“Hush a minute, baby.”
“Whatever,” she murmured then finished, “Macho man, loopy.”
He wanted to smile at that, too.
He didn’t.
He looked both ways, led them across the street and to his Jeep. Once there, he turned her, pushed her into its side and closed in.
She blinked and looked around, got the wrong idea and her face changed as her eyes lifted to his.
“You know, we’re married now so I think it’s okay if you kiss me in public even if you’re in the mood to taste me,” she informed him. “Though I’ll also remind you that even when we weren’t married and just living in sin, you had no problem doing that, so this has got me a little confused.”
Raid lifted his hands to either side of her neck, bent deep and whispered, “Hold onto me.”
Her eyes moved over his face. She finally read it and he knew it when her body tensed. Without further hesitation, she lifted her hands and curled her fingers into his jacket.
“What’s happening?” she asked, her eyes now anxious, her voice holding a tremble.
“Honey…” he started then clipped, “fuck.”
She jerked his jacket out then in. “Raid—”
He slid his hands up to her jaw, got closer and laid it out fast, “Got a call from the visiting nurses. Fran went there this morning and found Miss Mildred passed away in the night.”
Pain seared through him as he watched that same pain blister over his wife’s expression leaving it stricken, pale and vulnerable.
And agonized.
Fuck yeah, he hated having to do this to her.
Hanna pushed through his hands and planted her face in his chest, her arms going tight around him.
Raid gathered her closer, bent his neck and whispered into the top her hair, “I’m so sorry, honey. I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”
She didn’t say anything.
But she did hold on tight, even as she started trembling.
“Mom’s comin’ to the café. We’re gonna get Clay and go home. She or I’ll stay with you and the other will go deal with shit,” he shared.
Hanna said nothing.
“I’ll call your folks when we figure out who’s doin’ what,” he continued.
Hanna still said nothing.
“Baby, look at me,” he urged.
She didn’t move.
Raid lifted a hand to her jaw, trying to force it away so he could see her face, but she pressed deeper into him so he stopped.
“Hanna—”
“He won’t remember,” she told his chest.
“What, honey?”
“Clay. He’s named after a man he’ll never meet and he’ll grow up and won’t remember that she told him the lightning story.”
Raid closed his eyes, wrapped his arm around her again and held her tight.
With no room to move, his wife still managed to burrow deeper.
“We can’t ever let him forget,” she said.
“We won’t let him forget,” Raid promised.
“We can never let him forget.”
“We’ll never let him forget.”
Hanna held on.
So did Raid.
Silence ensued.
His wife broke it.
“She thought you were the cat’s pajamas,” Hanna told him.
He fucking loved that.
But Raid said nothing.
“She also told me she thought you were the bee’s knees,” she continued.
He fucking loved that, too.
Raid again said nothing.
Finally, her voice broke when she whispered, “She was always right.”
Raid slid a hand into her hair and held her cheek close to his chest as she poured her grief into his sweater.
Through her tears, she shared, “This is okay. Even Grams would think being in your arms was an okay place for a Boudreaux to cry.”
Raid closed his eyes and kept holding tight.
When she quieted, he led his wife to his sister’s café and shared the miserable news with his family. His mother took off to deal with things, he got his son and Raid took his family home.
Though, at Hanna’s request, they made one stop.
He left his wife and son waiting in the Jeep while he went into Miss Mildred’s house to pick up Spot.
*
One month later…
Raid moved through the house to the front door.
He pulled it open and pushed out the storm door, stepped on the front porch, turned right and stopped dead.
There was Hanna. In a wool sweater, scarf wrapped around her neck, wide flannel headband holding her hair back, but wrapped over her ears keeping them warm. The rest of her was wrapped in his black cashmere afghan that she took off their bed. Their swaddled son, also under the throw, was lying asleep on her chest.
She was in her swing, one leg up and bent, one foot to the porch, swaying them.
His chest burned at the sight.
Her eyes came to his and she smiled.
His chest eased.
He walked her way and sat in the wicker chair closest to them.
“Sick of winter. I want my bike,” she informed him once he settled in.
“Time to plan a vacation to a beach,” he replied.
“A beach where they have places to rent bikes,” she amended, and he grinned.
He’d give her that.
He’d give Hanna Miller anything.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth and her lips tipped up.