and yard.
Painted white and accented with blue shutters, the old house looked cozy. A fitting place for Gladys Digby and her husband, Frank.
Rosebushes in need of pruning climbed a trellis at one corner of the house. A neat vegetable garden, plantings overgrown with weeds, sat to the side of the green lawn, which looked in need of mowing.
On their way to the house, she’d called the hospital. Frank had passed quietly away the night before. She hoped Mrs. Klein was with him and that they’d both be waiting for her to return with Gladys. Once she’d found her… and explained what had happened.
With Sam trailing behind her, Cait walked around the side of the house and entered beneath an arbor gate dripping with wisteria blossoms. Beyond the gate was a fantasy garden, filled with lilies and peonies, salvia and sweet peas.
Gladys Digby sat on a whitewashed iron bench, nodding in the sunshine. The oxygen tank she’d wheeled around the hospital was gone. So was the hospital gown. The old woman wore jeans and a pretty blue-flowered blouse tucked into the elasticized waist.
“Gladys?”
The woman’s white-haired head turned, a vague expression on her face. “Good morning.”
Cait hoped it wasn’t one of Gladys’s bad days. “Do you remember me?”
“You’re the girl from the hospital. Accident-prone. You arranged for that blond cutie to bring me home to my Frank. He nearly talked my ear off, and him not even able to see me.”
Cait hid a smile. She’d told Jason to keep talking while he drove “Miss Daisy” home. She hadn’t wanted the woman who’d died from complications related to her Alzheimer’s to get distracted and wander away before he could deposit her at her door.
“Don’t hover over me. Have a seat.” Gladys patted the bench beside her.
“What are you doing out here?” Cait said, sitting beside Gladys.
“Waiting for Frank and enjoying the butterflies.”
“Butterflies?” Cait glanced at the garden, just now noticing the small yellow butterflies, their buttery wings fluttering around red and orange blooms. She turned toward the woman. “Frank’s not coming, Gladys,” she said softly.
Gladys swallowed and blinked. Her rheumy, blue eyes filled with tears. “I wondered. The old fool left to buy groceries. Hasn’t been here for days. No one came. If they had, I wasn’t sure I could hitch a ride and find him. I don’t know where he is.”
Cait gave her a smile. “Mrs. Klein is with him. She’ll tell him to wait.”
“That old bat?” Gladys sniffed and squared her rounded shoulders. “She’d better not flirt with him.”
“She said to tell you hello. I think she missed you.”
“You’ll take me to him?” she asked, relief shining in her eyes.
“Of course.”
Gladys didn’t move; her arm made a sweep across the yard. “He planted all this for me. I have a black thumb.” Her gaze flitted to several spots among the bright blooms. “The man wasn’t much for pretty words, but there’s love in this garden.”
Cait felt her own eyes fill and followed the woman’s glance to the flowers with their bounty of pretty butterflies. “I have one just like that,” she whispered.
“You know,” Gladys said, leaning toward Cait, a mischievous smile spreading, “this house will go for a song.”
Cait blinked and looked around again. The house was small. But the yard was large. Big enough for herbal plantings. And blissfully free of the sound of the city. A nice place to raise children. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she murmured.
Gladys stood and walked toward the gate. She shot a glance behind her. “Don’t dawdle, girl. Frank’s waiting.”
Cait followed her, nearing Sam who’d stayed beside the gate. His own gaze took in the yard, eyeing the roof with the gutter filled with leaves and the cracked concrete on the back-porch stoop.
Cait leaned into Sam. “I have it on good authority this place will go for a song.”
Sam’s gaze jerked toward hers. “Someone matchmaking?”
“Wouldn’t have to buy any monarchs to release.”
As he slid an arm around her shoulders, Sam chuckled. “Caitydid Migelo will be disappointed—plain yellow butterflies.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve mentioned my deplorable lack of ability to write a poem before. Author Lacey Thorn gave me much- needed help crafting the “cleansing spell”—she’s truly talented!
And I couldn’t have raced through this book, keeping the momentum going, if I hadn’t had my dear friend Layla Chase following me to clean up all my “uglies.” She’s been my friend for nearly as long as I’ve been writing. I treasure you, Layla!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Delilah Devlin was born in Spokane, Washington, and spent her childhood as a US Air Force brat. As an adult, she rebelled and accepted a commission into the Army, the first of several careers that would take her around the world. She now makes her home in Arkansas and continues to travel. The award-winning author of several paranormal romance, erotic romance, and erotica novels, novellas, and short stories, she channels her interests in mythology, history, and the occult into her writing.
