Tara Quinn - Wife by Design

They weren’t talking about landscaping. Or jobs.

“Of course not.”

“I didn’t think so.” His expression serious, he moved farther into the garden, with occasional glances back toward where they’d come.

“You can go get him,” Lynn said, understanding the burden of being solely responsible for the welfare of another human being—the senses that had to be tuned in every hour of every day, whether you were physically with that person or not.

Grant shook his head. “No, as much as I’d like to, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“For the first time in longer than I can remember, Darin reached out for freedom today. It makes me nervous, but from what I’m told, he has to form some kind of life for himself or risk falling into a depression that could eventually kill him.”

And she only had to watch over Kara while she grew up and could take responsibility for herself....

“He moved his arm a little bit ago.” Grant’s tone reminded her of Brandon when he’d called her in between her university classes to tell her he’d seen Kara take her first step. “He’s only had six days of therapy and already there’s improvement.”

“That’s great!” she said, meaning it. “I expected it to take a couple of weeks, at least, before there was any noticeable change.”

“Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t much. Just an inch or so. But I saw it with my own eyes. He moved his arm.”

“I’m not surprised, Grant,” she said when he started to sound defensive. “Darin’s determined. And the damage the surgery did was to a portion of the brain that is retrainable, as you know. I’m just surprised at the speed with which we’ve seen progress!”

“That’s my brother for you. Once he’s made his mind up about something, there’s no going back.”

The way he was looking at her seemed to be sending some kind of personal message—beyond the perfectly circumspect conversation they were having. Had Grant made up his mind about something, too?

Something to do with her?

And him?

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I REMEMBER WHEN Darin decided he was going to play ball for the high school team.” Grant was heading for the middle of the garden, and Lynn kept pace beside him, trying to follow his conversation while she recovered her breath and wondered if she’d imagined the double meaning behind his words. “He’d been a star in Little League. I’d gone to all his games. But his high school...they had guys playing for them that were expected to go straight to Triple-A. That didn’t stop Darin, though. He wasn’t just going to play ball, he was going to play first base. I didn’t doubt him for a second.”

“You two were close growing up.” She had herself fully back in control.

“Yeah.”

“That’s kind of unusual, given your age difference.” They’d reached the gazebo and were standing inside of it. Out of the setting sun. Glad that she’d brought her sweater with her, Lynn rubbed her arms to stave off the chill of the February evening air.

She tried not to notice the way Grant Bishop’s jeans fit thighs that were proportioned perfectly enough to be etched in stone and gawked at for eternity.

Or to be aware of the fact that they were in the private gazebo all alone.

“Our father was an officer with the LAPD, killed in the line of duty when I was eight,” Grant said, and somehow they were sitting together on a bench of one of the three wooden picnic tables set in the gazebo. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, his work gloves on his thigh, as he sat with his back to the table, facing the direction of the park across the commons. She was facing out, as well, with several inches between them.

“Darin was fourteen at the time. Somewhere along the way someone told him he was the man of the house, and he took his responsibility seriously.”

“Was this before or after his resolve to try out for high school baseball?”

She could see the writing on the wall. Darin giving up his dreams to care for his little brother...and after Darin’s accident, Grant returning the favor for the rest of his life.

“Dad was killed the summer before Darin started high school.”

“So he didn’t have a chance to make the team?”

“He made the team. As a freshman. And by the time he was a junior he was starting at first. I’m telling you, my brother has what it takes to get it done.”

Considering the Bishop brothers’ current circumstances, the near–hero worship choked her up.

“You’re a lot like him.” Softly, she told him what she was thinking. His gaze met hers again. And held. Long enough for her to read the appreciation in his eyes.

Her comment had been personal.

But so was the connection between them.

And while she wasn’t married anymore, she wasn’t any more open to a romantic relationship between them than she’d been four years before.

Everyone had their gift to give the world, their own particular difference to make. Hers was here. With these women. And raising Kara.

Their life was unusual. And didn’t leave room for another personal partnership.

“I’m not like him,” Grant was saying, while Lynn, suffering from a heavy dose of sexual attraction, busily disavowed herself of a relationship he hadn’t offered. “He was able to do it all and stay kind and considerate. I get irritable just keeping up my half.”

“He had help. Your mother was there to help shoulder the responsibility of raising you. And, based on normal childhood development, you got more independent every year, too.”

He was facing a life sentence without parole. Not that she’d ever tell him so. He didn’t need her reminding him of the burden he’d undertaken.

But as a medical professional, she was completely aware of it. And knew all about the stresses common to family members of terminally ill or injured patients.

She admired those family members so much—admired their ability to face the burden that had been given to their loved one—and consequently to them.

Grant was shaking his head.

“Our mother died of a rare form of leukemia when I was a junior in high school. Grant was married by then, and he and Shelley took me in and not only gave me a home, they helped put me through college.”

Her heart caught again. “I’m sorry. I had no idea....”

She felt as if she had to do something. To help somehow. More than just as a facilitator of Darin’s therapy at The Lemonade Stand.

Except that his problems weren’t hers.

With his elbows leaning on his knees, Grant’s gaze was pointed out toward the direction they’d come―across the grassy expanse. She had a feeling that the second his brother appeared, he’d be up and out of there, shooting across the yard like a torpedo.

“You know, through all of that, I can only remember my brother losing his temper twice.”

Curious, she glanced at him. “When?”

“The first time was the one time I came home drunk. He half carried me to the bathroom and stood there while I threw up. He handed me an aspirin and stood over me while I drank it down. And then he put me to bed, all without saying a word or offering an ounce of sympathy. The next morning, in a very cold voice he let me know that he was not going to ask his wife to live with a young man who was so selfish, immature and weak as to lose control of himself to that extent. That’s all he said, but I knew he’d given me warning. If I ever came home drunk again, I would have to find another place to live.”

A bit extreme, maybe. For a first drinking experience.

And yet...

“I’m guessing you never came home drunk again.”

“More to the point, I never got drunk again. At least, not until I was of age and in my own living room.”