Grits And Glory. Ron Benrey

to hear it. So far so good.”

      “The docs want me to stay in the hospital two or three more days.”

      “The nursing staff requested a whole week,” Sharon said, winking at Sean, “but Carlo’s insurance company wouldn’t agree to cover more than three days.” She helped him climb into bed. “Would you like breakfast?”

      “No thanks. My stomach feels too wonky to eat.” Carlo’s voice oozed angst and made known the enormity of his self-sacrifice. Sharon smiled as she left the room.

      Carlo pointed at Sean’s tray. “I see that you’re able to eat breakfast.”

      “Eagerly, in fact.”

      “Good. I’d hate unnecessary guilt to put you off your feed.”

      “Why would I feel the least bit guilty?”

      “You chose the parking place last night, not me.”

      Sean ate more grits. There was no point arguing with Carlo when he got hold of a loony idea.

      Someone knocked on the door.

      “Come in,” Sean said.

      The door opened, revealing Ann Trask. Sean realized that Ann was petite—five foot three and a hundred pounds, at the most. But the strength that radiated from her blue eyes made her seem a foot taller.

      “Hello, gentlemen,” Ann said.

      “It’s Mizz Ann Trask,” Carlo said, “come to visit the halt and the lame. A very churchy thing to do.”

      It was rare for Carlo to offer a verbal joke, so Sean kept it going. “We’re both a tad halt today, Ann, but no more lame than usual.”

      He expected Ann to react, but she didn’t even crack a smile. She probably didn’t feel like laughing so soon after Richard Squires’s death. But he saw another emotion in her somber expression. Something beyond grief that looked like worry.

      Carlo must have also registered Ann’s mood. He offered a high-voltage smile and said, “I haven’t forgotten my promise to put you on the Storm Channel. What’s your schedule like during the next day or two?”

      She responded with a small smile of her own. “Let’s wait until your bandages are off. If I’m going to debut on television with Carlo Vaughn, I insist on the unadorned original.”

      “You shall have him, although a black eye patch can be an intriguing fashion accessory. I may adopt the buccaneer look. What do you think?”

      Sean felt like retching, but Carlo’s cornball patter had amplified Ann’s smile and chased the worry—if that’s what he had seen—from her face.

      “You’d make a great swashbuckling buccaneer,” she said, making Sean wish that he had the skill to say magic words that could alter a woman’s frame of mind.

      Even more to the point, he wished that Ann smiled at him the way she smiled at Carlo.