Chapter 6
Cassie
I drive past Nana’s house—a two-story with a prominent porch and a peaked roof that creates an ample attic. The gray wood siding is still serviceable, but the paint has seen better days, much of it flaking and peeling, begging for attention, a stark contrast to the freshly painted homes to the right and left. Her roof needs replacing, the garage is full of termite damage, and the porch spindles are rotting and falling away one by one.
Nevertheless, the usual warm and cozy feelings come over me as I pull into a parallel spot a few houses down and cut my engine, happy to embark on our Sunday tradition of good food and family bonding.
When I enter, the house already smells like roasted ham. Nana usually slow cooks the meat on Sunday morning while we’re at church and then we help with side dishes and dessert afterward. I don’t know what’s on the menu today except for the green beans she wants me to snap.
An original wood staircase adds grandness to the ample entryway. Nana hasn’t touched the hardwoods or the trim except to sand everything down in the early 2000s. She applied fresh stain, keeping true to the dark trim and lighter, orange-toned floors.
A wide entryway to the left leads to the living area and the dining area beyond. The kitchen sits at the back of the house next to the dining room, closed off from guests according to turn-of-the-century architectural design. Back then, no one wanted to see the mess in the kitchen.
When I remodel the house for Nana, I want to open up the kitchen and add an island so she and Mom can talk to us while they’re busy whipping up family favorites.
Granny sits in her favorite orange recliner with an afghan on her lap—one she crocheted years ago before her hands became stiff and gnarled from arthritis. A beanie hat covers her thin hair, a means to keep her warm, which is a constant struggle since Nana is hot-natured and likes to keep the AC cranked.
Thankfully Grandpa had the foresight to install central air before he died. It’s still groaning along but on its last leg. Something else I’ll need to replace.
“What are you watching?” I ask Granny when I enter the living room.
“Huh?”
“What are you watching?” I say a little louder.
“The Falcons and the Saints,” she says in her creaky voice.
“Whoah, we’re starting off the season with a bang.”
“The new quarterback throws like a duck with a limp.”
“That can’t be good.”
“Just ‘cause he’s the first draft pick doesn’t mean he’s any good.”
“It usually means something.”
Granny waves a hand at me and then wiggles her dentures before setting her jaw.
“Where’s Madison?” I ask. “I didn’t see her car.”
“She had to go pick your Aunt Suzanne up from work.”
“Okay. Well. Nana needs me in the kitchen. I’ll be back to visit in a bit.”
“I’m used to being alone in this icebox,” Granny grumbles.
Granny’s never alone. Nana’s here whenever Mom leaves and vice versa. Granny doesn’t need much help, just needs watching since she sometimes gets an urge to climb the stairs or wash her own clothes in the basement. She can’t be trusted with the gas stove, either. She forgets to turn off the burners and nearly blew up the kitchen a few years ago.
Granny has the downstairs bedroom, so she doesn’t have to climb stairs, and Mom and Nana sleep upstairs. They survive on Granny and Nana’s Social Security, along with Mom’s income from the bank.
It was the same when I was growing up, with Nana already retired and Mom working two jobs to make ends meet while paying off Dad’s hospital bills. Feeding and clothing us were all she could manage. We never went on vacations, barely left the city.
“I’ll bring you a roll,” I say over my shoulder as I head to the kitchen.
“Butter and honey,” Granny croaks.
On my way to the kitchen, I pause at the credenza and fuss with the fresh flower arrangement. Nana always splurges on a bouquet on Sundays to decorate our small memorial. Photos of the deceased Sears family patriarchs—my Great Grandfather Charles, my Grandpa Allen, and my dad, William—surround the vase.
Nana keeps our family history alive, bragging about how Great Grandpa Charles opened a chain of Charleston grocery stores. Grandpa Allen inherited the stores, but as the big box grocery stores took over market share, he had to close them one by one, until all that remained was Fresh and Save on King Street.
Nana managed the store after Grandpa died until it was no longer profitable. They hadn’t been able to save for retirement, so she took cashier jobs here and there to supplement Social Security until her feet wouldn’t allow her to stand for more than an hour.
I pick up my dad’s picture and brush away the thin layer of dust on top. He died when I was still in grade school. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in May and passed in August. While mourning my dad, I worried about how Mom would pay the bills without Dad’s income, if we’d lose our house, whether I’d have presents at Christmas.
