Nashville, TN.
Present Day
Four years of college and she was back to juggling plates? This was not how she pictured her life at twenty-seven. Kieran swung a purse over her shoulder and made for the diner’s rear door. “Can you use me on the breakfast shift, Ash? I need some hours.”
Her friend, the owner and manager, hefted a stack of plates into a bin. “You practically live over at SeniorCo. Don’t they pay you for all your work there?”
When the funding allows. “They’ll sort it out, but for now—”
“Of course. We can give you a few hours tomorrow, but I’ve got some
new girls coming in for the lunch rush.”
Her husband, Nick, lifted a basket of shrimp from the fryer and gave it a quick shake. “Heading out already? Got a hot date or something?”
“You bet. With a handsome hero. Navy SEAL.” Kieran edged past the prep tables, careful not to bump the salad fixings on her way out.
“Haven’t you finished reading that military novel yet?” Ash wrinkled her nose. “You know I’m next in line. I’ve been done with book one for a week. How long are you going to make me wait?”
Nick grinned as he scooped the fried shrimp onto a serving platter. “I should have guessed. You don’t strike me as the type to hang out with sailors. Now, army? Those are the heroes.”
“We all know you are, at least.” Kieran patted his arm as she passed.
Nick had done two tours in Afghanistan, and Ashleigh had been relieved when he’d finally left active duty. Opening the Gray Gull had been the culmination of a lifelong dream. All seafood, all the time. It didn’t matter that the closest beach was a seven-hour drive from Nashville.
Ash clucked her tongue. “SEAL, Green Beret—does it matter? As long as he’s got muscles and a sweet smile.” She winked at her husband.
Kieran hid a laugh as she waved to her friends and ducked out into the fresh night air, away from the lingering odor of fish and fries. As long as said hero was safely ensconced in the pages of a novel, she was happy.
That was how she liked her men—imaginary. Those were the fellows you could trust.
Parking her ancient Volvo outside of Sycamore Terrace Senior Living, Kieran took a moment to gather herself. Would Gran be awake this late? She checked her phone to find five messages from desperate families who’d searched SeniorCo’s website for information on emergency housing,
finances, and Medicaid. She’d be up late tonight reading through their questions and helping to find placements for their loved ones. If only there were enough affordable options for everyone. The problem
tugged at her heart. No one’s mother, father, or grandparent deserved to be on the street. A community that didn’t care for the most fragile among them had no right to be called a community.
But first, her own gran needed her.
Kieran retrieved her knitting bag off of a heaping laundry basket in her back seat and tucked it under her arm. The half-finished sweater was a disaster, as always, but Granny Mac would save it.
She locked the car and hurried inside the squat brick building, barely pausing to wave at the night nurse and scoop up a visitor’s badge from the front desk.
Gran dozed in her chair, the throw blanket on her lap a swirl of orange, purple, pink, and blue, like the darkening sky outside the window of her small apartment.
Kieran studied the tiny woman, so peaceful in sleep, such a powerhouse when awake. Kieran brushed her arm. “Gran? Can I help you get into bed?”
Granny Mac’s eyes fluttered. “What? No. I wasn’t sleeping.” Her fingers clutched the throw. “I was knitting. See? Almost done.” Her brows pulled tight as she rumpled the afghan. “I must have dropped
my needles. Where did they get to? I don’t want to lose any stitches.”
She’d probably owned the blanket for decades, but Kieran knew better than to point it out. “Don’t worry, Gran. We’ll find them.” Pulling a stool close, Kieran sat next to her and patted her hand. “I’m happy to see you.”
Gran’s brown eyes clouded. “I’m sorry, dear, but I don’t . . .”
“It’s Kieran. Michael’s daughter.” Saying her father’s name always left a bad taste in her mouth. He was nothing but the flimsy thread linking her to this wonderful woman, and his choices had left Kieran
as lost as a dropped stitch.
“Mike’s—” Her lip quivered. “Of course you are. You look so much like my mother. Have I told you about her?”
“Some.” Kieran reached for the half-full coffee cup sitting on the end table. “Would you like me to pop this in the microwave?”
Gran frowned, her pinched face reminding Kieran of a cotton shirt that had been crumpled at the bottom of a drawer for too long. “No, ghastly stuff. There’s some blackberry tea on the counter. I love that blend. It tastes like the mountains—”
“—especially if you add honey.” Kieran finished the words as she headed for the tiny kitchen. They’d need to move Gran to the memory-care wing soon. She really shouldn’t have access to a stove.
“How’s work, sweetie?” Gran leaned back in the chair. “What is it you do again?”
Kieran smiled. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that.” She’d tried explaining her life to her grandmother before, but it never stuck.
“So long as it keeps a roof over your head.” Gran dug into the seat cushion beside her, apparently still looking for the knitting needles.
If only. Kieran found the tea-bags and retrieved the honey from the cupboard. Few things brought Granny Mac joy like the sweet tastes of her mountain home, though how her grandmother could identify the difference between Appalachian honey and store-bought made little
sense to Kieran. After filling their cups, Kieran returned to the chairs and settled in, exhaustion dragging at every muscle. She needed sleep, but she hungered for this connection even more than a little shut-eye. Gran’s stories helped fill the holes left from Kieran’s fractured childhood.
