The Ashtons - Cole, Abigail & Megan

and worked soap into the soft bristles. “Hulk appreciates company, no matter what the hour. I’m not in the mood.”
    “Tough.” He’d set the mysterious tote on the coffee table. “You probably know all this,” he said gruffly, taking out a fat folder, “but I wasn’t sure how far your denial extended, so I thought I’d pass it on.”
    She put down her brush and returned to the living area, curious. He handed her the folder. Inside, she found pages and pages of information—about Alzheimer’s. Organized into sections, with neatly printed tab tops dividing them: Stages…Treatments…Theories…Caretaker Support…
    “That’s all from reputable sites,” he told her. “There’s a lot of information out there, but not all of it is reliable.”
    “This must have taken hours,” she murmured, paging through the printouts.
    “I wanted to know about your aunt’s condition, and you weren’t talking. Which brings us to another question.”
    She looked up. “Us?”
    “All right, me. It brings me to another question.” He moved restlessly, paused to frown at her visual therapy, then looked back at her. “Why aren’t you talking about it?” he demanded.
    “Just because I didn’t talk to you—”
    “You haven’t unloaded on Mercedes, either.”
    “I told her about Aunt Jody,” she protested.
    “Yeah, and that’s all. You haven’t…you know.” He waved vaguely. “Talked about your feelings.”
    “Ah…” Deep inside, a laugh was trying to climb out. “Let me get this straight. You are nagging me to talk about my feelings?”
    “Bottling everything up—that’s my deal. I’m used to that. Comfortable with it. You aren’t.” He sat on her couch without waiting for an invitation and began pulling more things out of his tote and putting them on the pine coffee table.
    A bottle of wine. Two glasses. A box of chocolates. Nail polish. Peppermint-scented foot lotion. Cotton balls. Polish remover.
    She sank down on the other end of the couch. The laugh was getting closer to the top. She waved weakly at the objects on the coffee table. “Cole? You want to clue me in here?”
    “Just call me Sheila. I’m a stand-in.”
    “For?” A smile started.
    “This is one of those female parties. The kind where you women get together to do each other’s hair or nails and end up telling each other the damnedest things.” He shook his head, marveling.
    Oh. Oh. He was giving her every signal he could, even playing surrogate female, to tell her he was here as a friend, and nothing more. Because he was worried about her. Dixie’s eye’s filled. She stood, took two quick steps, bent and kissed him on the cheek. “This is about the sweetest thing…thank you.”
    “You’re not going to cry, are you?”
    She laughed. And if it came out a bit watery, tough. “I’m not making any promises. Are you going to paint your nails or mine?”
    “I’m going to drink the wine.” He inserted the bottle opener and twisted. He had strong hands, and they made quick work of the cork. “But you’re welcome to join me.”
    “Does cabernet sauvignon go with chocolate?” She sat down and opened the box of candy. “Mmm. Dark chocolate at that.”
    “Mercedes seemed to think chocolate was essential.”
    She slid him a look. “You talked about this with Merry?”
    “Yeah.” He poured wine into one of the glasses, and its heady perfume drifted her way. “For some reason she thinks you’re fine.”
    “Maybe because I am.” She selected one she thought might have caramel. She loved caramel.
    “Glad to hear it. So what do you talk about at these female shindigs?”
    “Pretty much anything—men, work, hair, men, family, movies, men, books, politics…did I mention men?”
    “The rat bastards,” he said promptly, handing her a glass of wine. Hulk jumped up beside him and pointed out that no one was petting him by bumping his head against Cole’s arm. Wine sloshed in the glass without spilling. Absently he began scratching the side of Hulk’s face. “They never call.”
    Dixie shook her head sadly. “Or remember your birthday.”
    “And if they do, they forget the card. Would it kill them to spend some time picking out a card?”
    “So true. And they only want one thing.”
    “Damn straight. Uh-oh. Sorry—I slid out of character there for a moment.”
    “Watch it.” She took a sip, trying to keep a straight face. “Hey, this is good.”
    “Ninety-eight was one of our better years.” He swirled