Page 125 of The Bodyguard

“Grazed,” he corrected. As she had always reminded him, he reminded her, “The right word’s important.”

She laughed good-naturedly but covered her heart with her hand. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“I was trying my best to keep her safe.” He pointed his chin toward Angela.

“Looks like you succeeded.”

He rocked back on his heels. “Dinner smells great.”

“Chicken and potatoes. It won’t be ready for another thirty minutes, give or take. But Dad’s out in the garage. He could always use a hand.”

Regardless of what project Dad had going on, he always had a task for Sawyer to do, especially when Sawyer was at odds with himself.

Sawyer made a pit stop in his old bedroom and hooked an old football from a shelf. He gave it a squeeze. The ball hadn’t deflated much from the last time he’d been home. Tossing the ball to himself, he walked out the front door and followed the well-worn path to the old garage. A basketball rim hung without a net. He chucked the football toward the rim. The ball bounced off the backboard and shot to the side.

Dad stepped out. “I could use a hand.”

“That’s what I hear.” Sawyer retrieved the ball. “I’m ready for you to put me to work.”

They walked into the familiar space, with its scent of lawn clippings, motor oil, and wood projects. Tools lined the wall behind a tidy workspace. “What are we working on?” Sawyer asked.

“Your mother wants new shelves for the laundry room.”

“What’s wrong with the old shelves?”

“Exactly.” Dad chuckled. “But a happy wife is a happy life.” He pointed at the ten-foot lengths of white oak. There would be no particleboard in this man’s house, at least not as long as Dad was in charge of its creation. “Mark those for me. I want two five-foot shelves for over the washer and then five three-foot ones to line that little wall that juts out and serves no purpose other than to irritate your mother.”

Sawyer knew exactly the wall he was talking about.

They got to work in silence. Sawyer penciled off the wood. His dad cut them to size with the miter saw. They finished in notime and piled them to the side. “Tomorrow, you want to help me prime and paint them?”

Sawyer tossed the football again. “Nothing else I’d rather do.”

Angela popped her head inside the garage, holding Thelma close to her chest. “I’m supposed to tell you it’s time to wash up for dinner.”

“Thanks,” Dad called, and after Angela turned, he muttered under his breath, “Yup, bet there’s nothing else you’d rather do.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Angela had never told anyone to wash their hands before dinnertime, and her family had never eaten dinner together. She’d done both tonight, starting when Sawyer’s mother asked her to call the men to dinner with instructions to remind them to wash their hands. That made Angela laugh. Sawyer too.

When she was young, Angela ate mostly meals prepared by a nanny. As she grew old enough to take care of herself, she ate alone unless at a friend’s house.

It fascinated her how the Cabots fell into place when Susan said it was time to sit down. The meal was served family-style. Clearly, they were used to company, folding Angela into the serving, passing, and talking as though she were any other friend of Sawyer’s.

“There was this time in”—Susan paused to think back—“Sawyer was in eighth, ninth grade. I don’t know. But he and his best friend Jimmy had these inflatable wrestler guys. Nearly life-sized.”

Sawyer shook his head. “This whole night can’t be about me.”

Sam slapped the table. “Oh, I remember that—”

“He and Jimmy would blow these things up. Get all the kids in the halls chanting, ‘Fight, fight, fight.’”

“The teachers, the principal, they’d all run in, blowing whistles, breaking it up.”

Sam howled. “Old Mrs. Jessup had to be a hundred years old, throwing kids to the side to break up these fights.”

“You weren’t even there,” Sawyer pointed out, trying to keep a straight face.

---