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)
Well, once I heard that, things made more sense. No wonder he seemed so melancholy—the poor dear was lonely.
I’d tried to draw him out a little, but so far I hadn’t had too much luck. Oh, he’d do any little chore I asked him to, but he’d be silent the whole time, and he never stayed for dinner, no matter how often I invited him. I’d taken to sending him home with cookies or brownies or some other little treat.
But I knew what he really needed, and it wasn’t dessert. You don’t get to be my age without living through some tough times, and I’d known my share of shell-shocked men.
What he needed was a sympathetic ear and a warm hug. Someone to tell him he was okay. Someone beautiful and kind, inquisitive but sensitive. Someone who understood the complexities of the human mind and could make him feel good about himself, war wounds and all.
Someone like my Stella.
She was all those things and more, and now she was single too. But I knew my darling granddaughter, and she wasn’t going to come running up here just to meet a man. She was far too sensible for that. She was far too sensible, period.
But I’d fix that, even if I had to fake dementia to do it.
Never underestimate a granny on a mission.
Especially the matchmaking kind.
Four
Ryan
It was warm for October, upper seventies. The late afternoon sun was beating down hard, and sweat dripped down my chest, dampening my shirt. I whipped it off, tossed it aside, and wiped my forehead on the back of my arm. Then I pushed the mower a little faster. The sooner I finished Mrs. Gardner’s yard, the sooner I could get home and crack open a cold beer.
Twenty minutes later, I’d just shut the mower off when I heard my next door neighbor’s little old lady voice.
“Yoo-hoo! Mr. Woods!” she called from the top of the steps just outside the back door. She waved excitedly. “Are you finished, dear? Could I ask you to come here for just a moment?”
I nodded, pushing the mower over toward her driveway. On my way to the steps, I stopped to scoop up my sweaty shirt from the ground and shake the grass clippings from it before pulling it over my head.
“My,” she said, fanning herself as I approached. “Sure is warm today, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you so much for taking care of the leaves and the lawn again. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t moved in next door. You’re an angel.”
“No problem.”
“I’m sure you’ve got much better ways to spend your Sunday afternoon. And since you won’t take any money for all the things you do for me, I’ve made you some more cookies, and I have a nice tall pitcher of iced tea as well. It’s just inside.”
I didn’t want to go in, not because I had anything against Mrs. Gardner, but because I wasn’t much for small talk. Or any kind of talk. “That’s okay. I—”
“Now hush.” She came down the steps and took me by the arm, leading me up to the kitchen door. “You need a cold drink after your hard work, and I don’t have anyone around to eat the little treats I make.” She was short but spry, although she had to be close to ninety, if not older. She reminded me of Betty White. Her hair was poufy like a cloud. Her face was deeply wrinkled, but she had surprisingly nice teeth, and she smiled a lot.
I didn’t want to be rude, so I let her lead me through the screen door inside the kitchen, which was too warm but smelled heavenly.
On the table there was a pitcher of iced tea, two tall glasses, and a plate piled with chocolate-chip cookies. My stomach moaned hungrily. “Now you sit there and eat,” she directed, nearly pushing me into one of four wooden chairs, “and I’ll pour the tea.”
While she plunked ice into the glasses and poured, I sat stiffly at the edge of my seat and eyeballed the cookies. I’d been in her house several times doing small chores for her, but this was the first time I’d ever sat down. Normally I refused the meals and snacks and cold drinks she offered, and she’d send me home with a plate of brownies or lemon bars or banana bread—delicious homemade things I devoured within a day. I never could resist sweets.
A memory floated close to the surface of my mind, my mother taking fresh-baked cookies from the oven, the aroma drifting through the house, making my sisters and I come running for the kitchen only to be told we had to wait for them to cool a little, and then staring at those cookies on the sheet, our eyes big, our mouths watering. My mouth was watering now, and something tugged at my chest.