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“The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.”
“Oh, one last thing, Mia,” Caroline says as I’m zipping up my jacket and giving her a hug.
“Yeah?”
“I got a booking request from somebody you’re not going to love to see–”
I hold up my hand. “Just don’t tell me right now,” I say, smiling to soften abruptly cutting her off. “I’m kind of at max capacity for bad news. So, I’m just going to deal with whatever that is when I get there, okay?”
She nods. “Good luck at the interview. You’re going to do awesome. I know you deserve that job. Seriously. If they doubt it, tell them to come talk to me and I’ll straighten them out.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
I head out the side door of her bed and breakfast, feeling guilty for not being fully upfront and honest with my best friend about everything. But I also know she can’t help meddling. If she got her teeth in even a scrap of some of the potential truths buzzing around in my head, she’d be impossible to stop.
Outside, the crisp morning air hits my cheeks and I can feel them turning red. The rain last night turned into snow after all, and a fresh layer of powdery white covers everything that isn’t iced over.
I flip the scarf around my neck and shove my hands in my pockets. After two years away from Frosty Harbor, it’s almost strange being home again. I was nearly used to the bustle of city life by the time I finished culinary school and caught a flight back home.
Now it seems even more quiet here than I remember.
I pass the occasional employee of a store out salting the sidewalk or shoveling in the early morning darkness. I’m greeted with a few surprised “Hello’s” and brief questions about how long I’ve been back and things of that sort. But it’s that early hour of morning where most conversation stops at superficial and short because people have things to do and places to be.
It doesn’t take long to reach Gram’s house. She lives in a skinny two-story just off the main commercial district in downtown Frosty Harbor. The house is about as old as she is, which is saying something.
I take a few deep breaths, raise my hand, and knock twice.
It’s a few seconds before I hear the sound of her cocking her shotgun just behind the door. “Alright, motherfucker,” a shrill, wavering voice calls from the other side of the door. “You’d better have a good reason to make me rush off the crapper at this early.”
I sigh. “It’s me, Grams. Let me in, and please put that stupid gun away. We all know you don’t actually have real bullets in there. You’re not shooting anyone.”
The door creaks open, revealing a large, watery blue eye and wrinkled skin in the crack.
Grams is setting a yoga mat down in front of the TV. She’s hunched and resembles a garden gnome more than anything–with full rosy cheeks, gray hair, big and mischievous eyes, and a permanent impression of a smile on her well-lined lips.
She’s wearing a mildly terrifying shade of yellow and white leggings with a top that is neon orange.
“Why are you dressed like a traffic cone?” I ask, carefully sitting down on her couch, which has been sheathed in a thick plastic cover since I was a kid. I’m pretty sure the original couch has never been touched by human skin, but Grams claims she keeps the cover on so she can have her important guests sit on a clean couch. Apparently, nobody in the history of her life has ever qualified as important, though.
“That’s funny,” Grams says, planting her hands on her hips and gyrating in a way that isn’t meant for human eyes. “I’m in my fifties and still look this good. What’s your excuse? What is that, anyway? A potato sack?”
I grin. “It’s a perfectly normal jacket. And you haven’t been in your fifties since the fifties.”
She sticks an old VHS tape into the player below her tube TV. Static crackles for a few seconds, then a faded recording of three men in 70’s style bright aerobics clothes comes on.
Instead of joining in as they warm up, Grams puts on her reading glasses and waddles closer to the TV. She makes an appreciative noise.
“Oh, come on,” I say. “Can you at least wait until I’m gone to be a creep?”
“When are you going to be gone, exactly? You know, I don’t offer discounts for not occupying my rentals. You should go enjoy the cabin.”
“The one you double booked, you mean?”
“Is that why you’re here? I told you to deal with it, kiddo. Decision has been made.”
“It was the wrong decision,” I say.
“I’d agree with you, but then we’d both be wrong.”
