“Right.” He stared down at the cookie box and she could sense his emotions swirling through him. Dread at the thought of again facing his abusive father and shame that she might not think him a good son for putting off that inevitable encounter.
“I personally think that’s a wise decision on your and your mother’s part.” She placed her hand on his forearm and his head jerked up, his eyes searching for truthfulness in her words. “You have to put his well-being first. There will be plenty of time for the two of you to get reacquainted.”
Cody’s grip on the box relaxed a fraction.
“Ma’s mentioned to him a few times that I might come to visit. He doesn’t react one way or another, so we’re thinking I should stop in soon and see how it goes.”
“Hopefully well. I’ll be praying so.”
“Thanks.”
He glanced around, as if realizing they were talking in a public setting, as though suspecting someone might be observing their chat. What would be wrong with that? But she withdrew her hand from his arm and he took a step back.
He cleared his throat as his gaze again caught hers. Softened. “I’ve been remiss in not expressing my sympathy for your loss, Paris.”
Oh, no, not now. She didn’t want this conversation to be about her, about concern for her grief.
“I knew you’d gotten engaged four years ago and assumed you and Dalton married. Until Sharon Dixon told me on Saturday about the car accident.”
His mother hadn’t told him years ago? He hadn’t known when he’d come to her father’s office on Friday? Why ever not? Everyone in town knew about it.
“Dalton was a good guy,” he added.
“Yes, he was.” At least Cody wasn’t a gusher like many who assured her they understood her loss, who wanted to reminisce about her fiancé as a young boy, a teen, a man.
Cody lifted the lid on the cookie box, the mouthwatering scent of homemade molasses cookies sure to tempt even the strictest of dieting medical staff. A small envelope lay on top, inscribed to Lucy.
His smile quirked. “So you think you can trust me to get these to the hospital uneaten?”
Relieved at the change in subject, she playfully placed her hands on her hips. “You’d better, mister.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Or what?”
“Or...I’ll tell your mother, and then you’ll be in big trouble.”
“That’s a threat intended to make me shake in my boots?” He grinned, then bumped the envelope with his finger. “What’s in there?”
“Gift cards to Wyatt’s Grocery and the gas station. I’m sure with the expenses your father is incurring and the many trips to—”
“Thank you, but Hawks don’t take charity.” Cody’s smile dissolved as he snapped the box lid closed and thrust it toward her.
Charity? What was he talking about? She gently pushed the box back, her eyes firmly meeting his. “This isn’t charity. It’s a gift for your mother to use where she needs it most.”
He opened the box again and extracted the envelope. “I’ll take the cookies to her, but not the gift cards.”
Confused at his reaction, she put her hands behind her back, refusing the envelope he held out. “I don’t want them back. You’re being silly.”
“You think so?”
“Your mother does nice things for people in this town and this is a small way of showing appreciation in a practical way.”
“I value your concern but, like I said, Hawks don’t take handouts anymore.” His jaw hardened. “If there’s anything she needs, I’ll see that she gets it.”
She folded her arms. Why was he being so stubborn? “This isn’t a handout.”
“Let’s not quibble over semantics, Paris,” he said quietly as he tucked the envelope in the snug space between her folded arms, then gave the box lid a firm pat. “I’ll see that Ma gets these. Maybe minus a cookie or two.”
He winked. But his attempt to inject humor fell flat with her.
“Please don’t be this way, Cody. You know I—”
“Your thoughtfulness is appreciated. Let it go at that.” He lifted his hand for a lighthearted salute, then turned away, the cookie box tucked under his arm as he headed down the street.
Stubborn, pride-filled man. Why was he acting as if she’d likened his mother to a panhandler on the street?
“Cody!” It was all she could do not to stamp her foot like a two-year-old in a tantrum.
He lifted his hand again in a parting wave, but didn’t stop or look back. Kept right on walking.
She drew an irritated breath. She hadn’t even had a chance to ask him how things were going with the Christmas project, if he still thought it doable or if she needed to recruit additional volunteers.
But she wasn’t about to chase after him.
* * *
Conscious of Paris’s exasperated gaze and guilt-ridden for not having yet visited his father, Cody climbed into his truck. He brushed the snow from his hair, hoping the high country didn’t get heavy snow while he was here. He had his eye on a new Ford F-150 but, with his vehicle in the shop, he’d been forced to commandeer one of his business partner’s old junkers. It couldn’t be counted on in significant snowfall.
He checked for traffic and backed out, but didn’t allow himself to glance in Paris’s direction. Then he pressed his foot to the accelerator and headed for his folks’ place.
He didn’t think of it as home.
Dad and Ma still lived in a double-wide trailer that they’d settled in when Cody had been in ninth grade and his half brothers—who only lived with their father when their mother periodically kicked them out of her place in New Mexico—were long gone.
Looking back, where had his folks gotten the money for a down payment? He wouldn’t ask. Better not to know. Leroy Hawk had done time in Texas for forging his employer’s signature when Cody was a second grader. Another time for attempted extortion.
How had Ma endured it?
He knew it was foolish, but he couldn’t help but feel responsible. When he was a kid he’d overheard her telling someone he was a preemie, but it didn’t take a mathematician to figure out his folks had to get married. Maybe if he hadn’t come along, Ma would have married someone more deserving of her.
Cody shook his head as he rounded a treed curve, the windshield wipers beating a sporadic rhythm against the lightly falling snow. By the time he’d entered school here midautumn of fifth grade, he’d been pulled in and out of schools in three different states and five different towns. It was amazing he’d managed to graduate at all. He owed that to his mother—and to his own stubborn streak.
And speaking of stubbornness... He glanced at the box on the seat beside him. Had he been wrong to turn down the gift cards for his mother? Paris meant well and he hadn’t intended to hurt her feelings as he suspected he had. God only knew how many people had slipped a little something extra to Ma in the years he’d been gone. After his departure from town, he hadn’t had much to spare for her at first. He should be thankful, not resentful, that people cared.
Paris couldn’t have known her thoughtfulness would push a hot button. Touch his pride. He’d overreacted.
Lord, I’ve got to stop taking things like this so personally,