Chapter 3
“What did I tell you?” Gramps said as he stood at the window, peeking out through the one spot that they’d rubbed a circle of dirt off so they could see out.
Wesley knew he probably should figure out whatever kind of cleaner people used to clean windows and use it on theirs, but he hadn’t been inspired to do that. Instead, he’d been so uptight about writing the book that he should have had written a year ago but he had kept putting off. There wasn’t any reason for him to have not started it. It was all Wesley’s fault.
“What did you tell me?” Wesley got up from where he was writing at the small table, or staring at the blank screen with his fingers poised above the keyboard, and walked over to the window.
“I think she’s carrying a pie!” Gramps said, and he couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice.
It was true that sometimes he put a little weight on in the off-season, but not this year. So far, he’d been staying in shape by taking long runs on the beach and doing all the exercises he knew to do without machines, but he probably should hit the gym. He didn’t want to come in in the middle of the season out of shape.
Regardless, whether he was underweight or working on losing some, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d had homemade pie, and he was pretty sure that being that the lady was holding it with oven mitts on both hands, this one had just come out of the oven.
“I think we had an angel move in next door,” Gramps said.
“I think you’re being a little melodramatic. Don’t scare her away on her first trip. There might be more than pie in her repertoire, and it would be a shame if we didn’t get to try it all.”
Gramps gave him a grin, like they were conspiring to be nice to their neighbors just for personal gain, when both of them knew that not to be true. If the lady hadn’t come over this evening, Gramps would have found a reason to go visit the next day, and not just because he was hoping she would cook for them. Although, he definitely was not going to turn food down. Neither of them would, after the “food” they’d been eating for the last five days.
“I think I better go offer to carry it for her,” Gramps said as he hurried toward the door. He was in his late seventies but was still just as spry as he was when he was fifty.
“If you’re going to carry it for her, you might want to think of something to protect your hands. She’s wearing oven mitts.”
“Good thinking, boy. I knew I raised you right.” Gramps turned from the door and searched for something he could use.
“Here.” Wesley threw him the first thing he could grab, and Gramps caught it as it hit his chest.
“An old T-shirt?” Gramps questioned. Then he lifted his shoulder, turned, and went out the door.
Wesley shook his head. He probably should forget about getting anything done, other than writing the words “Chapter 1” at the top of the screen. Which he had already done six months ago when he realized that he needed to get on this. But he didn’t know where to start. Did he start with his childhood? His birth? Could he explain all the things that had gone on? Or were readers just interested in hockey? Should he start with his first professional game? It seemed like his life had been predestined long before his first professional hockey game. But he didn’t know what else to do.
He still hadn’t figured anything out when Gramps came back in the house, one hand underneath the pie, one hand opening and closing the door.
“It’s blueberry,” he said, like he was announcing the birth of the long-awaited heir to the kingdom .
“Blueberry is my favorite. You probably ought to let me eat it.”
“Everything is your favorite. She made me promise to share with you, but that does not include allowing you to have the entire thing,” his gramps said, lifting his brows and giving him a warning look. A look that Wesley understood to mean that he was only going to get half of the pie. If that. “If you wanted more, you should have gone out to meet her.”
“Did you talk her into cooking breakfast for us tomorrow?”
“Baby steps, son. Baby steps.” Gramps held up a hand as he set the pie down on the counter. “We’re invited over for supper tomorrow night.”
“That’s awesome. Are you serious?”
“I sure am. Chicken divan. Her secret family recipe. Apparently she’s there with her granddaughter, who happens to be a writer.”
“A writer? Are you serious?”
“When I asked her what her granddaughter did, she said she was a writer.”
“That’s awesome. Maybe...”
“I already know what you’re thinking, and I think if we work our cards right, we just might have hit the jackpot with our neighbors.”