Rumor (A Renegades Novella) (7 page)

Josh pictured the team wandering around in the background, collecting equipment, checking gear. Knew there would be an intense silence over the camp as they all focused on the mission. A sustained adrenaline level almost tangible in the air. Hell, he missed that. And a hot streak of envy only added to the mess in Josh’s chest.

He followed Grace through town at a safe distance. She was headed toward Balboa Park, away from the high school where she taught the cheerleading squad, away from the club.

“What about the strip club?” Beck asked.

Fuck.
Josh stopped at a red light with Grace four cars in front of him and squeezed his eyes shut. He just couldn’t break this kind of news to Beck over the phone. Besides, Josh was realizing it wasn’t any of Beck’s damn business—any more than it was Josh’s. But…shit. This nagging sense of loyalty felt like a goddamned trick monkey on his back.

“She’s not stripping,” he said. “I don’t know what that guy thought he saw. I’m telling you he had to be plastered off his ass, or maybe he was just trying to rile you—”

“Thank God. I didn’t know what I was going to do if she was working at a strip joint.”

“I hate to keep pointing this out to you, buddy,” Josh said, growing annoyed. “But it’s not your call anymore.”

“So, is she seeing anyone?”

“Are you listening to me?” Josh lifted both hands off the steering wheel in a what-the-fuck gesture. This was that dense part of Beck that made Josh crazy. “What the hell difference does that make?”

“Relax. I’m just asking.”

The line of cars started moving again, but an odd and deepening nagging sensation played at the base of his neck. Josh suddenly realized he didn’t know if she was seeing anyone. He’d assumed she wasn’t because of what happened between them, but… The possibility that she had a guy in the wings was an uncomfortable thought.

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully, more to himself than to Beck. “I don’t think so.”

“How does she look?” Beck asked.

Josh’s temper flared again. “What the fuck? What’s going on with you? How could that possibly matter?”

“Are you PMSing?” Beck laughed. “I just haven’t seen her in forever, and she stopped sending me pictures—”

“That’s because you’re
divorced
, dude. D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D, divorced.”

“Listen, we’re lifting off. I gotta go.” His tone was lighthearted. He was blowing off everything Josh had said with his signature this-will-work-itself-out attitude. That might have lowered stress in the field, but Josh was getting a glimpse of how fucking annoying it must have been for Grace to deal with here at home. “I’ll check in when I can. Later, dude. And thank you.”

Beck disconnected, and Josh sat there with his buddy’s thank-you weighing on his conscience. Beck wouldn’t be thanking him if he’d known what Josh had let himself do last night, let alone what he’d
wanted
to do…

Grace made another turn, and while Josh had been playing guilt games with his brain, she’d led him straight to Twenty-eighth Street. He dropped back so she wouldn’t spot his car in the quiet residential neighborhood, one that was 180 degrees from the one she’d just left. Here, every house was decorated with lights and lawn ornaments. Every home had a Christmas tree filling the front window. When she pulled into the driveway of a large home, Josh parked along the curb of a cross street. She hopped out of her car, jogged the steps, and opened a tall gate in the wrought iron, no-climb fence surrounding the property.

Lights had been wound around the top of the fence, and every inch of the home had some touch of Christmas added—lights along the eaves and roofline, garlands along the porch banister, wreaths on every door, including the garage.

But that fence struck Josh as odd.
Every other home on the street was just as well manicured, just as large, but not one had a security fence. He stood from his car and strolled closer. Most Craftsmans were called bungalows for a reason. But this one wasn’t small, quaint, or cozy. The house rambled, filling a huge lot with pristine tan siding, charcoal gray roof, and a shiny hunter-green front door.

He angled to read a large sign posted on the fence.

Safe Haven Guest Home.

An uncomfortable pressure built in his chest. He stopped, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, rolling the name around in his head several times. “What the hell…?”

Pulling out his phone, he googled the name along with San Diego, tapped the page that came up first, and knew he had the right website by the image of the home on the main page. The short description read:
A loving, secure, assisted-living program focused on memory care. Lovely private rooms, structured activities, and experienced staff.

“Memory care.” He shook his head, still confused, then dialed Pete back. “What the hell is memory care?”

“Sup boss?” Pete answered.

