Summer Kisses

BECCA MACKENZIE WAS sweet and loveable and trustworthy.

At least, that’s what people used to say.

But that was before. Before a Taliban bullet widowed her, before her smile felt scarred, before she got it into her head that everyone deserved the granting of their last wish.

Sure, go on, ignore trusts and wills and judgmental relatives. Never mind the necessity of paper trails to protect those left behind.

What had she been thinking?

Not about protecting herself. She’d been thinking, screw grief. She’d been thinking that if you loved someone and they loved you back, fulfilling that person’s last request was an honor.

Sweet and loveable and trustworthy.

That’s what Becca’s clients would say about her.

If they weren’t all dead.

Becca’s lips were so tightly sealed grief had no chance to escape.

Death was an appendage of being a certified nursing assistant who cared for the elderly. Easing their passing was a sacred trust, whether they died of natural causes, of cancer or kidney disease, of heart failure or just plain fatigue. Life was exhausting, too short for the ones she loved, and, well, exhausting for those left behind.

Exhausted, Becca sat in her temporary home in Harmony Valley, a don’t-blink-or-you’ll-miss-it town in the northernmost corner of California’s Sonoma County. Her home was mobile. Twenty-one feet long, with rusted bumpers, and an orange burlap dinette that doubled as her bed. She’d been in town less than three days, and was parked at the house of a prospective employer, waiting for him to get home.

When Flynn Harris showed up with his grandfather, she’d stand up straight, look him in the eye and ask him for the job. She would not think about the near-zero balance in her checking account, the accusations a previous employer’s family made against her or the lawsuit she had almost no chance of winning without this job.

A cold, wet nose pressed against her side. Trust Abby to know when Becca needed reassurance. The black, tan and white Australian shepherd looked at her with dark, adoring eyes, as if to say everything was going to be as right as her nightly kibble. Becca stroked the small dog’s silky fur, but even Abby couldn’t chase away the tension knotting her stomach.

A classic black Cadillac the length of a small cruise liner turned into the lightly graveled driveway, moving slowly toward the army-green, ranch-style house where Becca was parked. The car stopped so that the passenger-side door was even with the front walk.

Becca hopped out of the motorhome and would have hurried to the passenger door, Abby trotting eagerly at her heels, if not for the penny she saw at her feet. Shoved between two small white rocks, the penny seemed bent and beaten. Becca shoved it into the pocket of her jeans and waved to the elderly passenger through the open Cadillac window.

Edwin Blonkowski’s pale face was dominated by a bulbous nose, his expression stuck in a stroke-induced half frown, framed by a stringy gray comb-over. The T-shirt at the folds of his neck was a dingy gray, the collar curled as if clinging to life. He was so clearly in need of TLC that Becca’s heart panged.

And panged again when she glanced at the driver, Edwin’s grandson, Flynn Harris. Locals said Edwin was on the road to recovery. Flynn’s eyes told a different story. They were the crisp blue of a morning sky, but sharp, so sharp. Sharpened by the fear of loss. Sharp enough to shred her hopes.

For a moment, Becca doubted the penny.

Flynn got out of the car and walked toward the trunk, adjusting his baseball cap over his shoulder length, reddish-brown hair. Faded blue jeans. A wrinkled white Comic Con T-shirt. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, same as Becca. His wasn’t the domineering muscularity of a military man. His was the tall, wiry frame of an athlete built for speed.

For the first time in years, Becca looked at a man and her body buzzed in appreciation.

A totally unexpected response. She was looking for a job, not a date. And there’d been that penny.

She opened Edwin’s door and assembled a smile as carefully as if it were an unfamiliar yoga pose. “I’m Becca MacKenzie, a certified nursing assistant. Agnes Villanova recommended I stop by and ask about the job.”

“Wasn’t expecting you.” Edwin’s words slurred as he shook her hand, his hospital identification bracelet too tight on his swollen wrist. “Told Flynn. I’m done with nurses.”

“You’re done with hospitals.” Flynn’s voice was deeper than she expected, rumbling along her nerves like drawn-out thunder after a lightning strike. “But we need a nurse at home. While you get better.”

Hope strengthened Becca’s smile. The sharpness in Flynn’s gaze may have been due to worry, not lost optimism.

“I’m not muddle-headed,” Edwin said. “Don’t need a jailer.”

Abby put her paws on the Cadillac’s bottom door frame, stretching to sniff the old man.

Edwin patted the dog, his fingers exhibiting the bluish tinge caused by very poor circulation. “Who’s this?”

“Abby.” Becca snapped her fingers and Abby trotted a few feet away. “Can I help you out of the car?”

“Please.” There was a determined twinkle in his eyes. “I can’t dance like I used to.”

“None of us can.” Becca steadied Edwin as he stood. She didn’t dare look Flynn’s way for fear he’d start a conversation with, “Thanks for coming by.” And end it with, “But we’ve already hired someone.”

“You did great,” she told Edwin, rubbing a sweaty palm on her jeans, feeling the penny in her pocket.

Abby barked her approval once, high and sharp, pacing behind Becca as if she and Edwin were two sheep in her care.

Flynn closed the trunk. A walker appeared to Becca’s left. “You’re not from the agency. Those candidates are coming by this afternoon.”

They hadn’t made a decision. Becca wanted to sag with relief.

“I’m an independent C.N.A. I have letters of reference. And a résumé.” Emotion tinged her voice, the way it did when she didn’t speak the entire truth. There were gaps in her résumé, names and dates missing. She cleared her throat and produced the envelope with her qualifications from her back pocket. “Agnes told me you’re looking for someone to help your grandfather regain his sea legs. And it just so happens I’m available.”

Edwin gave her a half grin, and a thumbs-up. “Until I’m okay, I’m sold.”

Becca grinned. Edwin was just what her lawyer suggested—a recovering client who’d give her a stellar character reference within the next few weeks. There would be no honoring a last request, no gift, no deathbed vigil. Edwin was recovering and after a few weeks, Becca would move on.

Flynn took the envelope reluctantly, as if it contained germs, and stuffed it into a plastic bag from the hospital. “Don’t set your parking brake just yet, Grandpa. We should review all the candidates before we make a decision.”

“Why?” Edwin asked.

“Because selecting a caregiver is almost as important as selecting a doctor.” The edge to Flynn’s voice was more pronounced. “You don’t just pick one up off the street. Or off your driveway.”

And then their gazes collided—hers and Flynn’s. It wasn’t a cursory glance like the one he’d given her from across the roof of the car. His scrutiny landed on her and delved deep in one surprisingly quick hit that left her breathless and panicky.

Because in his gaze she saw recognition.

Of her? Of her desperation? She didn’t know which.

Becca pulled herself together, trying to salvage the opportunity, along with her smile. “I have eight years experience, mostly in transitioning patients from rehab to home life.”

“Sounds super,” Edwin slurred, at the same time that Flynn said, “We have to choose carefully.”

Abby circled Flynn’s ankles, doing a bit of character judging with her nose. Flynn leaned over to scratch behind her ears. She licked his hand approvingly and then ran up the front steps, giving them a satisfied smile as she sat.

“Even the dog thinks we should hire Becca,” Edwin said.

At Flynn’s frown, words tumbled from Becca’s mouth. “I tailor my care to each client. I work toward my patient’s goals as well as their doctor’s orders. Abby’s a licensed therapy dog. She’s well behaved and loves everybody. I can work whatever hours you need if you’ll let me park on-site.” Becca pointed at her motorhome and rushed on. “I hear you’re building a winery in town. You’re probably incredibly busy and need someone right away...”