Silas sticks his hand out, with the crepe-thin skin and veins that are so clearly visible underneath, the misshapen knuckles, age spots, and skin stretched so tight that it seems to glisten. His hand, his word, and his trust. He’s pouring all the love he has for his great-granddaughter into that handshake. He’s trusting me—really, I have no idea why, but he is—to be a man of my word. No contracts. Just words. And a handshake.
Who says a handshake isn’t worth anything anymore?
Certainly not me.
I have no clue what I’m getting myself into, but now I’m not just after the car. I’m genuinely curious, and I feel bad for this old man with a heart so big that he’d do anything to keep his family safe when he’s not here. It kind of gets a person straight in the feels, to use a ridiculous saying I keep seeing all over the place now. I’m not usually young enough or cool enough to use it, but there you have it.
I stretch out my hand and slowly, gently shake Silas’s for the second time today.
After our handshake, Silas gestures at the tea. “Well, drink up!”
And I do, with the thick, scary, slightly scaly skin on top of the brew and all.
CHAPTER 3
Esme
I have to say I can’t totally hate it when my Pappy S tries to look out for me. He’s my great-grandpa, and for as long as I can remember, he’s been my favorite human being in the whole wide world. Full disclosure: I don’t really like people that much, but still. If there were a long lineup, Pappy S would be at the front of it. Each and every time.
He’s had his fair share of schemes and scams in the past to try and get me, let’s say, connected with someone in a romantic way, but I thought he’d given up on that for good. I’m not totally sure that his phone call yesterday—talking about how he had to rent out a room in the house because he suddenly needs money to hire another nurse—is legitimate.
Pappy S doesn’t have any money problems that I know of. Then again, if he were having some trouble, he probably wouldn’t tell me because he wouldn’t want me to worry. And maybe he does need another nurse. He’s ninety-two, and my parents insisted on it when he refused to go into a care home. I couldn’t imagine my Pappy S in a care home. I know he’d probably settle into it and enjoy it eventually—raise tons of hell and get everyone to love him because that’s just how he is—but I also know he’d really miss the sense of independence and freedom he values so highly.
Pappy S leaving his own house was bad enough, and he only did it because I was willing to move in and look after it for him. The house is basically on the edge of the city. Forty years ago, it was in the middle of nowhere, but then, gradually, the city grew and grew and spread and made its way out here until it engulfed the house. He sold off most of the land, but even still, the house is about two minutes away from any other houses and a good five minutes drive to the edge of the city where the stores start. It might not sound like much, but in California, it’s a heck of a lot.
Pappy S only left the house because my parents felt like he needed to be in the city, closer to everything, and have a nurse. I know for a fact that the nurse only comes around once a day to check on him because he kind of let it slip to me, but of course, my lips are always sealed. I wanted Pappy S to stay in the house. I even offered to move in and take care of him, but he flat out refused, saying he didn’t want to be a burden. I think it was more like he couldn’t handle a roommate after living on his own for the past twenty-five years, not even me.
Also, he probably wanted to appease my parents. They wouldn’t have stopped worrying and checking in if I had been here alone, just me looking after Pappy S by myself. I think he would have handled it for only a few bare minutes before he snapped. So, for everyone’s sanity, putting me in the house and moving to a much smaller place in the city where he could fake getting looked after was the best solution overall, at least in his mind.
I have to say it’s been pretty good the past year as I’ve taken on more rescues. Even though it’s what my parents think, I won’t say I collect animals because it’s more like lost souls find their way to me. Maybe I’m a bit of a lost soul, too, so we find our way to each other. I don’t want to think I’m anyone’s savior, just more like a sister from a different mister. And also species, but that’s just semantics. Besides, I have more room for crafting out here too, which has really helped my sanity and business. Doing this for a living gets pretty messy, which is why most normal, crafty people have a specific room dedicated to our work. It’s more to contain the mess than it is to actually craft in.