Seeing is Believing (Cuttersville #3)(22)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“Of course it is. I’m diabetic. I can’t have all that sugar in lemonade anymore, so I water it down.”

“Except whiskey isn’t water.” Brady coughed again. The burn fed down into his lungs. “Christ. That’s whiskey with a shot of lemonade.”

“Oh, don’t be a wimp. And no one is saying you’re not good enough for Piper. But you have a life in Chicago, and she deserves the right man for her.”

“Who, Gandhi?” There was no man who could live up to the ideal they all seemed to have. He suddenly felt sorry for Piper on top of his personal irritation. She was going to have a hard row to sow when it came to dating. There wasn’t going to be much approval for any man she chose.

“I thought he was dead.”

“Speaking of dead people.” Brady turned in his chair so he was facing her better. “Did you know I have the same name as the dude who was murdered in the white house? Rachel’s fiancé?”

“Sure, I knew that.”

Of course she did. “And you never bothered to tell me?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Well, why do I have the same name? Was he a relative? Was I actually named after him or was it just a coincidence?”

“He’s like a great-great-great-great-uncle or something like that. As for your first name, I don’t know if it was intentional or not. Your mother was a twit. It seems a little too with it of her to be aware of ancestors’ names, but there’s no telling. Ask her.”

That figured. “I haven’t talked to her in twenty years, Gran. You know that.” His mother had left her family when Brady was two years old for a man who had wound up in prison for the dumbest crime ever. He had robbed a bank after giving his license to the teller for a legitimate withdrawal. Brady’s father had remarried, and while Brady got along just fine with his stepmother, he and his father had always butted heads. His contact with his mother had dwindled to nothing when he’d entered middle school, and Brady had no idea where she was at this point.

“Well, like I said, she was a twit. Your father was blinded by her boobs.”

Ugh. Brady didn’t want to think about it. “I could do without knowing that.”

Gran shrugged. “She had a nice rack. It was the only thing she had going for her. I smelled loser from the minute I met her. But don’t worry, you’re nothing like her.”

That was reassuring.

           Chapter Six

JESSIE STRITMEYER WATCHED HER GRANDSON LEAVE with a curious eye. So he’d been laid off from the so-called fancy job he’d been bragging about having for years. She was glad. He’d never been happy in that office, and she knew it. She could hear it in his voice every time she talked to him on the phone. He wasn’t the kind of man who liked to be stuck in a cubicle like a chicken in the nesting coop. Brady had always been what his stepmother liked to call a free spirit. Jessie knew that was just code for someone who liked to make their own damn rules.

Brady wasn’t meant to live in a congested city. He was meant to be back home, with his family, carving a living out of something artistic, something on his own terms. She knew this as surely as she knew the damn dog from next door would be in her yard later, plowing his paws through her dusty miller and mums. Little shit.

If losing his job was what it took to bring Brady home, Jessie was all for it. She just hoped his ego wasn’t dented too deep. Men had fragile egos. She also knew what it would take to keep him home—a woman. There was a reason he was thirty-one and he’d never even come close to marriage. It was because he needed to meet a local girl, not those yoga-mat-carrying city girls.

Piper Tucker was actually perfect for him. She would ground him, make him want to stay put. That girl had eyes so huge that no one could resist wanting to help her, be kind to her. She was like a cocker spaniel begging for a treat. Plus, she wore her heart on her sleeve, and Brady needed to be hit over the head with it or he’d never notice it.

Shelby seemed to think Brady was intrigued by Piper. Jessie didn’t know how the girl felt about it, but Piper didn’t appear to get out much. Surely Brady would seem enticing to a girl who spent all her time with snotty five-year-olds.

Her cell phone, which was sitting on the wrought iron table next to her lemonade, rang. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Stritmeyer? This is Piper Tucker. How are you, ma’am?”

Well, well. How was that for a coincidence? “I’m just fine, Piper. How are you? Those great-grandkids of mine behaving themselves?”

“Oh, yeah, they’re great. We’ve been out at the farm all day.”

“Good, good.” Jessie crossed her ankles and waited for Piper to cough it out. She wasn’t calling out of the blue for her health.

“So, I’ve been thinking about getting a place of my own and my mom suggested I talk to you and see if you have any properties available.”

Even better. “Sure. I have a two-bedroom house. Since you’re family, in a manner of speaking, I’ll give it to you for five hundred a month. How soon were you looking to move?”

“As soon as possible. It’s time for my own space.”

That was code for wanting to get laid on her own terms. Jessie understood that. It was exactly why she’d told Brady he couldn’t live with her. She was used to her Saturday-night special with Richard and she didn’t want to let go of it. “I understand, dear. You can move in October first. Or, if that’s not soon enough, you can move in now, but just so you know, Brady is going to be staying there for a few weeks painting and cleaning up the yard. If sharing the place temporarily with him doesn’t bother you, I’m fine with you moving in tomorrow. I won’t charge you until the first of the month. Or if you want to skip the security deposit, you can help him with the painting.”

Float the balloon, let them grab the string. That had been a strategy that had served her well over the years. And it would tell her loud and clear exactly how Piper Tucker felt about her grandson.

There was a pause that lasted about three heartbeats then Piper said, “I can help with the painting. That’s no problem. And the yard work. But I can wait until Brady goes back to Chicago to move in. I don’t want to . . .”

“What, dear?” Jessie smiled. The girl sounded like a Dickens urchin staring into a pastry case and saying she wasn’t hungry. Her longing was palpable.

“Bother Brady. But I can certainly help with sprucing the house up. Thank you so much, Mrs. Stritmeyer. I really appreciate it.”