“I saw her at Finley’s Market, stocking those amazing blondies of hers, and we got to talking about the article. I told her what he used to love listening to, and she put a small selection of music together so we could try it out. I can’t believe the difference. The first day, the changes were small. He was more alert, like on one of his better days. But today, when his irritation kicked in around noon, I turned on the music, and, you’re not going to believe this, but he calmed right down and started singing along.”
“Singing?” Trace looked at his grandmother in disbelief. His father used to sing all the time when Trace had been a kid, but he hadn’t heard one note from him since his mother got sick. “Are you sure you were in the right house?”
Gram laughed. “I know. I could barely believe it.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “Lord, it was so wonderful to hear that lovely voice of his again. And his mood stays up for at least two hours. It’s truly miraculous.”
A tiny spark of hope burned in the back of Trace’s mind. Anything that helped his dad feel better was a blessing. Because when Dad was happy, life was easier and happier for all of them. “I’ll say.”
“I’m going to talk to Avery about adding songs or making another mix. Try it out with him tomorrow night. It might make your life easier.”
“I will.”
“But you need a long-term plan, Trace. You and your brother have demanding careers, and you should both be working on building families by now, not juggling your father like a hot potato.”
His lips twitched into a grin as he turned onto one of the many quaint residential streets in Wildwood, but the emotion behind it was dry and dark. A family was the furthest thing from Trace’s mind. Once upon a time, before his life had gone to shit, yeah, he’d wanted it all—the wife, the kids, the business. Now he just wanted to drag himself out of this hole, stop making ends meet with grunt work for other contractors, and get his own business back on its feet.
“You’ll have better luck getting great grandkids out of Zane.”
“Hardly.”
Trace chuckled.
“I’m serious, Trace. Are you seeing anybody?”
His mind turned to Avery. “Nope.”
“What about Avery? You two get along so well, and she’s the prettiest, sweetest little thing. Phoebe says she’s dated some, but she isn’t seeing anyone seriously. And she can cook.”
Trace groaned, turning into the driveway of his grandmother’s cottage. He didn’t need anyone pushing him toward Avery. Working with her so closely since she’d returned home, he knew exactly who she’d been dating and how often, and he kept hoping one of those guys would stick so he could cut her out of his thoughts.
“She’s also almost a decade younger,” he said.
“Eight years,” Gram countered. “And at your age, that doesn’t matter.”
“She’s also freshly divorced with her freedom at her fingertips. She deserves someone far better than me.”
He reached for the keys to shut down the engine and got a stinging slap on the forearm from his grandmother.
He smirked at her. “That is no way to treat the grandson who drove you home.”
“It’s the way to treat a grandson acting like an idiot.”
“If that were the case, you’d have to be slapping me constantly.”
“That can be arranged.”
He laughed and opened the door.
“Don’t get out,” she said, her voice filled with frustration. “I can still climb from a truck.”
“Not from my truck you can’t. Stay put.”
“That’s no way to talk to your grandmother. And Avery may be freshly divorced, but from the way Phoebe tells it, she hasn’t lived like a married woman in years.”
He so didn’t need to hear that.
“Gram, drop it.” He shut his door and rounded the front to open hers, already imitating her voice with, “Don’t you close the door on me when I’m talkin’ to you, Trace Benjamin. I oughta whoop your hide.”
She smacked his arm again. “Smart-ass.”