Chapter 4
“Are you sure you don’t need me for anything else?” Birdie stood at the door, her notebook in her hand. She helped her gram clean the house this morning, then they’d both taken a rest before Gram had gotten up and started getting ready to make supper for their neighbors this evening. Birdie should have known better than to leave her alone for even two seconds, or their house would be filled with people. Not that she normally minded, but... Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have Gram here. But when she told Gram that she was going up and Gram was welcome to join her, she hadn’t realized there was going to be another cottage right next door.
“No. You go on out and write another one of your hit songs. Oh, that reminds me, when I went over yesterday to take them the pie, they asked me what you do for a living.”
A sinking feeling dragged Birdie’s stomach down to her kneecaps. “And what did you tell them?”
“I told him you were a writer. You’re always running around with a notebook and pen in your hand, so it’s obvious that that’s what you are.” Her gram laughed. “I thought it was clever. Go ahead. You can tell me I was clever. It’s okay.”
“Actually, that is kind of clever, Gram. Thanks for not giving away anything else.”
“You can sit at the table tonight and police me, give me the hairy eyeball if I say anything you don’t approve of.”
“Oh, you know I will,” she said before she pushed the door open and stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight. There was almost always a breeze from the lake, which kept things from getting too warm. If she had to guess, the temperature was probably in the high seventies. Not a bad day for Northern Michigan.
She went down the steps to the beach and out until she was at the edge of the dry sandy pebbles. The lake was rather calm, with small waves crashing against the shore. Just enough to give it the sound that she loved, without the dangerous undertow. Not that she had any plans of getting in the water. She could swim, but not well. And typically she stayed out of any area where it might be the slightest bit dangerous. She didn’t enjoy swimming well enough to risk her life for it.
She’d been sitting there for twenty minutes and had one word written in her notebook—peace—before she saw what looked like a head bobbing in the waves down the beach.
She shaded her eyes to get a better look, thinking that it might be someone who needed help, although they had been in the water for a while, since she hadn’t seen anyone either up or down the beach in the amount of time that she’d been out there. But as she looked, she realized it was a man swimming.
She’d seen her neighbor go out to swim once or twice since she’d gotten there, but that had always been in the early morning.
But as he drew closer, he started to come nearer to the shore, and she realized that regardless of when his previous outings had been, he’d chosen to take a swim this afternoon.
She looked back down at her notebook, willing the words to come into her head but unable to think of anything.
Still, she couldn’t stare at her neighbor as he got out of the water and walked up the beach, about fifty yards from her. She lifted her head once, threw up a hand and waved, and looked back down without checking to see whether he had returned her wave or not.
She’d done the friendly thing. But she felt guilty about it. Maybe that was part of her problem. Maybe rather than being isolated from people, she should embrace them, get involved in the town, and live a normal life. Maybe the two extremes, one extreme of being around screaming fans for three hours each evening, then driving or flying for another eight to twelve hours to the next venue, versus being by herself in an isolated cabin along Lake Michigan... Maybe neither one of those were the way to go. Maybe she needed more moderation.
Well, they were having guests over for supper tonight, so that was a beginning. And Gram was going to make sure they went to church tomorrow evening, so there was another beginning. And if she knew her gram, she would sign up for every volunteer spot available where they would allow a nonmember to participate. And if they wouldn’t allow nonmembers, Gram would join.
Birdie wasn’t entirely sure she was up for all of that, but maybe a little bit would be helpful. She had enjoyed working with her gram this morning and felt better than she had in a while.
She couldn’t even think of how long, since she’d been so tired for the last leg of her tour, she had just been getting through it through sheer willpower and determination.
When sitting in the sand for another thirty minutes did not give her any more words on her paper, she got up and took a short walk, thinking that maybe moving her body would help. But it didn’t, and “peace” was the only thing she had written down by the time she came back to the cottage and walked in.
“Did you have a good walk?” her gram asked, apron around her waist, eyeglasses on her nose, and flour on both hands.
“I did. I figured I’d come in and see what I can do to help.”
“You can set the table. I saw some wildflowers outside there earlier. We could pick some to make a little bouquet, which would make the table a little more cheerful. I’m going to get some color on these walls, just mark my words. I hate to do it though because there’s a couple of spots that need to be fixed and all the window frames need to be replaced. The wood is rotted.”
She hadn’t even noticed the rotted wood. Which went to show how much attention she’d been paying to the finer points of the cabin. She just wanted a clean place to lay her head. And food to eat. That was kind of important. Clean dishes maybe.
Dutifully she set the table as neatly as she’d been taught and walked outside to pick flowers. She was on her way back in with the flowers when she saw her neighbors leaving their cottage.
“They’re on their way,” she announced as she came in, grabbing a mason jar because they didn’t have a vase and filling it up with water from the kitchen sink.
“Thanks for the warning, and it’s perfect timing,” Gram said, looking at her watch. “4:58. I like a man who can be on time.”
