Chapter 9 #2
Both Penelope and Grampie spin around, the former pressing a palm to her chest. “You scared me,” she accuses on a panting breath.
Granny grins wickedly, which makes me wonder how many times she’s snuck down here just to give one or both of them a fright. “Evangeline wants to see your new project.”
Grampie hustles over in his uneven gait and pulls me fiercely to his chest in a crushing hug while being careful not to get the tiny paintbrush pinched between his fingers anywhere near my clothes.
Even with his eightieth birthday behind him, he’s still a strong man, and I love that his hugs squeeze the air from my lungs.
Grampie kisses my bald head, and I try not to be self-conscious of the action. There’s not a hint of disgust on Grampie’s face when he pulls back, his eyes twinkling with energy and mischief. “Come see. You’re going to love this.”
I follow him over to the table where a boxlike structure sits.
Instead of a full house, it appears he’s working on a single room.
There are only three walls, with the fourth and the roof missing.
Better to see inside. Although, as I look closer and my stomach spins in on itself, I’m regretting the easy view.
“What is it?” I ask in horror. This isn’t one of the sweet, innocent dollhouses I’m used to seeing Grampie working on. No. This is a macabre horror show of a child’s nightmare come to life.
“Isn’t it great?” Penelope is staring down into the box with a look of awe and wonder on her face.
My decorous and genteel sister, her long chestnut hair pulled back in a stylish low ponytail with the ends curled to perfection, is wearing a dress that would command a conference room of her male counterparts.
She gazes at a miniature replica of a gruesome crime scene with the same expression other women bestow on baby bunnies.
“They started listening to a true crime podcast a couple of months ago and one thing led to another. Now they re-create murder scenes—”
“One foot to one-inch measurements,” Grampie interjects, making sure Granny gets her facts straight.
Because that’s what’s important here. Obviously.
Granny shakes her head. “Anyway, they build these tiny crime scenes based off the podcast descriptions and then they try to see if they can solve the murder.”
Grampie dips his paintbrush into a small container of red paint. Ever so carefully, he moves his hand into the scene and hovers the bristle beside the wall to the left of the victim. “About here?” He looks at Penelope for confirmation.
She studies the angle carefully before nodding. “I think that’s about right.”
Then I watch something I never thought I’d ever see in my life: my eighty-year-old grandfather meticulously creating believable blood splatter on a dollhouse wall.
“All right, Rizzoli and Isles, time to come upstairs for lunch. Evangeline brought lasagna.” Granny clutches the railing leading to the main floor with her blue-veined hand and leans heavily on the support as she makes her way up the stairs, confident we will obediently follow in her wake.
Penelope peers down at the gruesome scene she and Grampie must have spent hours re-creating, a disappointed pout pursing her lips. It’s like she’s eight again and Granny has just told her to put away her Barbies.
Grampie reaches for a ratty old dishcloth, then cleans the brush he’d been using. “The blood needs to dry anyway. Besides, we can work on it again after lunch. Maybe Evangeline will want to help out.” He looks at me, his watery eyes hopeful.
I don’t want to disappoint Grampie.
I also don’t want to have nightmares tonight.
While the majority of people in this country seem to have been bitten by some type of true-crime bug, I’m much more comfortable with the fictional variety.
After all, I can console myself that the twisted mind of the killer is just a figment of an author’s imagination.
With true crime, I have to face the fact that there really are warped and evil people in the world doing heinous things every day.
It’s not a comforting thought to try to fall asleep to, let me tell you.
Every whistle of the wind outside my bedroom window has me conjuring images of a serial killer about to make me his next victim.
I forcibly lift my attention away from the crime scene, which had held me in some sort of trance, only to meet Penelope’s smirk and an expression I can only describe as older sister.
“I don’t know, Grampie. Evangeline looks a little green around the gills already, and she hasn’t even heard the details of the murder yet.”
Grampie puts the tiny brush back in the Mason jar with the other ones. He turns to me and pats my shoulder a couple of times. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. This particular murder happened five years ago.”
“So they’ve caught the woman’s killer?” I’m going to need to triple check my locks tonight. Maybe watch The Sound of Music before bed in an attempt to whitewash the mental image this scene has seared into my brain. Maybe then I’ll be able to sleep.
Penelope smirks louder. Yes, louder. Her body language is at a deafening decibel at the moment. “Nope. They never could figure out who shot her or why. Isn’t it fascinating?”
“Not the word I’d use,” I mumble, though not quietly enough that Penelope doesn’t hear me.
“You want to see some of the other scenes we’ve built?” Grampie grins like a little kid in a candy store.
I don’t have the heart to refuse him, which is how I find myself staring at a shelf of death. “Wow. You guys have been busy.” I try my hardest to sound impressed and not ill. It is impressive. But mostly it’s disturbing.
I turn to Grampie and force a bright smile on my face. “Well, should we go upstairs now? Granny’s sure to get cross with us if we stay down here any longer.”
Grampie pats his belly. “I’m getting hungry anyway. And you know how much I love your lasagna.”
I’m a decent cook, but Grampie would say that even if the noodles were crunchy and the cheese on top burnt.
Penelope lingers beside me as we let our grandfather mount the steps ahead of us. Both Granny and Grampie are in good health for their age and don’t have any issues with mobility, but we still worry about one of them tripping and falling.
“You were supposed to call me back,” Penelope whisper-hisses out of the side of her mouth.
“I’ve been busy,” I whisper back.
“Too busy for them?” Her arm flings out to indicate Grampie, who’s made it perfectly fine to the top of the stairs and to Granny, who we can hear puttering around the kitchen above us.
