One Foot in the Grave (Carly Moore #3) - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,52

lose my best friend.”

“Or you might get to spend the rest of your life with him,” Roberta said wistfully.

“When did your husband die?” I asked.

“Three years ago,” Roberta said, keeping her gaze down. “Incompetent fools at the hospital killed my sweet Bernard.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, seeing a whole new side to her.

Her gaze snapped up, eyes blazing. “I didn’t tell you for sympathy. I told you so you’d stop wastin’ your time. None of us know how much time we have left. What if you’re missin’ out on something wonderful?”

“Like a really good roll in the hay,” Gladys added.

I released a short laugh, but my gaze drifted back to Roberta. “I’ll definitely keep your advice in mind.”

She nodded. “Well, I can lead a horse to water, but I can’t make the damn fool drink.”

She had a point. About all of it. But I couldn’t take the chance. Losing Marco would break me in a way losing the others had not.

You might lose him anyway, a voice in my head whispered.

What if he told me how he really felt, assuming they were right, and I couldn’t bring myself to commit to him? Would he pull away?

“There, there, child,” Roberta said in the kindest tone I’d ever heard her use. “There’s no sense borrowin’ trouble before it hits. The key is to listen to your heart. Truly listen. Then you’ll know.”

I gave her a watery smile. “Thank you, Roberta.”

Her face morphed into a scowl. “All right. Be gone with you. Go see Thelma.”

She made a shooing motion as she shifted her focus back to the table.

Gladys, I noticed, looked as surprised as I felt.

Suddenly eager to get away from them, I rose to my feet. “I’ll say goodbye before I go.”

“Like you could sneak out,” Roberta scoffed. “We’re right by the front door.”

I laughed, slightly relieved Roberta was back to her grumpy self.

Thelma’s room was down the main hall. She seemed to spend most of her time in there, not that I was surprised. She had a view of an angel fountain and a courtyard full of rose bushes. Her door stood open, and I could see straight through the window—while the roses weren’t blooming now, someone had planted pansies and the fountain was gurgling and spurting water.

“Miss Thelma?”

She was sitting in her chair—a faux leather recliner—with a soft pink knitted throw over her lap, her knitting needles and an unfinished project on top of it. She stirred and turned her head toward me, and I realized she’d been napping.

“I’m so sorry. I can come back another time.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, gesturing for me to come in. “I was just dozing. I don’t want to sleep too long or I’ll never go to sleep tonight.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “It’s no bother for me to come back.”

“Please. I always love visiting with you.”

“At least I come bearing gifts,” I said, lifting my arm to show her the shopping bag, the straps hooked over my arm.

Her face lit up, and I noticed the vase full of mixed cut flowers on the dresser in front of her.

“It’s something very small, but something I know you love,” I said, pulling out the bag of butterscotch candies.

She beamed and reached for them. “Between you and Greta…both you girls spoil me.”

“I love your company,” I said as I sat in the empty guest chair in front of her. “How have you been?”

“My hips have been actin’ up again, a sure sign spring is here to stay. But I’ve been good otherwise. Tired.”

“You need more exercise.”

“That’s counterintuitive, dear,” she said, tearing open the bag and digging out a candy.

The next time I was here, presuming I had more time, I planned to encourage her to walk out to the courtyard. Maybe I could bring some bedding plants and a trowel. She could guide my efforts. I’d be sure to ask the director for permission, but I wasn’t worried. Thelma had told me that the families did most of the planting. Landscaping wasn’t in the facility’s budget.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” she asked. “I get the feeling you want to discuss more than the weather today.”

This was something I loved about Miss Thelma: while she was a very sweet woman, she always told the truth, no sugarcoating. Also, she could write a secret history of Drum based on her knowledge alone. Back in December, she’d told me about Bart Drummond’s favors. She’d described him as a crossroads demon—only desperate people sold their