And thus continues what I have dubbed The October Skirmish.
We are four battles in when we meet Margaret and Grandma Eloise at Bon Temps Grill for lunch on Wednesday.
I do not care for lunch at Bon Temps Grill. Naturally, that means it’s Grandma Eloise’s favorite, so we have to go there like twice a month.
Don’t get me wrong. Bon Temps Grill is a nice place. They earn double points for having a brunch menu. Minus one point for only offering it on Saturdays and Sundays. I won’t get to order the Crab Cake Bennies or Bananas Foster French Toast today.
So, now, I’m glaring at the lunch menu, trying to ignore Mom and Grandma Eloise’s suggestions that I get the Blackened Chicken Lettuce Wraps. They think they are being clever, trying to fool me into ordering a salad you eat with your hands.
“Too messy,” I say, shaking my head and not looking up from the menu. I scan my options. Maybe I’ll just get a variety of sides.
When I spot sweet potato mash on the list, a lazy smile slides across my lips. What are the chances that Beck grew those sweet potatoes? I will have to ask him.
But not now.
When I texted him yesterday after I finished a dreadful response paper for Operations Management, it was hours before he replied.
Beck: Hey, beautiful. Sorry for taking so long. I don’t look at my phone when I’m on the tractor. Too dangerous for me and my crew.
I couldn’t move for a few minutes after I read that: A) Because he called me beautiful. B) Because I hadn’t thought of sweet potato farming being dangerous, but once I did, picturing a tractor and—I don’t know—big harvesting machinery, my mind threw a little intrusive thought party before I could bring my focus back to A).
BECK THINKS I AM BEAUTIFUL!!!!
“What’s so amusing, Harriet?” Grandma Eloise snips, intruding into my reverie.
I know better than to share. A) Grandma Eloise cannot be trusted with such things, and B) After Mom treated Beck like a pedophile on Saturday—and after our resulting fight, which was Part A of Battle the First in the October Skirmish—she has proven herself—at least temporarily—unworthy as well.
I will myself to meet Grandma Eloise’s cool stare, which is not something I enjoy under normal circumstances, much less during the October Skirmish.
“Are you sure you want to know? It could be about the Porcelynne stabilized satin I stitched into my bodice to hide the fact that I’m not wearing a bra.”
Grandma Eloise’s eyes narrow and she lowers her voice. “If you think you’re hiding that fact, young lady, you are sorely mistaken.”
I lift my bust. “But you can’t see my nipples?—”
“Hattie!” Mom grabs my wrist.
My back stiffens, and I twist out of her grip. Part B of Battle the First of the October Skirmish was about the way she manhandled me on Saturday. I don’t make eye contact with her but look across the table at Margaret instead.
“Was that too loud?” I hiss whisper, but judging from the curious faces at the table around us, I already know the answer.
Margaret winces. “Just a bit.”
My face heats. I try to hide that with a sip of iced tea. But it’s unsweet, so I wrinkle my nose and put it down. I reach forward and grab three packets of sugar from the little container on the table.
“Oh, Hattie, I have stevia if you?—”
I ignore Mom, tearing open the packets and watching the ice cubes in my tea turn to little snowy mountaintops.
“Willful little?—”
“Grandma, what are you going to order?” Margaret blurts, cutting off our grandmother.
They start comparing salads, and I’m suddenly so, so tired. I don’t even bother to stir the sugar into my tea.
My phone buzzes against my thigh, and the sensation centers me. I’m wearing a caramel-colored rayon babydoll dress that I retrofitted with pockets because dressmakers still don’t realize that pockets are apparel necessities.
And the sensation on my leg not only grounds me, but it reminds me that I modified this dress—with the bodice lining and the pockets—to be what I wanted. I changed the way things were to my liking.
