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grateful to be here. I told him that bitching and moaning that he was still alive was like killing Amy all over
again.
Dean swore. Jesus Christ. I love you son, but you can be a real dumbass some times.
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The back door opened and Brandon heard the electronic melody of the keypad being reprogrammed.
Keith came through the mudroom and into the kitchen. He took one look at the serious expression on
Brandon s face and said, What are we talking about in here?
Brandon shook his head. Nothing important. Just the fact that I m a dumbass.
Keith grinned. Well hell, I knew that.
Gale ignored him. We were talking about the situation with Nate.
Still no change?
Brandon turned to his brother. Not unless you count moving from the bed to the chair.
How are the cuts on his chest from the impact of the blast?
How the hell should I know, Keith? He can t stand to be touched.
Keith nodded. I know. Mother told me. That s why I brought someone with me who can help.
Grandma Taylor came out of the mudroom carrying a heavy brown shopping bag. Was that my cue?
Grandma, no offense, but what are you doing here? The last thing Nate needed right now was another
lecture on the joys of butt-sex from an eighty-three-year-old woman. The fact that she was wearing a
purple shirt-dress tied in the back with a giant pink bow did not bode well.
Abigail looked up at him with a patient smile. I know you all think I m dotty because I dress funny and
say the first thing that comes to mind. Well, tough. I m old and I can do whatever the hell I want to. Right
now, I want to see my new grandson, and I d like to see you try and stop me.
Grandma
Keith interrupted. Bran, just let her try, man. What have you got to loose?
Brandon thought of all he d already lost. Three weeks without Nate and he was in purgatory. He was
desperate enough to try anything. He nodded and led the way upstairs.
Sasha lay outside the door to the master bedroom. She missed Nate as much as Brandon did. For three
weeks, she d kept an almost constant vigil. She scratched and whined and begged, but Nate refused to
open the door. Like the rest of the world, he d shut her out.
Brandon opened the door without knocking, shooing Sasha out of the way as he went. It was just past
lunchtime on Sunday, but the bedroom was dark and stale. Nate had the shades pulled and the curtains
drawn. He was sitting in a chair with his back to the door, staring at the wall. Brandon could barely see
him, but his heart ached at just the sight of Nate s unruly tuft of blonde hair sticking up over the back of
the chair. He wanted to pull him out of the chair and hold him until he cried out all the bitterness and pain.
Instead, he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
* * *
Nate watched with detachment as Abigail made her way over to him and turned the room s other chair
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around until she was sitting next to him. She sat in silence for at least ten minutes. Finally, she said, Are
you planning on remodeling sometime soon? Personally, I think that s a fine wall. The way you re
studying it has me thinking you might be ready to tear it down with your bare hands.
Nate wanted to say something, anything to make her leave so he wouldn t have to think. It didn t hurt as
bad when he didn t think. When nothing came to mind, he kept his mouth shut and his eyes focused on
the wall.
He expected Abigail to try and force him to talk, the way Brandon kept doing, but she didn t. She
seemed to be having a conversation all on her own.
I ve always liked this house. Brandon s other grandmother, Emily, and I were friends long before she
married Ed Nash. Went to grammar school together. When she told me she and Ed were buying this
house from his father, I made her a quilt for this very room. Nothing fancy, just a simple Nine-patch
made with fabric I bought with my trading stamps, but she loved that old quilt. Still has it, too. She took it
with her when they moved to Florida. I don t really know why. The whole purpose of moving to Florida
is so you won t need a quilt in the first place. Nate could see her looking at him from the corner of his
eye, but he gave her no response. If he stayed quiet he could pretend he was alone and he wouldn t have
to feel anything.
He should have known Abby wasn t finished. Every bedroom needs a quilt. I mean a real one, not those
stamped monstrosities they sell in discount stores. I m talking about a quilt that s been cut and sewn by
flesh-and-blood hands, not a machine. Nate could hear the rustling of a paper sack and the unfolding of
cloth. Abby laid the bundle in his lap and said, I believe this belongs to you.
Nate stared at the familiar hues of gray and burgundy in disbelief. This looks just like my quilt, the one
my Grandmother Morris made for me.
No, honey. It doesn t look like your quilt. It is your quilt.
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