, she walked away, reaching the door as she heard the man’s footsteps on the creaky porch. She opened the door before the knock could sound.
Bodine looked a little startled, but he recovered quickly. Not the sort to be rattled easily, she’d think. Tall, with a bearing that said military and the kind of strong-boned face that would compel obedience.
For just an instant she thought she glimpsed something bleak behind the brown eyes, and then his face relaxed in an easy, open smile.
“Mrs. Norwood. I hope I’m not too early.”
“It’s fine.” At least, she hoped it was. It was hard to tell how rude her grandfather intended to be. On the other hand, this man looked capable of handling just about anything Grandpa could throw at him. “Please, come in.”
Adam Bodine stepped into the house, wiping his feet on the threadbare rug by the door. “Thank you for seeing me.”
He wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he stared over her shoulder at her grandfather with an expression in his eyes she couldn’t quite make out. It was almost a look of recognition.
“This is Theodore Hawkins,” she said.
“Adam Bodine.” He held out his hand, smiling.
Grandpa ignored it, his face tight and forbidding. “Whatever it is you want, I’m not interested. You can be on your way.”
She sucked in a breath, but Bodine didn’t seem fazed by the blunt words.
“I need to talk with you, sir. About my great-uncle, Edward Bodine.” He paused, glancing at her. “Maybe we should do this in private.”
It took an instant to realize that he must think she was just the hired help. Well, maybe that wasn’t far from the truth.
“You can talk in front of me,” she said. “This is my grandfather.”
“Stepgrandfather,” Grandpa said.
She wouldn’t let him see how much it hurt to hear it said aloud. It was true, of course. Her mother had been his stepdaughter, not his daughter. Still, he’d never referred to her that way, probably never even thought about it, before she’d gone away.
There was still a trace of hesitation in Bodine’s face, but he nodded. “Fine. As I said, I’ve come here to ask about Ned Bodine, my grandfather’s older brother. He disappeared in 1942.”
“Disappeared?” Her grandfather wasn’t responding, so apparently it was up to her. “What do you mean? Disappeared how?”
Bodine switched his focus to her. “He ran away from the family home on Sullivan’s Island. Near Charleston?” He made it a question.
“I know where Sullivan’s Island is.” One of the barrier islands off Charleston, the kind of place where people with money built summer houses, she’d guess. “Why did he run away?” He’d said 1942. “Does this have something to do with the war?”
Her grandfather never talked about the war, but he’d served then. She remembered hearing her grandmother say something to her mother about it, and then turning to her eight-or-nine-year-old self and cautioning her not to mention it.
He doesn’t want to talk about the war, so we have to respect that. Her grandmother’s soft voice had seemed very mournful. It did bad things to him.
“People said Ned ran away because he was afraid to fight in the war,” Bodine said. “We—the family, that is—we’re sure that’s not true.”
Her grandfather turned away. With one hand he gripped the back of a straight chair, his grasp so hard that the veins stood out of the back of his hand.
Tension edged along Cathy’s skin like a cold breeze. Something was wrong. Something about this man’s words affected Grandpa. She shook her head, trying to shake off the tension.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with us. Are you saying my grandfather knew this Ned Bodine?”