River’s End

you want to recommend a trail, or should I just pick one at random?”
    “You want to hike?” Oh, she’d give him a hike, Olivia thought. She’d give him one for the books. “That’s fine, that’s just what we’re here for. Make the reservation out at the desk. Just give them my name and book it for seven tomorrow.”
    “That would be a.m.?”
    “Is that a problem, city boy?”
    “No, just clarifying.” He eased off the desk and found himself a great deal closer to her than was comfortable for either of them. She smelled the same. For several dizzy minutes, it was all he could think about.
    She smelled the same.
    He felt the tug, the definite, unmistakable jerk in the gut of basic lust. And though he told himself not to do it, his gaze lowered to her mouth just long enough to make him remember.
    “Well, hmmm.” He thought the reaction damn inconvenient all around and stepped aside. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
    “Be sure to take one of our hiker’s guides along with you, so you know how to dress for the trail.”
    “I know how the hell to dress,” he muttered, and more annoyed with himself than he thought was fair, he strode out.
    She made him feel guilty one minute, he thought, and angry the next. Protective, then aggressive. He damn well didn’t want to be attracted to her again and add one more layer to cloud the issue.
    He stopped by reception as instructed and booked the time. The clerk tapped out the information on her keyboard and offered him a cheery smile. “If I could just have your name?”
    “Just use my initials,” he heard himself saying. “S.O.B.”
    He had a feeling Olivia would get it.
    Olivia knew her grandmother had been crying. She came in the back door out of habit, the wet dog prancing at her heels. It only took one look to have her heart squeezing.
    Val insisted on preparing the evening meal. Every day, like clockwork, she could be found in the kitchen at six o’clock, stirring or slicing, with good homey scents puffing out of pots and Vanna White turning letters on the under-the-counter TV. Often, Val could be heard calling out advice or muttering pithy comments such as Don’t buy a vowel, you moron. Or shaking her head because the contestant at the wheel couldn’t guess A Stitch in Time Saves Nine to save his immortal soul. It was a comforting routine, and one that rarely varied. Olivia would come in, pour a glass of wine—it had been a soft drink or juice in her youth—and set the table while the two of them just talked.
    But tonight, she came in chilled to the bone, her rain gear slick with wet from the aimless walk she and Shirley had indulged in, and there was no incessant clapping or bright colors on the little TV screen. Pots simmered, Val stirred, but she kept her back to the room. There was no smile of greeting tossed over her shoulder.
    “You keep that wet dog in the mudroom, Livvy.”
    Because her voice was thick and a little rusty, Olivia recognized tears. “Go on, Shirley, go lie down now.” Olivia shooed the dog back into the mudroom, where she curled up, a sulky look in her eyes, with her chew rope.
    Olivia poured them both a glass of wine, and leaving the table unset, walked over to set her grandmother’s on the counter by the stove. “I know you’re upset. I’m sorry this is happening.”
    “It’s nothing we need to talk about. We’re having beef and barley stew tonight. I’m about ready to add the dumplings.”
    Olivia’s first instinct was to nod and get out the deep bowls. To let the subject bury itself again. But she wondered if Noah wasn’t right about at least one thing. Maybe it was just time.
    “Grandma, it’s happening whether we talk about it or not.”
    “Then there’s no point in bringing it up.” She reached for the bowl where the dough was already mixed and ready. And, reaching blindly, knocked the glass off the counter. It shattered on the floor, a shower of glass and bloodred wine.
    “Oh, what was that doing there? Don’t you know better than to set a glass on the edge of the counter? Just look at my floor.”
    “I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.” Olivia turned quickly to get the broom out of the closet and shushed the dog, who’d leaped up as if to defend the womenfolk from invaders.
    “Relax, Shirley, it’s broken glass not a gunshot.”
    But any amusement she felt vanished when she turned back and saw her grandmother standing, shoulders shaking, her face buried in a dish towel.
    “Oh, I’m