When at last she turned onto the gravel drive, the storm was still raging, as if it had singled her out on the highway and followed her like a stalker. Joanna pulled to a halt and shut off the engine, tipped her head back on the seat, and let out a breath of relief to have arrived without having skidded off the motorway.
A sudden, rapid knocking at her window caused her to jump.
It was Grandad peering in at her. He stood outside the car with a red polka-dot umbrella over his head.
She grabbed her purse and the fruit basket and opened the driver’s-side door. “Who ordered this weather?”
“I don’t know, but it’s perfect for the weekend, don’t you think? Couldn’t be more fitting.”
She nodded morosely in agreement and got out of the car. Together, under the umbrella, they dashed to the front door and swept into the foyer like a couple of autumn leaves on a swirling gust of wind. Joannashut the door behind her and lowered the hood of her trench coat. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the kitchen smelled of cinnamon rolls.
“You’ve been baking,” she said with surprise before turning her eyes to the wedding portrait.
“I couldn’t help myself. It felt like the day needed a marker of some sort, and flowers seemed too easy.”
“Good choice.” Her grandmother’s mouthwatering cinnamon rolls were always just coming out of the oven whenever Joanna had come to visit, ever since she was a young girl.
Her grandad set the open umbrella on the plank floor to drip dry—something Nana would never have permitted, because she positivelylivedfor domestic chores. She was always doing dishes, scrubbing counters and floors, organizing cupboards, or baking bread. As far as Joanna knew, keeping the house clean and orderly was her greatest passion.
“Let me take that for you,” her grandad said, reaching for the fruit basket in her arms. While Joanna removed her coat, he carried the basket to the kitchen and set it on the worktable. “How was your week?”
“Pretty good,” Joanna replied, changing from her shoes into her slippers, which she’d stuffed into her tote bag that morning. “We delivered a foal yesterday.”
“That must have been exciting.”
“It was,” she replied, joining him in the kitchen. “And it was extra special because that baby horse starts a sixth generation in the stables—in a direct line from a horse that was born at the end of the war, on VE Day. They named her Victoria, so this foal is kind of like royalty.”
“Amazing.” Her grandfather gave her shoulder a squeeze. Then he inspected the contents of the fruit basket.
“We’ll need to wash those,” she said. “They fell on the ground.”
He picked up a plum. “This one looks badly bruised, but I’m sure it’ll still taste great.”
“Forever the optimist,” she replied with a grin and turned to watch the rain streaming down the windowpane.
Her grandad clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Well, it’s past five o’clock. How about we brighten things up with an anniversary cocktail?”
Joanna spotted Nana’s sterling-silver drinks tray on the sideboard in the lounge, already set out with a bowl of fresh lemons and an ice bucket. “Gin and tonic, I presume?”
“Her favorite.”
Joanna sat forward on the sofa and raised her tumbler in the air. “To Nana. May we never forget her loving arms and her sweet cinnamon rolls.”
“Cheers to that.”
They clinked glasses and took the first sip.
“Delicious.” Joanna licked her lips, set her glass down on the coffee table, and leaned back against the sofa cushions. “I can’t believe it’s been a whole year, but sometimes it seems longer than that. It feels like forever since she stood in that kitchen.”
“Nana was sick for a long time,” he replied in agreement.
Joanna recalled the years of chemo and radiation therapy, remissions, and relapses. “The last few months were especially rough,” she said, “but this past week I’ve really tried to focus on what we should be grateful for. At least you and Nana got to spend your whole lives together. I hope someday I’ll be as lucky as you and find the great love of my life and grow old with that person. Even if it means saying goodbye at the end. If you think about it, it was a blessing that you were spared this kind of loss until now.”
He took a deep swig of his cocktail and set it down. “I haven’t always been lucky, Joanna. Life is never perfect.”
She realized her gaffe and covered her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’m so sorry. Of course you’ve had losses. You lived through a war.”
“It’s not that,” he replied, meeting her gaze.