She hadn’t heard her gram talk about what she liked in a man for a long time. She had gotten the feeling that her gram and pap’s relationship hadn’t been the best, as he had not been a very good husband, but she never got the details from Gram. She kind of figured Gram thought she was too young to know, and then as she got older, she’d gotten involved in her career and all the things she needed to do to make it work and grow, and she hadn’t asked anymore.
“So you have a type?” she asked, smiling a little because she was teasing.
“I don’t know that I have a type, but a guy who can be on time is a bit of a treasure. In my experience, it’s always the man that makes the family late.”
“Well, you have more experience than I do with that,” she said calmly. “But it looks like this guy is going to be on time. At least one of them got them both out the door early.”
She figured it could have been the swimmer who pushed the older man out.
“Did you find out if it was a grandfather with his grandson?”
“I didn’t ask. I just gave him the pie and talked about the weather for a little bit and he asked about us. I was so pleased with myself for being clever that I didn’t carry the conversation any further and simply said good night.”
“It looks like they have your empty pie pan,” Birdie said as she watched them climb the steps to the porch
“Land sakes!” her gram said, peering out the screen door and then turning wide eyes onto Birdie. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Knock, knock,” a voice called.
Birdie didn’t have to tell them to come in, she was standing right there.
Opening the door, she said, “Welcome. So glad you could make it. I’m Birdie.” The younger man walked in first, and she suppressed a sting of disappointment. His T-shirt stretched tight over a wide chest and bulged over defined biceps. Obviously he was a guy who spent a lot of time in the gym, and in Birdie’s experience, guys who were gym rats were often boring. All they wanted to do was talk about nutrition and their muscles. In fact, they typically had never seen a mirror they didn’t love to stand and preen in front of.
She spent enough time with guys like that that she had started avoiding them.
Of course, she knew she was judging, and she tried to push all that aside, but her perfect smile was forced as he shook her hand and said, “I’m Wes.”
“Good to meet you, Wes. You’ve already met my grandmother.”
“And this is my grandfather, Gramps. He has a name, but no one ever uses it.”
“All right then. Good to meet you, Gramps,” she said gamely. It was weird assigning such a familiar name to someone she’d never met before, but she could do it.
“Should I call your gram Gram? ”
“What do you think about that, Gram?” she asked, figuring she wasn’t the one who needed to say. Although people at church usually called her Mrs. Pollock, there were other people who called her Polly, her given name.
“Gram is fine, if that makes you comfortable,” Gram said with an easy, welcoming smile. “Just let me get this flour rinsed off my hands. I put the cinnamon rolls in the oven, and they should be piping hot and ready by the time we’re done eating.”
“I brought the blueberry pie pan back, and I was hoping you’d have something more for dessert tonight.” Gramps waved the pie pan around like a white flag of surrender. Or maybe a red flag in front of the bull, which would probably be a more apt description of Gram, if not the pie plate.
“Oh my goodness, that disappeared fast,” Gram said, wiping her hands and taking the pie plate away from him.
“It was the best pie I’d ever eaten. Regardless of the kind.”
“Blueberry is my favorite, and I admit I had almost half of it.”
“Almost half, is that so,” Gram said, looking at Wes before turning back to Gramps. “So that means, if my math is correct, you ate a little over half.”
“And I cherished every bite. It almost makes a man want to pledge to keep you supplied in blueberries for the summer if you’ll keep him supplied in blueberry pie.”
“Well, there are other kinds of pie that are almost as good,” Gram said, then she added, “But if you want to keep me supplied in blueberries, I’m pretty sure I can find a little bit of time in my day to make blueberry pie anytime I have some extra blueberries sitting around.”
“That’s a deal,” Gramps said.
They shifted a bit, looking at the table. Birdie figured that it was her turn to try to be a good hostess, and she said, “Would you like to sit down? We’re ready to put the food on the table. Gram made our family’s famous chicken divan, and we’ve never had anyone who has eaten and not loved it.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Although I have to say, as long as it’s not burnt and not raw, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be better than anything we’ve had for the last six days.”
“You fellas can’t cook?” Gram said, and if she hadn’t had the chicken divan in her hands, she might have been rubbing them together. Birdie could almost see her thinking of all the things that she could make for their new neighbors. Anyone who appreciated her cooking was a lifelong friend to Gram. Of course, Birdie couldn’t talk, because she definitely appreciated her gram’s cooking. She hadn’t inherited her abilities, although she could make food that would keep her from starving.
They finished setting the food on the table, and it did smell delicious. Her walk had given her a bit of an appetite, since it had been a while since food even smelled good to her. She hoped she was able to eat enough so she didn’t draw attention to herself. She didn’t want anyone looking at her and wondering why she wasn’t eating.
As they settled in their chairs, Gram looked over at Gramps and said, “Would you like to say grace for us?”
This always made Birdie hold her breath. There had been multiple times they had invited people over to eat who had acted surprised or offended that they said grace before their meal and even more surprised and offended when they had been asked to say it for them.