“That address for Carolyn Ashby,” he said. “Was that her work address?”

“I don’t think so. Hold on a sec…” Rustling papers sounded over the line, more keys clicking, and every passing moment developed a whole new layer of sickening dread in Josh’s gut. “No. That is her home address. She has no work address.”

Josh rested his forehead in his hand. Fuck. Everything Grace was doing suddenly made sense. Perfect sense.

“Oh my God.” He rubbed his hand down his face. He couldn’t have fucked up any worse. “Shit, Pete, can you do me a quick favor? That address is for a private home care facility for something called memory care—”

“That’s a nice way of saying Alzheimer’s or dementia. My grandmother went to a home like that.”

Josh’s shoulders sagged. His brow furrowed. Nine months. Grace had been suffering and struggling with this for nine months? Alone?

“Can you find out how much the facility costs?”

“Looking. But I can tell you it’s expensive,” Pete said, fingers tap-tap-tapping. “And insurance doesn’t cover it. I remember because my mom was my grandma’s only living relative, and the cost nearly bankrupted our family.”

“Just…” Josh rubbed his eyes. “Text it to me, would you?”

“Done. Later.”

Pete disconnected, but Josh stood there a long time, letting everything gel in his mind. There were still questions, but the big ones had pretty much just been answered—Grace was working at the club to pay for her mother’s care.

His chest felt both hollow and full. Tears wet his eyes.

If he hadn’t already been in love with Grace, he’d have fallen hard that very second.

He took a minute to get his emotions together before heading inside. He hadn’t anticipated seeing Grace again after his royal fuck-up last night, knowing she wouldn’t want anything to do with him. But that wasn’t an option anymore. She needed a friend. And, like it or not, she was stuck with him.

He entered through the tall gate, which made more sense now, and approached the double front doors. He cleared his throat, planted his hands at his hips, and stared at his shoes. While his thoughts darted in five different directions—Beck, Carolyn, Grace, the club, his own scheduled vacation—his heart filled with purpose.

His cell buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket to find Pete’s message.

Safe Haven runs $6300 a month for full care of Alzheimer’s patients. Ashby has no personal long-term insurance, but she does have Medicaid, which covers very little. Ashby’s doctor visits and medication are partially covered by Medicare. Family picks up the bulk of the overall cost for care.

Which meant Grace was footing a monthly bill of somewhere between four and five thousand dollars.

He sucked a deep breath, blew it out, and knocked.

A muffled female voice called, “Come on in.”

With a hive of bees buzzing in his chest, Josh pushed the door open and glanced into the foyer.

“I’m in the kitchen,” the woman said from somewhere deeper in the house.

He stepped into the small tiled foyer and shut the door. The thick, fresh scent of pine hit him first, which he guessed was coming from the tree in the window of another room facing the street. This formal living room had been decorated elaborately with pine branches and holly leaves on the fireplace mantel, and prettily wrapped presents stacked alongside the brick hearth.

Two elderly women—much older than Grace’s mother—sat on either end of a blue sofa watching television. Neither took their eyes off the set when Josh walked in. Both sat upright and still, hands in their laps, reminding Josh of a pew in church. The rosary sliding through one of the women’s fingers might have helped that impression along.

“Hi there.” Josh stepped into the living room, and both women turned to look at him.

The woman with the rosary returned her attention to the television without a word. The other woman did the same but pointed at the screen with a pride-filled “That’s my husband, right there, Regis.”

Josh glanced at the TV where Regis Philbin, a popular morning talk-show host from years past, was interviewing a celebrity in what had to be a rerun. Josh’s rough age calculation made the statement possible but, he guessed, highly implausible.

“Really,” he said, sliding his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “He’s a pretty big celebrity.”

The woman nodded, her smile blissful. On screen, applause erupted, and Josh glanced over to find Philbin speaking to the camera with a grin, a wink, and a “We’ll be right back. Don’t go away.”

“That was just for me,” the supposed wife said, never taking her gaze off the television as a commercial for toothpaste replaced the talk-show rerun. “That smile, that wink. Just for me. And the message too.” She sighed dramatically. “He’s such a sweet man.” She seemed lost in her own world a long moment before she popped out with “Tammy’s making tuna sandwiches for lunch.”

