Get them to agree to something small, then go in for the kill. She clapped her hands together and grinned. “Excellent. Now, let’s talk gingerbread.”
“—breaking down doors like some kinda hooligan,” Percy groused.
Ryan examined the door frame. Not as bad as it could’ve been, all things considered. “I thought you were in trouble.”
“Trouble? What the hell kind of trouble would I be in in my own house?”
Ryan didn’t point out that he’d fallen and could’ve broken a hip. That wasn’t a productive way to start that whole conversation. “My mistake. I’ll fix it. Do you have wood glue and some clamps?”
“In the garage.”
The garage was one step away from being an episode of Hoarders. It took Ryan nearly twenty minutes of searching around the stacks of boxes and jumble of tools before he found what he wanted. That in and of itself was a small miracle. Clearly, Percy needed help with some kind of clean out. If he fell out here, he might get buried under the detritus of…what the hell was all this stuff? Ryan peeked inside one of the boxes and found stacks of National Geographic.
Fire hazard.
Adding it to his mental list, Ryan went back inside to start repairs on the door.
“What the hell are you doing here boy?”
Checking up on you, old man. Not that he could say that. Mom had warned him that Percy had gotten paranoid, cranky, and distrustful of everybody. With none of his own
blood kin left—at least none who lived within five hundred miles or gave a damn—it had fallen to his adopted family to keep up with him and his failing health. The way she’d made it sound on the phone, Percy was at death’s door, so Ryan had moved heaven and earth to get here to check on him. He and the old man had always been tight, though their communication had been limited during this last tour in Afghanistan. Best he could tell, things weren’t near as dire as Mom had made it out to be, but Percy had aged ten years since his wife’s funeral two years ago. He was too thin, with deep shadows beneath his eyes, and he probably wasn’t eating properly, given his shaky state.
“I’m on leave.” And God help him if his CO found out Percy wasn’t technically family.
“Well, no shit, you’re here instead of there. Why?” He crossed his bony arms. “You got sent, didn’t you?”
There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with Percy’s brain. As confirming that fact would set his mission back even more than it already was, Ryan kept his focus on carefully running glue in the cracks of the door frame to buy himself some time. What excuse would Percy accept that wouldn’t have him trying to boot Ryan out as soon as this door was repaired?
“Well?”
“I couldn’t go home.”
“What’s that mean?”
Ryan tightened the clamps. “You know my mother. She’ll do the whole welcome the hero home, with a party and every blessed member of the extended family, and probably most of the neighborhood. I couldn’t face it.” And it was the truth. The very idea of coming up against all that with what he’d been dealing with overseas made his head ache. Hell, last week he’d been clearing out a terrorist cell. He wasn’t up to playing that kind of mental whiplash, and he figured Percy—an Army veteran himself—would understand.
The old man grunted. “Your mama know you’re stateside?”
“Yes, sir.” He carefully scraped away the excess glue.
“Isn’t she expecting you?”
“Not yet. I told her I was gonna visit some friends.”
“And you’re here.”
Ryan arched a brow. “You’re a friend, last I checked.”
“Hmph. Reckon so. How ’bout you go shower and scrape a few layers of that bush off your face? Looks like you haven’t had a chance to do it for a while.”
“True enough.” He pushed the door as far closed as he could get it with the clamps and nudged a chair in front to hold it in place. “This ought to be dry enough to shut in an hour or so. Let me drape a blanket or something to keep the cold air out as well as we can. I think I saw one in the garage.”
Ryan rigged up the covering without commentary from the peanut gallery, then scooped up his bag and headed upstairs.
“Guest room is first door on the right.”
“Thanks.”