Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“You look like shit. Good for you.”
I scowled. “Why would looking terrible be good for me?”
Grams shuffled to the kitchen table, her bony fingers clutching the handle of an orange juice pitcher for dear life. “It means you had some fun.”
I put my hand over the empty glass my grandmother was attempting to fill. “No, thanks. I’m fine with coffee.”
Her arm trembled as she set the container on the table, then slid onto the chair next to mine. “Tell me all about it.”
Uh, no way.
“I had too much to drink. That’s all.”
“And…?” she prompted, pulling a cigarette and lighter from her pocket.
Oh, boy. Grams was in storyteller mode—entertaining unless you were the subject of the story. Things could get embarrassing very quickly. It was almost more concerning than her smoking habit. She’d definitely cut back on cigarettes over the past couple of years, but I doubted she’d ever give them up completely.
First of all, she was eighty-seven. Grams liked to tell anyone who’d listen that she had no plans to live to a hundred and she was going out on her terms. If she wanted to smoke, drink, and eat maple cookies every damn day from now till she punched in her time card on planet Earth, she’d damn well do so. And yes, those were her exact words.
Things to know about Annie Calhoun Mellon: She was five foot nothing with a cloud of white hair and a birdlike frame. She claimed her brilliant blue eyes and high cheekbones were her finest features as a young woman.
I’d seen photos of Grams in youth, and she wasn’t exaggerating. She’d been a truly beautiful woman in her day. She could have been a model or a movie star, or maybe just married a rich man and lived part-time on a tropical island, sipping cocktails under an umbrella while devouring romance novels one after the other.
“You know what happened to me, Denny? I married for love. What an idiot! Yeah, yeah, I’d do it all over again, but it’s a sucker move if ever there was one. Grandpa and I never had a dime to our names. We couldn’t afford a nice house or fancy vacations. I had to work at the bakery to put food on the table, and I was one of the only women in town who had a job in those days. Folks didn’t approve. Hell, family didn’t approve either. Your great-grandmother and my monster-in-law—bless her evil soul—hated me. She wanted me to beg for money to support my children, and you know what I said? I said fuck that, fuck you, and fuck the high horse you rode into town on.”
I’d gasped at the idea. “You did?”
“Not to her face. I have some fuckin’ class, you know.”
Yep, that was my grandmother.
She pulled no punches. If she’d ever had a filter, it had been faulty for years and was pretty much gone now. If she thought it, she said it. No in between. Grams was spry, smart as a whip, and she had the biggest heart in the world. She just didn’t want anyone to know. But I knew.
Grams had opened her home to me when I was fifteen. I’d had no real options at the time. My dad had died, Mom had been in rehab, and my brother in college. I’d been sure I’d hate it here and that I’d hate living with an old lady I barely knew, but she changed my life.
Seven years later, I owed her…everything, and she wanted nothing in return. She’d owned her house for years, didn’t drive—thank God—rotated her favorite cardigans, and had no desire to travel anymore. I caught on that the only thing Grams wanted was for me to come by once in a while. So I’d bought the house next door to hers, and I did my best to visit regularly.
Even if it was just for a night. Like this trip.
It was no hardship. I loved her and loved hanging out with her…even if she busted my balls, looking for a story I definitely didn’t want to share.
“Nothing happened last night,” I lied.
“Bullshit.” She lit her cigarette and inhaled, eyes twinkling mischievously as he exhaled. “You walked home and let yourself in your front door at 6:20 a.m. Mary-Kate dropped your truck off at 8:39 on her way to the rink, which means you weren’t with her. From this information, I deduct the following…you got shitfaced, slept on someone’s sofa…or bed. Who is she? You can tell me anything. No reason to pretend you and MK are still lovebirds with me. I know love when I see it and you’re…well, it’s not love.”
I was in no shape to outmaneuver Grams’s PI-style interrogation. My hangover had a hangover. My headache had eased to a steady throb and my stomach didn’t object to coffee, but my brain was mush and weird things ached…like my hair and my eyelids. I couldn’t believe I had to get on a plane like this.