You’re too busy for the two people who raised you?
she implies. Too busy to give back to the two people who sacrificed so much for you?
Too busy to honor the two people in the world who love you no matter what?
I cringe at her silent accusations. “That’s not fair and you know it.”
Penelope sighs. “We need to hash out some details. Today. Before you leave, okay?”
“Fine.”
While Grampie had been opening my eyes to the turn his hobby has taken, Granny had reheated the lasagna, put together a salad, and set the table. She’s setting the steaming casserole dish on crocheted hot pads when Penelope and I finally emerge from the basement.
“Don’t forget to wash up before you sit down.”
Doesn’t matter that Penelope and I are both adults now. Granny will be reminding us to wash up before a meal for the rest of our lives. We head down the hall to the bathroom.
Granny and Grampie are already seated at the formal dining room table when we return.
Honestly, this is one of the things I miss most, gathering with my family around this scarred table with a trove of memories.
Growing up, we were never allowed to eat in the living room in front of the TV like my friends said they did, and I’d thought it was totally unfair.
Now, I can appreciate my grandparents’ unbending rule about the sanctity of family meals.
Grampie places his hands on the table, palms up. Granny slides her fingers between his on one side as I clasp his hand on the other, completing the circle by also grasping Penelope’s.
“Dear Lord, for this food we are truly thankful. For this family, we are truly blessed. May we always recognize your workings and sustenance in our lives. Amen.”
“Amen,” we chorus.
Grampie looks up and smiles warmly at Penelope and me. “So, girls, how have you been? Fill your granny and me in on your lives.”
Granny uses a spatula to serve squares of lasagna. “Thank you,” I say as she hands me a plate laden with cheesy and saucy goodness.
“Well—” Penelope wipes her mouth with a napkin before settling the paper back onto her lap under the table—“I was just named lead on a new project at work.”
“Congratulations.” Granny beams. “We’re so proud of you and your accomplishments.”
Penelope glows under their praise.
Grampie turns to me, his fork poised in the air. “And what about you, Evangeline?”
Granny’s looking at me, her eyes wide in expectation.
I love that they automatically assume I’ll have great news to share like Penelope does.
But, really, what can I say? That I’ve decided to be a matchmaking librarian because I just can’t give up on the idea of romance altogether, even though it’s given up on me? Yeah, that wouldn’t go over well.
Instead, I do the one thing that has worked since the beginning of time.
I change the subject.
“I’d rather talk about you. Your fiftieth anniversary is coming up soon. Any special plans?”
Penelope kicks me under the table. Hard. It’s a challenge to keep the pleasant smile on my face and not flinch. About as challenging as ignoring her tight expression and narrowed gaze. I’m not looking at her, but I can still see it out of the corner of my eye.
Granny looks at Grampie and visibly melts in her chair. “Fifty years. Can you believe it, Ron?”
He leans over and presses a kiss to her cheek. “It’s only the beginning, if I have any say in the matter.”
Granny blushes as if she were a new bride and playfully swats at his arm. “Oh you. You always have been a charmer.”
Seeing their interactions makes me think of the trouble I’ve been having figuring out a way to set up a meet-cute between Stacey and Dalton.
Fictional romances have been helpful up to a point.
I mean, authors seem to really like their heroes and heroines to literally stop in their tracks by physically running into each other.
Aside from shoving Stacey at just the right moment so she stumbles and falls into Dalton’s waiting arms, that option doesn’t seem very logical for an orchestrated romantic moment.
Some other alternatives I’ve gleaned from perusing the romance display at the library:
They meet when he accidently locks himself out of his apartment. For some reason, he’s only wearing a towel.
They meet at a coffee shop and both go to the counter to collect their drinks after the barista calls out the name. Wow, they share a name. What else could they share?
It’s Christmas and they are both shopping for the same rare-to-find toy. And, of course, there’s only one left on the shelf.
She accidentally takes his suitcase at baggage claim instead of her own.
None of these will work for staging a moment in which Stacey and Dalton—who, let’s face it, in a town the size of Little Creek probably already know each other—can have their first meeting.
Maybe I need some real-life inspiration. I lay my fork down on the side of my plate. “You know, I don’t think you’ve ever told Penelope or me how you two met or fell in love.”
Grampie’s brows jump to his receded hairline. “We haven’t?”
I shake my head. “You used to tell us how Mom and Dad met at a baseball game. They were fan rivals sitting beside each other. She was cheering for the Atlanta Braves while he was a die-hard Mets fan. The kiss cam zoomed in on them. At first, they shook their heads and tried to wave the camera away, but when the crowd started chanting kiss, kiss, kiss, they both sort of laughed, shrugged, and leaned in for a peck. Which turned into a whole lot more.” I grin.
I can’t help myself. I love that story so much.
I used to ask Granny to tell it to me every night for a whole year. “But I’ve never heard your story.”
“Your grandfather used to write me the sweetest, most romantic notes and then somehow sneak them into my bag or somewhere else he knew I’d find them.
” Granny is talking to me, but her focus is fastened to Grampie.
“He never signed his name, though. He always ended the notes with eternally yours, a secret admirer.” She laughs.
“It nearly drove me insane not knowing who was writing me such lovely things. By the time he finally confessed it was him, I was already head over heels for him from his penned words.”
They lean toward each other for a sound smooch.
“Did you keep the notes?” Penelope asks.
“Of course I did. A girl doesn’t throw away sentiment like that.”
Love letters. My mouth parts in a smile.
Completely feasible and the perfect way to get Stacey and Dalton to realize they are a match made in heaven.
Roxane fell in love with Cyrano’s words though he signed Christian’s name, didn’t she?
I rub my hands together under the table. This is going to work.