The Baby Bump. Jennifer Greene

squeezed his hand, but she was still facing down the intruder. “It’s all right, Gramps. I’m here. And I’m going to be here from now on.” Her voice was as cordial as Southern sweet tea, but that was only because she was raised with Southern manners. “I’ll be taking care of my grandfather from now on, and we won’t need any interference from anyone. Bless your heart, I’m sure you know your way to the front door.”

      “Honey, this is Ike—”

      “Yes, I heard you say the name.” She wasn’t through glaring daggers at the son of a sea dog who’d try to cheat a vulnerable old man. “I really don’t care if your name is Judas or Sam or Godfrey or whatever else. But thanks so much for stopping by.”

      He could have had the decency to look ashamed. Or afraid. Or something besides amused. There was no full-fledged grin, nothing that offensive, but the corners of his slim mouth couldn’t seem to help turning up at the edges. “You know, I have the oddest feeling that we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

      “You can bet your sweet bippy we have,” she said sweetly.

      “I strongly suspect that you’ll change your mind before we see each other again. I promise I won’t hold it against you. In fact, I’m really happy you’re here. Your grandfather thinks the world rises and sets with you.”

      “Uh-huh.” He could take that bunch of polite nonsense and start a fire with it. She wasn’t impressed. She made a little flutter motion with her hands—a traditional bye-bye—but she definitely planned to see him out the door. First, so she could lock the screen doors after him, and second, to make darned sure he took the dog.

      He was halfway down the hall when he called out, “Pansy, going home now.” And the lazy, comatose, surely half-dead dog suddenly sprang to her feet and let out a joyful howl. Her tail should have been licensed as a weapon. It started wagging, knocking into a porch rocker, slapping against the door. Pansy seemed to think her owner was a god.

      “Goodbye now,” Ginger said, just as she snapped the door closed on both of them and flipped the lock. Obviously, locking a screen door was symbolic at best. Anyone could break through a screen door. But she still wanted the good-looking son of a shyster to hear the sound.

      She whirled around to see her grandfather walking toward her with a rickety, fragile gait.

      “Sweetheart. I don’t understand what got into you. You know that was Ike.”

      “I know, I know. You told me his name already.”

      “Ike. Ike MacKinnon. My doctor. I mean that Ike.”

      For the second time, she had an odd shivery sensation, that something in her grandfather’s eyes wasn’t … right. Still, she answered him swiftly. “You know what Grandma would say—that he can’t be a very good doctor if he can’t afford a pair of shoes and a haircut.”

      When her grandfather didn’t laugh, only continued to look at her with a bewildered expression, she hesitated. She shouldn’t have made a small joke.

      The situation wasn’t remotely funny—for him or her. Maybe she hadn’t immediately recognized that Ike was Gramps’s doctor—how could she? But she’d have been even ruder to him if she had known. Gramps had said precisely on the phone that the “doctor” was behind it all. Behind the conspiracy to take the land away from him and force him to move.

      “Gramps, where is Cornelius?”

      “I don’t know. Somewhere. Chores. The bank or something.” Her grandfather reached out a hand, steadied himself against the wall, still frowning at her. “Ike is a nice man, Rachel. And you’ve always liked him. I can’t imagine what put you in such a fuss. I can’t remember you ever being rude to a soul.”

      She stopped, suddenly still as a statue.

      Rachel was her grandmother’s name.

      “Gramps,” she said softly. “It’s me. Ginger.”

      “O’ course,” he said. “I know that, you silly one. Next time, don’t take so long at the hairdresser’s, okay?”

      She smiled at him. Said “I sure won’t,” as if his comment and her reply made sense.

      It didn’t, but since she was reeling from confusion, she decided to change gears. Gramps was easily coaxed to settle in a rocker on the veranda, and he nodded off almost before he’d had a chance to put his feet up. She was free then to stare at her car, which unquestionably was stuffed within an inch of its life.

      The boxes and bags weren’t heavy. She refused to think about the pregnancy until she was ready to make serious life decisions—and Gramps’s problems came first. Still, some instinct had motivated her to pack in lighter boxes and bags. Of course, that meant she had to make a million trips up the stairs, and down the long hall to the bedroom where she’d slept as a girl.

      The whole upstairs brought on another niggling worry. Nothing was wrong, exactly. She’d been here last Christmas, and the Christmas before, and for quick summer weekends. But her visits had all been rushed. She’d had no reason or time to take an objective look at anything.

      Now … she couldn’t help but notice that the whole second floor smelled stale and musty. Each of the five bedrooms upstairs had a made-up bed, just as when her grandmother was alive. The three bathrooms had perfectly hung-up towels that matched their floor tile color. But her grandparents’ bedroom had the smell of a room that had been shut up and abandoned for months or more. Dust coated the varnished floor, and the curtains were heavy with it.

      There was nothing interesting about dust, of course. As soon as you cleaned, the dust bunnies under the bed reproduced—sometimes doubled—by morning. Ginger had never met a housekeeping chore she couldn’t postpone. It was just … a little dust was a different species than downright dirt.

      The whole place looked neglected.

      Gramps looked neglected.

      When the last bag had been hauled from the car, her childhood bedroom looked like a rummage sale, but enough was enough. She opened the windows, breathed in the fresh air then crashed on the peach bedspread. She was so tired she couldn’t think.

      She was so anxious she was afraid of thinking.

      In the past month, her entire life had fallen apart … which she had the bad, bad feeling she was entirely responsible for. She’d been bamboozled by a guy she’d lost her heart to, lost her job, shredded everything she owned to sublet her Chicago apartment, had a completely unexpected pregnancy that she had no way to afford or deal with … and then came the call for help from Gramps.

      She’d fix it all.

      She had to.

      And Gramps came first because … well, because she loved him. There was no question about her priorities. It was just that she was getting the terrorizing feeling that her grandfather’s problems weren’t coming from without, but from within.

      And if anyone was going to be able to give her a better picture of her grandfather’s situation, it was unfortunately—very, very, very unfortunately—his doctor.

       Chapter Two

      Still yawning, Ike lumbered downstairs barefoot with the dog at his heels. Pansy had woken him, wanted to be let out. He opened the back door, waited. Pansy stepped a foot outside, stopped dead, let out a howl and barreled back in the house.

      Ike peered out. There happened to be a snake in the driveway. A big one. A rat snake, nothing interesting.

      “You live in South Carolina,” he reminded Pansy. “You know about snakes. You just leave them alone. They don’t want to hurt you. Just don’t get in their way.”

      Pansy had heard this horseradish before. It hadn’t worked then, either. She continued to dog his footsteps, closer than glue, all the way into the kitchen.