There was nothing soothing about the quiet stillness. It allowed her mind to wander, to remember, to dwell on things she wanted to forget.
She remembered the desk under her hands. It felt worn, smoothed by time and the caresses of three generations of hands. She wondered if she would outlive the third like she'd outlived the other two.
When her husband had brought the desk into their home, she'd stared in horror. It was huge and ugly and she'd demanded he take it back, but he'd smiled that smile that made her knees weak and heart flutter in her chest and the desk had stayed. She smiled at the memory of their tiny son sitting under it playing with his toy airplanes, launching them from his father's feet and knees while he paid the bills and conducted business.
When he'd died, she wouldn't look at the desk. She'd shut the door to his study and didn't look at it again until her son had asked for it to put in his office. She'd given it to him gladly. His memories were better than hers. His grief had been for his wife. Yes, he'd grieved for his father but not in the way she did.
She ran her hands over the many dings and scratches the desk had collected over the years. The move to Tracy Island had been especially rough on it. Her son had apologized over and over for the damage and she'd smiled and said, "No problem. The desk is yours."
She touched each device her son had installed as International Rescue, his dream, his legacy, had taken shape. He'd given it a new purpose and she was proud.
Now he was gone and all that remained was the desk. Her oldest grandson occupied it now and she was fearful that he would be taken from her as well. She blinked back tears. Tears she fought against every time any of her grandsons left on a rescue.
Taking off her glasses, she wiped her eyes with a tissue. A quick swipe of the tissue across the lenses removed any evidence of her grief. Then she laid her head down burying her face in her arms imagining that she could smell Grant and Jeff. Whiskey and cigars. She was glad when Jeff had given them up. Grant never did. She never questioned the whiskey. Sometimes it was necessary.
A hand touched her shoulder and she looked up, blinking. It was dark. When had that happened? She stared at her oldest grandson in confusion. His expression was concerned.
"Grandma, are you okay?" He knelt down next to her. "I think the cookies burned…again."
She blushed and touched his hand. "I guess I lost track of time… Are they bad?"
Scott nodded. "Yeah. Do we have to eat them?"
"Oh, no, dear. Not this time."
"That's good because I threw them away."
"You did what?" She swatted his shoulder and then hugged him tightly, thankful that he'd come home again, all in one piece. "I forgive you…this time."