Chapter 6
Six
Twenty-Two Years Earlier
Bronwyn sat at the large dining room table with her hands in her lap. Her ankles were crossed. Her shoulders were back.
Grandmother Pierce eyed her with approval. “Excellent. Now what do you do when the server brings the salad?”
The etiquette lessons had been going on for a year, and Bronwyn rarely misstepped. She knew how to handle every piece of silverware, understood which glasses went with which beverages, and knew where to put her napkin if she needed to leave the table midmeal.
Today’s lesson ended with a divine chocolate mousse that came in a tiny cup because Grandmother said girls had to be careful to never overindulge.
Bronwyn rose to tell Grandmother goodbye but resumed her seat when Grandmother gestured for her to stay.
“You’ve been hanging around with the Quinn children.” Grandmother raised an eyebrow and her lips pinched, transforming her face into an imperious expression that frightened many. But not Bronwyn.
For all her formalities, Grandmother Pierce liked her.
She wasn’t like Granny Quinn. She wasn’t affectionate or warm, and Bronwyn didn’t think her grandmother even loved her.
But she didn’t despise her, and that was saying something because Bronwyn was certain her grandmother couldn’t stand most of the Pierces.
“Yes, Grandmother. They’re my best friends.”
“Do they still drag you all over the forest and bring you home with dirty clothes and twigs in your hair?”
“Sometimes. We went camping last weekend. It was awesome. We played in the water at the base of the falls, and we roasted hot dogs over a fire, and we—”
“Yes, yes. I know. It was a delight. I’m glad you enjoyed it. But you’re old enough to understand something.”
Bronwyn waited.
“You can be friends but nothing more.”
Bronwyn had learned never to say “Huh?” or “What?” around her grandmother, but she was confused. “Ma’am?”
“Those boys, Cal and Mo, they can be your friends. But nothing else.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you like them? As more than friends?”
“No, ma’am. We’ve been friends for years. But they’re boys. They do gross things and make loud noises, and the things they think are funny are . . . not.”
Grandmother sighed. “Yes. Boys this age are often like that. But they grow up.”
“Well, we aren’t going to grow up until we have to.” She’d heard Mo say that, and she wholeheartedly agreed.
“Good plan, child.”