“You look so much like my mother, dear.” Gran repeated the words as she took a sip of the tea. “Have I told you about her?”
Kieran rested her head against the upholstered seat, fighting to keep her eyes open. What was once more? “Tell me.”
“I used to love listening to her and Papa talking late into the night on our front porch. Sometimes I was already tucked into bed up in the loft, and I’d fall asleep to that gentle sound. Then I’d awaken to her
singing as she cooked breakfast. Papa said she was like a bird, always a song on her lips.”
“This was in the Smokies?”
Gran nodded, a faint smile touching her face. “She had a little stone bird she kept in her apron pocket too. I think it had belonged to her Cherokee great-grandmother. She used to let me hold it.” She stared
down at her own knobby knuckles, as if seeing them for the first time. “Wish I still had it. I could pass it on to you.”
“What happened to it?” It wasn’t unusual for items to go missing when someone went into a care facility. It was one of the issues she dealt with in senior services.
A frown darkened Gran’s face. “Where did those needles go? I’ve got to get this blanket finished.”
Kieran reached for her bag. Sometimes it was better to let the memories scatter like autumn leaves, falling wherever the wind took them. Demanding answers only made Gran anxious. “I brought the sweater I’m working on. I hoped you could help me. It’s a bit of a mess.” She pulled the misshapen object from her bag. Together they’d knitted and reknitted it several times. It was less about finishing a project and more about providing Gran an anchor while they talked.
Gran drew it into her lap. “You’re pulling the stitches too tight again. Relax your hands while you’re knitting—don’t strangle the needles. The joy happens in the open spaces between the loops. Otherwise you’ll get a solid wall of fabric instead of a supple, cozy piece.” She demonstrated a few stitches. “A well-made sweater is like wearing a hug from someone you love, not a piece of armor to protect you from the world.”
The words wove through Kieran’s heart. “You make it sound so lovely, Gran.”
“It had ought to be lovely, darling.” She lifted the blanket from her knees and held it out, the folds opening to cascade down to her feet. “I made this’n for my mother.” Her brows drew together. “Wait. That’s not right. No, I made it about my mother.”
“What do you mean?” Kieran set down her own knitting to touch the soft wool throw, the years causing the yarn to pill. Blue and violet blended into pink and orange.
“It was the view as the sun climbed up over the ridge and spilled into the holler each morning.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Of course it already belonged to the park at that point.”
“But you still lived there?”
“The government made Ma sign a paper saying she could live there until she died.” Her eyes filled, tears coming more easily these days. “We thought we’d have more time.” She dug a handkerchief from the
pocket of her flowered housecoat. “Everyone thinks they’ve got all the time in the world, but that’s not how it works. The world takes you when it will—when God wills. He knows best.”
Kieran stilled, the thought creeping over her like a shadow. She’d only found Gran a few years ago, finally pulling together a semblance of family from the broken shards of her own childhood. If God wanted her grandmother, He’d have to get through Kieran first. “What happened to her?”
“They’d only get the land if she died. It’s what they wanted all along.” Gran glanced toward the window, as if the answers lay outside in the fading evening light.
“What are you saying?” Kieran tucked the blanket around Gran’s knees. “It isn’t as if the government killed her, right?”
“Her stone bird’s still on the ridge. Rosie’s Ridge, Pa called it.” She pulled in a quick sob, covering her mouth and rocking in the seat. “I wish I had it. I could give it to you. You’ve been so good to me.”
“Gran.” Kieran grabbed her hands and planted a quick kiss on her fingers. “You don’t need to give me anything. It’s been wonderful just to have you in my life these past few years. You’re the family I never had.”
“The land, the ridge. It’s still there, right?” Her wide eyes sought Kieran’s.
“Of course it is. It’s part of Great Smoky Mountains National Park now. Protected for all time. Rosie’s Ridge is safe.”
Gran struggled to rise. “You ought to go get it. It belongs to you.”
“The ridge? No—Gran, it doesn’t.” Kieran jumped to her feet, the perpetually half-finished sweater tumbling to the floor as she steadied her grandmother. Don’t argue with dementia. Wasn’t that what she told her clients’ families? “Let’s get you to bed. It’s late. We can talk about it tomorrow.”
“Kieran, loosen up those stitches. You hold everything too tight. Tension’s no good.”
Tension never helped, especially with memory issues. The joy happened in the open spaces, as Gran said. “I will. I promise.”
As they walked toward the bed, Gran took Kieran’s arm. “‘If a bird wants to fly free, first it has to release the branch.’ That’s what my ma used to say. You can’t do that if you squeeze too tight.”
After she settled her grandmother into bed, Kieran used the cramped bathroom to change her clothes and wash away as much of the parfum de fried fish as she could manage. Back in the car, she plugged her phone in to charge as she drove across town, looking for a good place to park for the night. Maybe she could sneak in a few minutes of reading before falling asleep in the passenger seat.
It had been four days since she’d been evicted from her apartment. Kieran knew every loophole available to secure housing for at-risk seniors, but finding an affordable one-bedroom in Nashville if you weren’t on Social Security? Completely out of reach.
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