Personally, Birdie thought it was probably a good idea that if they were going to invite guests over, they should be the ones planning on saying grace. But her gram was old-fashioned that way and did not say a prayer if there was a man around to say it for her.
Birdie knew that the Bible said that it was a shame for women to speak in church, but there wasn’t anything that said a woman couldn’t say grace in her own house. Regardless, she didn’t argue with her gram about it. She could handle it however she wanted to. Birdie just thought it would make their guests more comfortable to not put them on the spot like that.
But to her surprise, Gramps nodded immediately. “I’d love to. Especially when it smells like this.”
They all bowed their heads, and Gramps began, “Lord God, thank you for food that smells like it’s not just going to be edible but delicious. I pray that You bless it, bless our conversation, and bless this lady’s hands, and make them literally fruitful all summer long. Amen.”
Birdie smothered a smile before she looked up. She was pretty sure that Gramp’s prayer was...deliberately humorous.
In an underhanded sort of way. The kind of humor that she knew Gram could get on board with. Gram might be an in-your-face person, but she and Birdie got along well, because they were opposites. Gramps seemed a little bit more outgoing than Birdie, but his humor seemed a little understated, perfect to complement her gram .
And there she was, all of a sudden she’d gone from pop superstar to matchmaker. When had she ever been interested in matchmaking her gram?
She’d always been selfish and wanted her gram for herself. This could end up being an interesting summer.
“So, Birdie, that’s a unique name,” Gramps said as he helped himself to a piece of chicken.
“My mom was a unique person,” she said, her standard answer for such a thing.
“Your gram said when she was over yesterday, that you were a writer. You write books?” Wes spoke as he took the pan of chicken from his grandfather.
Boy. What to say about that. Gram and her clever answer. She looked over, and Gram met her eyes, an apology on her face. Birdie couldn’t be upset with her. She was just trying to be friendly. And she would never ask her to lie. So, saying that she was a writer was better than saying that she was a pop sensation superstar, world-famous and getting ready to gear up for her Asian tour which started in January of the next year.
“I haven’t written a book yet,” she said, smiling. And then, so he couldn’t ask a follow-up question, she reached over to take the chicken divan from him and said, “But Gram didn’t say what you did for a living?”
She figured, from the look of it, he was probably some kind of athletic instructor or something along those lines.
“I’m actually writing a book too.”
“Oh,” she said, truly surprised. That was not what she was expecting at all.
She tried to find the smallest piece of chicken in the dish, hoping that Gram had maybe cut one in half thinking of her, but no such luck.
She got the least amount that she was able to take and set it on her plate. She hadn’t eaten that much in months. There was no way she was going to shovel that entire piece down her throat, and the side salad and rolls hadn’t even passed her yet.
Not that she was hungry for either of those things either.
The sticky buns smelled good though. Maybe she just needed some carbs.
“What kind of books are you writing?” she asked as she passed the chicken on to her gram and took the rolls from Wes.
“I’m writing a nonfiction book.” He sounded like he might want to say more, but he clamped his mouth closed. As though he felt like he couldn’t trust her. She almost laughed. So she wasn’t the only one keeping secrets. She wondered what in the world kind of nonfiction book he could be writing. A book on all the exercises a person could do with just a lake and a cottage and a beach?
“I used to be a carpenter. And I happened to notice that your window frames could be replaced. I don’t want to brag on myself, but I used to do pretty good work. I was wondering if you might want to trade window frames for food?” Gramps looked at Gram when he said that.
As well he should, since Birdie certainly wasn’t the one who had made the delicious food. At least from the way it smelled, she assumed it was delicious. She’d gotten one bite in her mouth, but it just tasted like shredded paper to her. She knew her appetite would come back, but she just needed to give it time.
She sighed, because that seemed to be what everything took, time, right? She tried not to be discouraged. It was going to take time to write songs for her album, time for her to feel better, time for her life to pan out the way she wanted it to.
She hadn’t planned on being a pop superstar, and she couldn’t complain, because so many people would kill to be in her position, but she wanted a normal life too. Kids, husband, a family. The kind of childhood she remembered growing up at her grandma’s house.
“Well, I was going to give you food whether you traded me anything for it or not, but I certainly am not going to turn down having the window frames replaced.”
Gram didn’t mention it, but Birdie had not rented the cottage. She’d leased it first, then persuaded the owner to sell. The papers hadn’t been signed yet. They were just waiting for the closing date. Everything had been drawn up.
“You don’t need to check with the landlord?” Wes asked, lifting a brow and almost sounding like he was suspicious of something.
“We own the house.” She didn’t say anything more. She wanted to explain, just in case he had owned his house for years and knew the neighbors. She might as well not sit around and wonder about it, but just go ahead and ask.
“How long have you lived in your cottage?” she asked, assuming that that wasn’t their permanent residence. It must get pretty wicked in the winter.
“We just moved in. Five days ago, actually, six counting today. Wes here bought it and decided it would make a nice—”
Wes gave Gramps a look, and Gramps’s mouth clamped closed faster than the blueberry pie had disappeared.
Interesting. Very, very interesting.