Courting Death - Carol Stephenson [55]
In the days before the grayness had descended over her, it had been Mom’s tradition to cook breakfast on Sundays. Eggs, bacon, French toast, pancakes, crepes. Whatever mood she was in, that’s what she would cook. However, the first time I had found a burnt pan smoking on the stove and Mom in the living room staring blankly out the window, I’d put a kibosh on her cooking.
Now looking at the sheer joy on her face, I wondered if I kept her wrapped needlessly in a batting of protection. Sam switched his watchful gaze to the door and gave me a broad wink before resuming his vigilance. Was I being too quick to ban activities because I was too busy, too impatient to give my mother room to be normal during her lucid periods?
I walked over, bent my head and kissed her cheek. Mom started and gave me a guilty look. She was cognizant today. Good. I gave a big smile to let her know everything was all right. “Smells great.”
“When I found your big, strapping man sleeping on the sofa, I figured he could use a good breakfast.”
“You would be right, ma’am,” Sam drawled.
I rolled my eyes, grabbed a mug and poured coffee. I took a cautious sip—Mom often equated a tablespoon to a cup. I gave an audible sigh. The brew was strong but drinkable. Sam grinned. “I made the coffee, Red.”
I mouthed the words thank you.
“By the way, your sister wins the early bird contest. She grabbed a quick cup to go and said she had to get to the office. Something about a ton of research.” Speculation gleamed in his eyes.
“One of the rude awakenings, I’m afraid.” I leaned against the counter. “It’s not all lively court scenes like on television.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mom hesitate with a tong full of bacon, as if she didn’t know what to do next. I took a plate from the three stacked on the counter and slid it toward her.
“Thanks, honey.” With renewed confidence she transferred the food, and I carried the plates to the table. Once she sat down, I gave the stove a quick survey to make sure all the burners were turned off.
We sat in companionable silence until Sam polished off the last bit of food from his plate. “Annette, that was delicious. You sure scramble a mean egg.”
My mother gave him the smile that used to light up the stage. “Thank you. I always did love cooking for men.” She gave me a sly look. “I keep telling my daughter that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
He reached out, gently took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Mine already belongs to you.” Mom blushed and giggled like a young girl.
I about had to scrape my jaw off the table. As it was, I had to clear my throat. “Did you sleep all right, Sam?”
“Not at first. I kept feeling something hard stabbing me in the back until I turned on the light and found this.” He fished in his jeans’ pocket and pulled out my camera.
I stared at it. I had totally forgotten about the photos I’d taken.
Mom clapped her hands together. “Let me take a picture of you two together.”
“I’ve a better idea. Let me take one of the two prettiest women I know.”
She scooted close to me and I put my arm around her too thin shoulders. “Smile, darling.”
After the flash went off, I held out my hand. “I’d like to download these onto my computer before I leave. Something I want to check out.”
Sam handed over the camera. “That’s the slickest way of getting out of clean-up detail I’ve seen.”
Glancing at my watch, I grimaced. By the time the dishes were loaded in the washer…
“Go.” He laughed. “I think I can handle these.”
I hurried into the sunroom where I had left my laptop. After quickly booting up, I connected the camera and imported the photos. I switched to a slideshow view and watched the crowd shots slowly scroll by.
There. I hit Pause and stared. His face was a bit