The bathroom door was open, the light out. I hurried in, closed the door and saw it didn’t have a lock.
Of course not.
Family knew, the door was closed, the room was occupied.
It was just me who didn’t know stuff like that.
I did my business, washed my face, brushed my teeth. Without Gray in there, I now saw that the bathroom was countrified charm just like everything else. Claw-footed tub. Ceramic pedestal sink but it was very wide bowled, the bowl square, deep ledges at the top and sides to hold stuff. A bathroom mirror with frilly, beveled edges and scrolled etching at the top. Gray (or his Grandma) didn’t mess around with towels, I was surprised to see. They were not old, worn and soft like everything else. They were new-ish, thick and soft. There was a shelf with some old-fashioned, chrome boxes on it but also a little vase with more slightly wilted flowers.
Gray’s Grandma liked flowers, clearly.
It would be nice if I had the money to pop by the flower shop in town to order flowers delivered as a thank you to her for having such a wonderful grandson.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the money.
I got out of there, hustled back down the hall, made the bed carefully, fluffing the pillows, smoothing out the sheets then smoothing out the quilt then straightening the blanket at the end. Then I swiftly packed my small bag, zipped up and walked out. Down the stairs, the voices were stronger, the smell of bacon frying weaker, the sounds of cutlery on plates could now be heard.
Making my point, I dropped my bag by the front door, turned and started to head down the hall to the kitchen.
My step nearly stuttered when I saw her.
Long, attractive gray hair, top and sides pulled back in a clip at the nape of her neck, granny nightgown on, pristine white, buttoned all the way up to the frilled, high collar. Wrapped around her upper arms and shoulders was a fluffy, loosely-knit, gray wool shawl. She was a Grandma straight from a TV show but that TV show was set on a farm on the plains in the 1800s. I half expected Michael Landon to walk in the backdoor sporting suspenders and sweeping off his hat.
I didn’t even know they made nightgowns like that anymore and I’d never, not once, seen anyone wrapped in a shawl.
Her eyes were aimed down the hall at me.
Her bottom was settled in a wheelchair.
Now I knew why Gray lived with Grandma.
Yes. He was a good man. Down to his bones.
When I got close, I forced a smile and said quietly, “Hi.”
Her blue eyes shrewd, she took me in top-to-toe on a quick, experienced sweep, her gaze coming back to me giving nothing away and she replied, “Good morning, Ivey.”
Gray had told her about me.
I entered the kitchen to see Gray seated across the table from me, back to the sink, a plate of half eaten eggs and bacon in front of him (as Grandma had in front of her), another plate with a stack of toast between them. Coffee cups, sugar bowl, small jug of milk, butter dish, jar of strawberry jam that was not purchased from a grocery store, silver spoon in it.
His eyes were on me and they were twinkling.
“Mornin’, Ivey,” he greeted.
I stopped a foot in the doorway. “Good morning, Gray.”
“Sleep okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I lied.
The twinkle in his eyes went south, a grin hit his lips and the dimple came out.
My belly curled.
Stay smart, my brain reminded me.
“Want some breakfast?” he asked, tipping his head down to his plate.
I shook my head. “Thanks, but no. I appreciate it but I have to get back into town. Can I use your phone? I’ll call a taxi so I don’t put you out.”
The twinkle faded and he opened his mouth to say something but Grandma got there before him.
“Everyone needs breakfast.”
I looked at her. “I’m not usually up this early. I’ll get something on the road.”
She studied me a moment then stated, “I’m Miriam Cody.”
Darn. I’d been rude. I should have introduced myself.
I moved to her, not close, not too far she couldn’t reach me and I stretched out a hand.
“It’s lovely to meet you. As I think you know, I’m Ivey.”
She took my hand, gave me a light squeeze then let it go, all of that not taking her eyes from me.
She tipped her head to a chair with its back to the door and invited, “Sit down. I’ll make you some eggs.”
She’d make me some eggs?
How would she do that in a wheelchair?
I didn’t ask even though I wanted to know.
“Really,” I shook my head, “thank you but no. Gray has been very kind, I’ve taken a lot of his time already and I’m really not a breakfast person. Especially not this early. But again, thank you.”
I wondered if I was laying on the gratitude too thick. I could tell by her assessing eyes, her blank face and her aloof manner that she didn’t like what she saw in me. I was used to this, especially from women and that especially was most especially from older women. They had experience. They saw things other people didn’t see. She didn’t like what she saw in me. She didn’t like that her grandson hit the breakfast table with an angry cut over his eye that had to be closed by plasters. She didn’t like that her grandson hit the breakfast table with a cut over his eye and the news he had a girl in their guest room.
She didn’t like her grandson with me.
“At least have coffee, some toast,” she encouraged.
Hells bells.
I had never been a guest in anyone’s home but I suspected it would be rude to say no three times.
“Thanks,” I whispered, moved to the chair she indicated as Gray scooted his back.
“I’ll get it,” he muttered.
“No,” I said quickly and sharply though I didn’t know why and I shouldn’t have done it.
Gray’s eyes cut to me and I felt his grandmother’s on me. His brows were slightly drawn; he was confused at my tone.
“Please,” I said quietly, “don’t interrupt your breakfast for me. I can pour a cup of coffee.”
He studied me a second, jerked his chin up slightly, settled back in his chair and pushed himself to the table.
I went to the coffeemaker that had a half-full pot and had also been pulled to close to the edge of the counter likely so Grandma could get to it should she want to wheel herself over there to refresh her cup. Beside it was a stand with a bunch of mismatched but all interesting cups (and all big, apparently ranchers or orchard people liked their coffee) hanging from hooks.
I nabbed a cup, turned it on its bottom on the butcher block counter and grabbed the pot. Then it hit me and I turned to the table.
“Does anyone need a warm up?” I asked, lifting the pot.
Gray looked at me and answered, “Thanks, I’m good, Ivey.”
“I could use a warm up,” Grandma Miriam said.
I nodded, moved to her, warmed up her cup then moved back and got my own.
I barely had my bottom planted in the seat by Grandma Miriam before Gray offered, “Least have some toast. You gotta try Gran’s preserves.”
I looked to the pot of jam.
She cooked eggs.
She made jam.
In a wheelchair.
I thought this was very interesting.
“That sounds great,” I murmured and before I could protest, Gray was out of his seat, in a cupboard and he came back with a small plate that had frilly edges and flowers printed on it, leaning across the table to put it in front of me.
The toast was already buttered, perfectly toasted, light and golden. I grabbed a slice, tagged the jam and prepared it. Then I splashed milk in my coffee, spooned in a sugar. Silently I went about eating and sipping.