Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Do you know how to cook, dear?” Grams asked him.
Ryan, whose mouth was full, shook his head.
Grams sighed. “My Frank could only make one thing in the kitchen—eggs and hash browns, bless his heart, and he always made breakfast on Saturday mornings. But he did love the grill, and we used to have marvelous backyard barbecues with friends during the summer. The kids would run around and play, and each neighbor would bring a dish to pass. I don’t suppose people do that much anymore. Everyone’s so busy.”
What she was describing was exactly the family life I wanted, and again I wondered if she was right, and it just didn’t exist anymore. If, like her old-fashioned sweater sets and hot rollers, it was simply outdated. I hoped not.
Grams sighed. “Well, anyway. Perhaps you should learn to cook a few things for yourself. I could help you. I’ve been helping Stella, too.” She lowered her voice. “She really needs it, poor thing.”
“Grams.” Emme gave her a pointed look. “Be nice.”
“What? I am being nice. How do you expect to catch a husband if you can’t cook?”
I set my fork down on my plate—loudly—and grabbed my beer, tilting it up. It wasn’t worth arguing with her.
So I was surprised when Ryan did it.
“I don’t think Stella will have any trouble when it comes to finding a husband,” he said, his eyes on his plate. “And he’ll be the luckiest guy in the world no matter what she can or can’t cook.”
I stared at him, open-mouthed. Emme blinked. It took Grams a moment to recover, too.
“Well, aren’t you sweet?” she cooed. “Are you interested in getting married again?”
Ryan froze, and then started to cough, picking up his beer for a long swallow.
“Grams,” I said loudly. “That reminds me. We should get those photos into an album before I leave. You don’t want to leave them in the box. The edges will curl, and there are some really beautiful old wedding pictures in there.”
“Weddings! Yes, I think second weddings can be really beautiful and personal,” she went on, as if someone had asked her a question. “Much more like weddings were in my day. And maybe even more likely to last.”
“Speaking of weddings, Gram,” Emme began, “I have a question about mine. The seating—”
“Marriage can be so difficult,” Grams interrupted. “Trust me, I was married for over sixty years.”
“Grams,” I said, even louder so she couldn’t ignore it. “Did you hear me? About the photos?”
“Yes,” she said, although her eyes were on Ryan as he took another gulp. “Stella has been helping me with some household tasks, just like you do. Both of you are so kind and thoughtful. So patient. You’d make wonderful parents.”
“I can’t believe how old some of those pictures are,” I went on, making frantic eye contact with my sister.
But Grams went on talking as though oblivious or deaf. “And your coloring—with you so dark, Ryan, and Stella so fair, well … you’d make such a lovely couple. Not to mention gorgeous children.”
Ryan set his beer bottle down and glanced over his shoulder then back at his plate again, like he was trying to decide between meatloaf and freedom. I reached under the table and put my hand on his knee. When he looked at me, I mouthed the word sorry and gave him a soft, apologetic smile. Next thing I knew, his hand was covering mine.
He knew. He understood.
My heart swelled, and I found myself one step closer to the edge.
“Speaking of lovely couples, Grams,” Emme said, “I’m very concerned that Aunt Poppy still hasn’t spoken to Auntie May. I don’t know where to seat them at the reception.”
Grams made a disgusted noise. “My sister and our brother’s wife have never gotten on, but truly, it’s been over fifty years since the Great Christmas Snub of 1965. They need to get over it. You put them at one table so they can hash it out before one of them goes to Florida.”
That was her euphemism for death. Nobody died, they just went to Florida.
After that, Emme and I managed to keep Grams distracted by asking her to retell old stories, or asking about relatives in the photos I’d seen, or inquiring about her recipes for everything on the table. I’d never made a meatloaf in my life—I don’t even think I’d even had it since I was a kid—but I had to admit it was tasty.
Ryan stayed silent the entire time, but it might have been because he took his eating so seriously, savoring every bite and filling his plate again and again. When we were finished, he thanked Grams for the meal.
“You’re welcome, dear. It was a pleasure to have a hungry man at the table again.”
“So, Grams, what is the secret ingredient in the meatloaf?” Emme asked. “It was delicious.”