This woman could bitch-slap anyone with her decades of common sense, and I wonder how my life choices look through her eyes.
“Tessa,” Grandma Ann says, walking past Blaire like she doesn’t exist and kissing my cheek. Her face is a pillow of soft lines, and she smells like gardenias. “It’s almost your birthday.”
She might as well be talking about the next Mars rover mission, for as much as my birthday is on today’s radar.
“Oh, um, yes, but not for two weeks.” I worry for a second that Grandma Ann is losing it and wandered here by mistake, all the way from Oceanside.
“Come,” she says, holding her navy clutch against her body with her elbow and patting her salt-and-pepper bun. “Let’s go to lunch. I have a gift for you.”
CHAPTER 2
Tessa
Two WeeksLater
By “gift,”Grandma Ann meant the dilapidated ranch house staring me down, taunting me like some sort of birthday prank.
My sisters and I are the proud owners, according to Grandma Ann, who presented the current girls’ weekend like it’s the getaway of our dreams. Try waking nightmares.
The sagging, dusty, graying stucco home sits in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by farms and fields, growing who knows what? The nearest town of Willow Springs has more horses than cars.
My sisters and I don’t do girls’ weekends together. Even though we grew up in the same house and share the same dark wavy hair, that’s where our similarities and patience for each other end.
“Really? This is all ours?” Hannah’s sarcasm is as no-nonsense as her long brown bob and peach lipstick. She’s the oldest and calls it like she sees it, holding up a hand to shieldher eyes from the sun. Or, rather, to protect her eyes from the steaming pile of crap masquerading as a vacation home.
The blue-painted trim peels off in generous strips. What was probably once white clapboard siding is now a worn gray, flecked with something that looks like mold. I reach out and flick a chunk of paint away, and a piece of wood comes with it, speckled with termite holes.
“Don’t touch it,” cautions Hannah, always responsible. “It could be toxic.”
Our three younger sisters stand back like frightened baby deer, letting Hannah and me hack through the cobwebs and risk being consumed by spiders.
I brush my hand on my pants, continuing to gaze at the sprawling ranch house, with its broken railings, splintering front porch, and shutters hanging off their rusted hinges at awkward angles. There’s a visible hole in the roof over the carport and so much dirty peeling paint that I can’t tell what color the house is supposed to be.
“Grandma Ann wasn’t kidding when she said the place needs some TLC,” Hannah says. “If TLC stands for Take a Wrecking Ball to the Place.”
“What is it that people say? The road to hell is paved with good intentions? I’m scared for where she’s headed,” I admit.
When Grandma Ann handed me the keys to Loveland Ranch two weeks ago, she described it as a joy-filled place for our future families. “I’ll have Mel straighten it up,” she’d said. “Mel” is Melvin Budgewack, a family friend who lives in Santa Ynez, one town over. I don’t think Mel got the memo.
“Should we go in?” I ask. Even the keychain is rusty, but the single key manages to turn in the lock.
Barely.
The door creaks open, and a cloud of dust rolls out like Pigpen has been held hostage for the past decade. I pause,listening for signs that a pack of wild dogs or something else may have taken up residence inside, but there’s only the grimy yawn of silence.
I feel around on the wall for a light switch, and a dim overhead light chugs slowly to life. As I carefully step inside, the floors groan and creak like they’re in pain. Join the club.
We make footprints in the dust as we move through the small entryway to a living room where I vaguely remember jumping on couches and playing board games with our grandparents long past our bedtimes.
“Wowza,” my middle sister Hazel says, nudging a knee-high pile of dusty books that are stacked next to more books and a broken lampshade against one wall. “How did they let this happen?” She smooths her tight ponytail and avoids standing too close to any piece of dusty furniture. Hazel doesn’t do “messy.” She does medical experiments that will someday cure a disease. She does dishes before they’re dirty.
She does not do untended ranch houses with cobwebs hanging from every chandelier and ceiling beam.
“They’re eighty-something. I guess the house aged along with them,” I say.
“Hotel, anyone? Bet we can land someplace in time for happy hour,” Dylan says. She’s the only one of us wearing a miniskirt and full makeup, always ready to have fun.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Right on brand for Callie, the youngest. My sisters are as predictable as they are different. It’s partly how we survived each other: five girls with a seven-year age span between Hannah and Callie.
