The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [82]
“Um,” she got out. So much easier to smile back at him than to put words together. Why be coherent when you could just stare? She felt a flooding self-consciousness, and at the same time, extreme excitement. “Have you come to see Charlie?” she asked eventually.
“I have,” he said, as if just remembering. “Hello.”
“Hello.”
“I’m Oliver.” He put out his hand—the tenderest gesture. She almost took it, she was so looking forward to touching him, when she heard what he’d said.
“You are? You’re Oliver?” She backed up, backed away. “Oh. Come in. Hi. I’m, um . . .” She thought she’d been inarticulate before. “Charlie’s just, um . . .”
Coming out of the bathroom, looking distracted. When he saw his grandson, he stopped dead, virtually froze where he stood. Molly had never seen such a vivid illustration of guilt. “Ha!” he exclaimed; a greeting. “What are you doing here?”
Oliver said something about taxes, a form to sign. He looked at Molly. He looked at Charlie.
“Did you meet?” Charlie said, moving again. “This is, this is ...”
Molly . said, “I’m, um, I’m . . .”
“Crystal,” Charlie said. “This is Crystal.”
“With a K,” Molly decided for some reason.
“Oh,” Charlie said, surprised. Then he said, “Smith,” at the same moment she said, “Jones.”
“Krystal Smith-Jones,” they announced in unison.
After that, it got worse.
“Krystal’s a Jehovah’s Witness.”
“No, I’m not! Oh, Charlie. He’s such a kidder.” Just then she remembered the crystal ball, in plain sight on the coffee table. She sidled around Charlie, pretended to look for something in her purse, which lay on the sofa.
“Yeah, just kidding,” Charlie said, moving sideways to put himself between her and Oliver. “She sells time shares.”
“Ha-ha! No, I don’t.” She got the crystal ball in the bowling bag and zipped it up so fast, she broke a nail. If Charlie had been the picture of guilt, the zzzzzzt of the bag closing was the sound of it. But at least it gave her an idea. “I’m a therapist,” she turned around to say. “Physical. Physical therapist. Charlie didn’t want you to know, Mr. Worth, but he . . .” She blanked.
“I have . . .” Charlie prodded.
“He has . . .”
By now Oliver had folded his arms. She barely recognized him. All the warmth was gone, along with that strange, uncanny look of—recognition. Nothing in his face now but growing consternation. “Charlie has what? I wonder,” he said coolly.
“He has a strain in the C7 lumbar vertebra.”
“The old C7,” Charlie said mournfully, rubbing the back of his neck.
Time to go, Molly decided.
“Nice meeting you,” she told Oliver, who didn’t answer. So she didn’t hold out her hand to shake, but she thought of how much she’d wanted to—when? Three minutes ago? A lifetime.
Charlie followed her to the door. “Thanks for the treatment. That’s quite a . . . device,” he said, indicating the bowling bag she was trying to hide under her arm. “I feel a lot better, Krystal. Not cured, though—probably need at least one more adjustment. There’s a thing here next Saturday—maybe you’d like to come?”
“A thing,” she repeated. Oliver, who was leaning against the wall beside a shelf full of horse statues, a collection of some sort, didn’t even pretend not to listen.
“Yeah, Heart Attack Day or some damn thing. Picnic, entertainment. Last year they had a ukulele quartet, nobody in it under eighty. You wanna come?”
“Oh, gosh, I don’t think I . . .” Moving to put himself between her and Oliver, Charlie made an urgent face by bulging his eyes and opening his mouth so wide she could see his fillings. “Ahhh,” she changed her answer, “let me check my calendar. I’ll get back to you.”
“Sounds like fun. Can I come, too?”
Charlie looked surprised, but not nearly as confounded by this from Oliver—whose innocent-looking