Mom couldn’t manage the bills, so Nana invited us to move in, which was a blessing amidst tragedy, even though my teenage self didn’t see it that way when I had two Sears women harping at me about spending too much time in my room texting my friends.
Dad had decided to shun the family business and become an electrician. He worked long hours but still managed to attend church, to call me his little princess when I danced for him in my Sunday dress, to take us to the beach and teach me to swim among the waves. Or at least float a little. While wearing floaties.
What if he’d been around to support the family, to call me beautiful before prom, to cheer me on while starting my new businesses? I sigh, set down the photo, and shove away the longing ache in my chest that revisits whenever I think about what might have been.
“Hey,” I say when I enter the yellow kitchen.
“She made it,” Nana says.
“I escaped.”
The kitchen isn’t up to Instagram standards. There is no island, no peninsula, no quartz countertops, or fancy backsplash. Instead, two walls of 1950s-style cabinets offer inadequate storage—only one wall boasting uppers. Nana’s stove lacks a task light, but that doesn’t stop her from cooking hearty meals. A round table occupies the opposite corner of the room. It’s covered with small Amazon boxes, random paperwork, and junk mail.
Mom’s standing at the tiled counter peeling potatoes. Her gauchos may be a little out of style, but she still rocks them with a pair of sandals and a flowy blouse. She could land a man in seconds if she wanted one, but she hasn’t dated since Dad died. The wedding ring on her left hand is a natural male-deterrent.
She looks over her shoulder at me. “What did Michael want?”
“He wants to get back together.”
“What’s going on in his head?” Mom says, not missing a slice.
“I didn’t stay to find out. He just said he thinks we made a mistake. I told him we didn’t, and then I backed out of the sanctuary and left him standing there all alone.”
Mom stops mid-slice and raises an eyebrow at me.
“He really needs to find a new church,” Nana says as she fans her neck with a paper plate.
She’s wound her hair up in a bun and stripped down to a tank top. Pots of boiling water surround her in a billowy cloud of steam, one pot for Mom’s potatoes, and the other for the beans. I guess that means I need to get to it.
I head over to the refrigerator and shove a bottle of mayonnaise aside to grab the bulging bag of green beans. It’s more than we need, but Nana likes to have leftovers.
“Outa the way, Mom,” I say, and Mom complies.
I grab a colander from the lower cabinets and a small bowl from the uppers, and then Mom slides back to her cutting board.
“I’m going to keep Granny company while I work on these,” I say as I plop the bag of green beans into the colander.
On my way out of the kitchen, I notice a letter with a familiar logo. I set down my bowl and grab it.
Nana notices and swipes at me. “Gimme that.”
The letter is from Herbst Development company. They want to give her four hundred thousand for the house. My jaw drops.
“They’re still bugging you, Nana?” I ask.
“I get something in the mail almost every day from some company or person wanting this house.”
“They’ve raised their offer.”
Nana plants her hands on her hips. “I’m staying with my peeling gray paint and my rotten porch. I don’t care if this house hurts property values.”
I set the letter back on the stack. Mom peers at me from behind Nana and shrugs.
“Maybe in ten years, I’ll buy this place,” I say. “In the meantime, I’m going to help you remodel so the roof doesn’t fall in on you.”
“With what money?”
“The money I make when MatchAI takes off. And I’m still making money from Old Towne Ghost Tours on the side. That equity is just tied up at the moment.”
“Pshh.”
“We’ve talked about this.”
“I don’t need your money.”
“Nana.”
“You haven’t made the money yet, so it’s moot.”
“What’s moot?” Madison says. She bustles into the kitchen carrying a pie. Her mom, my Aunt Suzanne, follows her.
“Your cousin’s pipe dream of remodeling my house,” Nana says, and then she points at me. “Get to work on those beans. I’m about to throw in the potatoes.” She pours a significant amount of salt into one of the pots.
“Here,” Madison says. She sets her pie on the table, grabs the beans from my hands, and drops into one of the fifties-style chrome chairs. “I’ll help.”
“I was going to keep Granny company,” I say.
“I’m hungry,” Madison says.
“Wash your hands first!” Nana says. “Those acrylic nails are like petri dishes.”
“Fine, Nana,” Madison says. She heads over to the sink and washes her hands, trailing up her forearms and scrubbing under her nails like she’s about to go into surgery. “Good enough?” She displays her arms to Nana.
“It’d be better without the nails,” Nana mumbles.
