Grandma slammed her hat on her head, a purple felt one with a plastic bird stapled to the side. “Change gives me indigestion.”
“Five is perfect.” Quinn smiled. “So Wilder will pick you up at four-thirty and we’ll eat then. I don’t work tomorrow. I’m going to spend the afternoon with Dad.”
“Fine.” Grandma heaved a hefty sigh. “As long as you don’t serve none of that kombooty.”
“Excuse me?”
She pointed an accusing finger at Annie. “Kombooty. This one tried to poison me with it last week.”
“Kombucha,” Annie replied patiently. “It’s full of probiotics.”
“Smelled like infected cat pee.”
“No kombucha, promise. How about pan-fried pork chop and baked potatoes?” Quinn could manage that, just. “I’ll pick up a yummy dessert from Edie’s shop.”
“She’s another one.” Grandma shook her head. “Can’t that girl bake a chocolate cake, plain and sensible? No, she has to go adding a ganache. What is a ganache anyway?”
“It’s a French glaze,” Annie answered promptly.
“Foreign food.” Grandma huffed. “Why not good old American buttercream?”
“Grandma, are you having a low-blood-sugar moment because I have some snacks in my car.” Annie’s tone seemed sweet but Quinn could tell she enjoyed baiting the older woman.
“You’re trying to kill me off with those snacks. Dried coconut chips, blue corn chips, and homemade granola? No thank you.” What’s more, Grandma enjoyed being baited.
Annie grinned. “All the more kale for me then.”
Grandma shook her head but couldn’t restrain her own smile. Needling Annie seemed to be how she showed affection. Interesting.
“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow night,” Quinn said in her most chipper tone.
“Just once, just once I’d like one of my grandsons to settle down with a sensible girl. Do you have sense, missy? And how is your father?” Grandma continued, not waiting for a reply to her first question. She shoved her magazine back in the bag and rose. “Damn shame what happened to him. He was a fine man, a good man. They don’t make them like that in this day and age.”
“Thank you,” Quinn said. “I miss him, which is strange to say because he’s right there in front of me.”
Grandma reached across the table, grabbing her wrist with a surprisingly strong hand. “There’s a part of him that knows. You have to trust that. He might not act like he gets that love, but somewhere deep inside he does.”
Quinn glanced up and Grandma’s eyes misted. Maybe it was a trick of the light because then she was standing up, thrusting her handbag at Annie, imperious as a queen.
“Tell that boy I’ll see him at four-thirty sharp.”
“Will do,” Quinn said as Annie mouthed “good luck” behind Grandma’s back.
After they left the shop, Quinn stayed seated at the table, staring thoughtfully at the wall. In theory, Grandma was talking to her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the older woman was also talking to herself.
As she locked up, she glanced at the sky. The clouds were covering the moon and stars, but just in case anyone was listening, she offered up a small prayer. “Please.”
That was all. Please let everything work out for the best. As she walked to her truck, a little warmth blazed in her chest and she hugged herself. Maybe everything would work out okay. Maybe Brightwater would end up being a surprise happy ending after all.
Just as she got her key in her car door, a feeling prickled over her, one she’d had the last few days in the store, as if someone watched her. Every time she scanned Main Street, no one was there. But this time, a flash of high beams swept over her. She shielded her eyes as a small nondescript car flew past her, missing her by less than five feet. The driver was hunched low, face obscured by the steering wheel.
“Hey,” she yelled at the disappearing taillights, “watch where you are going.”
She shivered, the warm feeling replaced by an ominous prickle. All of a sudden it felt like danger could exist around every corner, and you never knew when it would slam into you without warning.
Chapter Sixteen
WILDER SAT AT Quinn’s little kitchen table, conscious of the scrape and clink of his silverware. Today her shirt said, “I Read the Book before It Was a Movie.” Cute and funny, but falling flat with this crowd. The conversation was nonexistent despite Quinn’s valiant attempts at small talk. When she told him what she was planning, a bonding dinner between him and Grandma, he almost said not to bother. But she looked so hopeful that the idea of disappointing her about killed him.
She wanted so much to believe that everything would work out, have a happy ending like one of those old books she favored. What could he do, tell her how the world really worked and rain on her parade? Not happening. She’d been kicked in the teeth enough, by her old job, by her dad being sick. He didn’t want to show her what it was really like to be kicked in the ass, how those scars never heal. How eventually the wounds fill with poison until nothing looks good and you’re angry every day, from the first breath when you wake up until you fall into another uneasy sleep.
Grandma, on the other hand, knew . . . all too well. From time to time during the dinner, she caught his gaze, her eyes still sharp behind those turquoise bifocals. She never missed a trick. That night of the house fire, after she got Sawyer and Archer tucked into beds at Hidden Ranch, she came to him, sat on the edge of his bed.
“You going to tell me what really happened?” she had asked.
She always knew the worst about him.
“So.” Quinn wiped her mouth with her napkin and set it on the table. “Everyone’s plates are empty so looks like my questionable cooking skills turned out okay this one time. Pork chops were my dad’s favorite meal—he taught me how to make them when I was thirteen years old. It’s either this, canned soup, or macaroni and cheese so don’t expect any more from me in the way of culinary greatness.”
“Meat was a little overcooked,” Grandma muttered.
Wilder tossed his fork on his plate. “Jesus, Grandma.”
“Hey, I don’t mind,” Quinn soothed. “Well, maybe a leetle more sugar-coating would be nice, but hey, at least we’re all talking now, right? Better than just staring at our plates and listening to the light bulb hum.” She glanced up. “Those fluorescent bulbs in there are noisy when there’s no sound, huh? Anyway, I have an idea.”
Wilder had to give her points for sheer tenacity. This dinner was a bust but she wouldn’t admit defeat, was going down punching, and that deserved respect.
“What are you thinking, Trouble?” he asked, gentling his tone.
“A game.”
“Do I look like a game player to you?” Grandma said skeptically.
Quinn looked between them. “Everyone likes board games.”
“Looks like you found the two exceptions to the rule,” Wilder muttered.
“Good lord, you really are both cut from the same cloth,” Quinn said, standing to grab the plates and waving Wilder back into his seat. “No. Butt in chair, mister. There’s a dishwasher in this kitchen and I intend to put it to good use. We are going to eat cake and play a game and there will be no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Understood?”
The two faces stared back at her with identical expressions of shock and awe. She felt like she was a lion tamer in the ring. Exhibit a trace of fear and they’ll eat you alive. Better to show them who is boss.
She stalked to the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, and cut heaping slices of the cake Edie insisted on giving her for free. “A donation of goodwill,” she had said. “Listen, I’ve lived with the woman since summer time, and all I can say is don’t be fooled into thinking she can be tamed. She’s like a barn cat. If she likes you, she likes you, but her mood is unpredictable and you can’t take it personally.”
But of course this was personal. Grandma Kane didn’t have to like her, but she had to respect her.
She set the cake slices before them and scanned the games on the bookshelf. Risk? Too long. Scrabble? No, not quite right. Hungry Hippos? Ah, thumbs-up for childhood nostalgia, but again, no. Monopoly? Maybe. Wait a second. What’s this? Yes. Yes, perfect.