Josh was still trying to find the relevance in the two disjointed topics when movement drew his gaze to the room beyond. A woman in her early sixties with black-and-silver hair, wearing a bright red,
kiss-the-cook
apron
,
appeared in an archway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

“Oh, hello. I’m sorry. I thought you were one of our regulars.” She started through the living room and offered her hand. “I’m Tammy, owner of Safe Haven.”

“Josh—” he started.

“Tammy,” the older woman interrupted. “Did you just see Regis wink at me? He knows I love it when he does that.”

“Handsome devil,” Tammy responded. Then to Josh, “Do you mind talking in the kitchen? I’m making lunches.”

“Sure.” He followed her past a dining table that could seat twelve and into a large kitchen where the wall over the sink was lined with windows looking out onto a garden. At the center of the garden, Grace sat at a table with Carolyn.

At first glance, Josh’s heart took a hit. Carolyn, the vibrant, funny, free-spirited sixty-five-year-old, had aged ten years since he’d last seen her. On the table, a bowl of cereal…Cheerios…sat between the women who were each threading them onto a piece of yellow yarn.

“How can I help you?” Tammy asked.

Josh refocused on Tammy. She leaned her hip against the counter, where bread was laid out next to a large bowl of what clearly looked and smelled like tuna salad. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m a friend of Grace and Carolyn. I don’t know how your visitor rules work… I’m just in town for a few days and thought I’d stop by…”

“Josh…” Tammy said thoughtfully, shifting toward the counter and scooping a spoonful of salad onto one piece of bread. “Oh
, Josh
.” She turned again, face open with excitement. Her eyes were light and bright, some shade of hazel. “Navy SEAL?”

He smiled, confused, but comfortable with this warm welcome. “Former, yes.”

“Right, right. A shoulder injury?”

His confusion deepened, unsure who’d been talking about him, Carolyn or Grace.

“Oh, I’ve heard so much about you.” Tammy gestured with the spoon, and a dollop of tuna salad hit the tile. “Oh dear… I’m sorry.”

Josh grabbed a paper towel from the roll on the sink. “No worries. I’ve got it.”

“Thank you. I’m so excited to finally meet you. Carolyn talks about you nonstop when she’s lucid. My, oh my, she couldn’t have been more proud of you if you’d been her own son.”

“I think you have me mixed up with her former son-in-law, Isaac Beck. He’s also a SEAL.”

“No, no, I know all about Isaac. And all the other men in your team. I think there was a Boomer, Digger, Big Joe… But there’s no doubt you were her favorite. Yep, I’ve heard all about you, Mr. Charmer.” Her grin made Josh wonder just what Carolyn had said. “Carolyn will be so thrilled you’re here— Oh…”

She trailed off as if she’d just remembered something, and a shadow darkened her expression.

“What?” he asked when she didn’t continue.

“It’s just… She’s having a rough day, and there’s no guarantee she’ll remember you. People from the past can be a positive trigger, bringing back a whole range of memory, but they can also cause stress and anxiety, which…well…

“I’m sure Grace has told you that Carolyn hasn’t recognized her since Betty passed. That was her roommate.” She shook her head and gazed out the window at the women. “It’s been really rough on Grace. I’m so glad she has someone to lean on now. We all need that, don’t we?” She smiled sadly at Josh. “Even you big strong SEALs lean on each other, right?”

“I’ve got you covered, buddy. They’ll have to get through me to get to you.”
Beck’s words to Josh on that horrible day filled his head.

Josh cleared his throat, emotions cluttering his heart. “Yes, ma’am. Everyone needs help once in a while.” He watched Grace and Carolyn through the window. “I was surprised to hear about this. Carolyn is so young…”

“She’s about ten years younger than average for memory issues, but not the youngest resident I’ve had here. Last year, we lost a fifty-eight-year-old woman who’d been suffering for somewhere between five and seven years.”

Josh’s heart sank, and he nodded in acknowledgment of Tammy’s statement.

Outside, an angry outburst drew Josh’s gaze back to the women. With a frustrated cry, Carolyn slapped her hands on the table. She hit the bowl, shooting Cheerios everywhere. And when the little Os hit her, she screamed, batting them away like bees. Josh gripped the counter with one hand, muscles coiled to act. “Should we—”