“You’re early,” I say, my voice coming out higher than intended.
Gram waves this off like it’s a minor technicality. “Craziest luck, Maisie Louise. Not a single stoplight from Montana to here.”
“You must have been going ninety the whole way,” I say, eyeing hersuspiciously.
“The Lord protects the righteous,” she says with a wink, stepping past me into the house without waiting for an invitation.
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” I suggest, not because I want her gone, but because she’s pushing eighty and just drove through half the country.
“I already rested. I took a power nap when I arrived earlier this morning. Then I took care of my alpacas—Basil tried to make a break for it again, bless his stubborn heart—then I came straight here.”
She drops her bags on the coffee table and pulls me into a hug, her woolen sweater smelling like lanolin and coffee. She then holds me at arm’s length, studying my face with narrowed eyes.
“You’ve been eating,” she says, her gaze sharp and assessing. “And sleeping. Your eyes have lost those raccoon circles, as cute as they were.” Her head tilts. “What changed?”
I scramble for an explanation that doesn’t involve an eight-foot slime monster living inmy house. “The big order is keeping me busy. Too much to do to mope around.”
Gram gives me a look that says she’s buying exactly zero percent of that explanation but will let it slide.
For now.
Her eyes drift to the couch, where the cushions still bear the indentation of Oz’s recently departed form.
I realize then that he’s heavier than he seems, which is very unfortunate for me.
“You got yourself memory foam cushions?” she asks, pointing to the perfect Oz-shaped indentation. “Do they even make those? Looks comfortable. But leaves a weird dent, doesn’t it?” She squints. “Sort of looks like Gumby was sitting there.”
“It’s just… the cushions are old,” I say, moving quickly to sit on the offending dent. “So, you’re here! Early! What a surprise!”
Gram narrows her eyes at me for a moment, before reaching into her canvas bag and pulling out a small felted alpaca. “I made you this, back inMontana.”
She holds it up between thumb and forefinger, turning it so the light catches the fiber.
It’s small enough to fit in my palm, cream-colored with a tuft of unruly wool on its head and two tiny black bead eyes set slightly too far apart, giving it a look of perpetual mild alarm.
“It’s Basil. See the expression? That’s his ‘I found the weak spot in the fence’ face.”
I take it from her, and the wool is impossibly soft against my fingers.
Gram’s felting has always had this quality, each piece dense and warm and slightly lopsided in a way that makes it feel alive.
“He’s perfect,” I say.
Gram settles into the armchair across from the couch, the one with the reading lamp and the permanent butt groove that belongs exclusively to her.
She then folds her hands in her lap the way she does when she’s about to stay awhile, fingers laced, thumbs circling each other in slow orbits.
Her eyes move across the room with the unhurried attention of someone taking inventory.
“So,” she says after a moment. “You going to offer your grandmother some coffee, or do I need to invoke Exodus 20:12?”
“That’s ‘honor thy father and mother,’ Gram.”
“Grandmothers are implied. It’s in the subtext.”
Regardless, I get up, grateful for the excuse to move, and pour her a cup.
Gram takes a long sip and sets the mug down on the coaster I keep on the side table for exactly this purpose.
