Twisted Creek

Chapter 29

I walked inside with the feel of Luke still on my mouth. Much as I hated to admit it, he was right. Deep down I did already know him. I think I had from the first. But I’d fallen enough times that I’d learned not to trust.

I grabbed the ledger book I’d come down for twenty minutes ago and went back upstairs. I curled up by the window and began to draw the Nesters sitting around the stove. Everyone had slicked back wet hair, except Mary Lynn. Hers, long and curly, tumbled around her face and down her back, tiny ebony rivers of curls.

When I drew Paul, I drew him staring at Mary Lynn.

Dillon didn’t look so tough. I drew him huddled by the fire with one of Nana’s mother’s old quilts wrapped around him. He’d put on a pretty good act when he’d been with his father, but now my sketching reminded me of how young he was.

Timothy, though four years older than Dillon, was smaller in build. He’d fought hard to save the kid. I hadn’t heard Dillon thank him.

I drew Timothy with his legs stretched out toward the stove. He looked as thin as ever, only his eyes didn’t seem as sad. He’d saved someone’s life tonight. Maybe there was no need for Dillon to thank him. The satisfaction on Tim’s face may have been enough for him.

I flipped the page and drew Luke leaning against the side of the store, his arms crossed, his eyes closed. The shadows across him kept me from filling in details and I wondered if it were me or the knowledge of how little I knew about him that kept the drawing from looking finished.

Nana brushed my shoulder.

I looked up and smiled. “I thought you’d already gone to bed.”

“I did, but I got to thinking.” She brushed my hair back over my ear. “Tomorrow would you watch me and write down how I make the cinnamon rolls?”

“Sure.”

She patted my arm three times and turned back to her bed. I wanted to ask her if she wanted to make sure I learned the recipe in case she died. But I knew why she asked. She knew she was forgetting things. Cooking was a part of who she was and Nana knew that memory was slipping away.

Part of me wanted to run and crawl in bed with her like I used to do on cold mornings after I heard my grandfather leave. I wanted to hold her and tell her everything was going to be fine. Everything would stay the same.

But I couldn’t lie. And I couldn’t frighten her more with the truth. If she thought writing down her recipes would hold the memories, then I’d write them all down.