Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,78

other items. When they finished, he tucked the package beside Button and picked up the box.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

She nodded and opened the door.

He slipped through—and shifted into high gear. The longer he was gone, the higher the odds she’d stop him at the door with a “thanks for your help” greeting and send him home.

But that didn’t happen. As he crossed her patio nine minutes later, the aroma of coffee drifted through the window.

She opened the door as he approached.

During his absence, she’d done some repair work on her face. The pallor remained, but the mascara smudges had been erased and the tearstains wiped away. Her eyes weren’t quite as red, either, and the puffiness had subsided a tad.

“I put coffee on. I assume you prefer that over tea.”

“I like your tea.”

“Diplomatically put.” She offered him the ghost of a smile. “But I’ll have coffee too. Once in a while it’s a nice change of pace.”

He crossed the threshold. She’d put the cinnamon rolls on plates and added napkins, knives, and forks to each place. Two mugs waited beside a small coffeemaker.

“Where do you want me?”

“Either spot is fine.” She moved to the coffeemaker and poured them each a cup. “Sugar or cream?”

“Black.”

She set his mug on the table, added a healthy dose of cream and a teaspoon of sugar to hers, and joined him. “Where did you put Button?”

“In the garage. I’ll bury him in the backyard tomorrow morning.”

She stirred her coffee. “Do you think Molly should see him first—or be there for the . . . burial?”

“Do you?”

Her brow pinched. “Sometimes that makes it more real. But she’s already been through her Nana’s death. That’s fresh enough in her mind and should give her the gist of what happened without the ritual. Seeing where he’s buried may be sufficient.”

“I was thinking along those same lines.” He took a tentative sip of his coffee. Not a bad brew for a tea drinker.

As if she’d read his mind, the corners of her mouth tweaked again. “I know how to make coffee. My dad loved his java, and even though I always preferred tea, he insisted I learn how to brew a decent cup.”

“My thanks to your dad.”

He waited, letting her set the pace, giving her a chance to organize her thoughts and tell him her story in the way that was most comfortable for her.

She broke off a bite of cinnamon roll with her fork but didn’t eat it. “My comment about how seeing a body makes death more real is based on personal experience. I didn’t have that opportunity. It was just a memorial service.”

Again, he wanted to reach out and touch her. Instead, he held on to his mug to keep his hands where they belonged. “Who did you lose, Jeannette?”

She drew a shaky breath. “Everyone.”

She’d said that before, but it wasn’t computing.

How could a person lose everyone they loved in one fell swoop?

Even with the Shabos, three had survived the horrendous act of terrorism that had decimated their family.

“What do you mean by everyone?”

“I mean everyone. My entire family. Mother, father, brother, sister-in-law, niece—even my brother’s d-dog.” Her voice rasped, and she picked up her mug with both hands. Took a sip as her eyes began to shimmer.

Logan’s stomach bottomed out as he tried to digest that bombshell.

The kind of loss she’d sustained was almost incomprehensible.

Yet she’d endured.

Meaning the slender woman sitting across from him had tremendous emotional stamina—perhaps more than she realized.

He remained silent while she composed herself. Hoping she’d continue the story without more questions from him—and he had plenty.

A few seconds later, she did.

“It was a plane crash. My dad was the pilot—but it wasn’t his fault. The investigators from the FAA and National Transportation Safety Board found a mechanical defect in the aircraft Dad had rented. It was a new plane, but this was a factory error. The plane caught fire after the crash, and there . . . there wasn’t much left to find by the time the emergency crews put it out.” Her throat worked as she swallowed.

As Logan tried to process the horror of that scenario, she hit him with a second bombshell.

“I was supposed to be on the plane too.” She swiped up a glob of icing that had dripped onto her plate. Wiped it off her finger with a napkin. “It was a thirty-fifth anniversary trip for my mom and dad. We were all going to Hilton Head. But the flu was decimating the staff