Madison rolls her eyes and then tosses me the towel. “Your turn.”
I wash my hands, pull up a chair by Madison, and grab a handful of beans, quickly snapping off the stems but leaving the opposite ends intact.
Aunt Suzanne pulls up a third chair and snatches a handful of beans. She’s still in her scrubs. The weary set of her eyes tells me she had another long shift. If the hospital keeps running her ragged, they’re going to lose a good nurse.
“Don’t underestimate Cassie,” Madison says continuing the remodeling discussion. “She lit up the greater Charleston broadcast area Friday morning. Did you watch it?”
Nana dumps Mom’s diced potatoes into boiling water. “I saw Luke Curtis’s handsome photo and you sitting there like you’d never met him before.”
My face warms.
“Did you two plan it?” Madison asks.
“Why would I plan anything with Luke?” I pick up my pace, finding relief from each snap.
“So, his profile just happened to come up? You had no idea?”
“None whatsoever.”
Madison raises an eyebrow at me, joined by her upper lip—an incredulous expression. “He just happened to be in your database, and his profile just happened to come up while you were on live television pitching your application.”
“That man always was an opportunist,” Aunt Suzanne says.
I grit my teeth and take a deep breath. “It was just a coincidence. Weird, huh? He said one of his investor friends at Excel invited him to beta test the app.”
Mom turns around and leans against the counter, wiping her hands on a towel before crossing her arms. “You two always did have a lot in common. Maybe Cupid is on to something.”
“Cupid definitely isn’t on to something,” I reply.
“You don’t think?” Mom says. “I thought you programmed her to churn out soulmates.”
“Well—”
“I still find it odd that his profile just happened to come up,” Madison says, cutting me off. She throws a handful of beans into the colander.
“It wasn’t my favorite moment,” I say.
Madison shrugs. “You played it off well.”
“How did your date go?” Mom asks.
As far as I know, no one in the room has an Instagram account, so they were spared that trainwreck. Madison’s weird about sharing her personal life on the internet. Mom, Nana, and Aunt Suzanne just post Wordle scores on Facebook.
Nana walks over, grabs the colander, and starts rinsing the beans. “You and Luke went on a date?”
“I thought you said you watched the entire news segment,” Aunt Suzanne says.
“Granny needed help in the bathroom. I may have missed a minute or two.”
Madison catches Nana up. “She and Luke went on a date on Friday and livestreamed it. They’re going to be on I107 on Monday to tell us whether they hit it off or not.”
Nana props her lower back with her hand and looks at me like I just grew horns. “You livestreamed your date?”
“Not all of it,” I say.
“So, you went on a date, live, with the guy who cheated on you, but you were pretending you didn’t know him. And this all happened on Instagram?”
“Yep.” I snap my last green bean and drop it onto my pile.
Nana relaxes her stance and pivots to the stove to drop a handful of green beans into boiling water. “I gotta get me an Instagram account.”
“It’s a publicity stunt,” I say. “That’s all. A publicity stunt that took an unexpected turn.”
“When the stunt’s over, stay ten miles from Luke,” Nana says with her back to me. “Once a cheater, always a cheater.”
“How many subscribers have you gotten?” Madison asks.
I shrug. “A few...”
“Hundred?” Madison finishes.
“Less.”
“Dozen?”
“I haven’t checked my numbers today, so it might be more.”
I’m trying not to stress about the numbers. These things take time. My launch was only two days ago.
Who am I kidding? I have twenty-five new subscribers. The number guts me every time I check, which is why I decided not to look today.
“These things take time,” I say to break the silence that fell over the room.
“Sure, honey,” Mom says. “Rome wasn’t built in a day. It took years to build the Colosseum.”
I don’t have years. If I don’t meet my targets, Excel will lose confidence in me and pull their funds. I’d do the same in their position.
“Where’s my roll?” Granny says from the kitchen entryway, her frail frame hunched over, borrowing strength from her cane.
I jump up. “Oh gosh, Granny. I’m sorry. Here, sit.” I help her over to the chair I just vacated.
“You all are talking up a storm in here without me,” she says.
“Sorry, Granny,” I say.
“We were just talking about Cassie’s ex-boyfriend,” Nana says.
I wince.
“Michael?” Granny asks.
“Michael was her husband,” Mom says.
“Luke Curtis,” Madison says. “Do you remember him?”
Granny lights up. She thumps the end of her cane against the vinyl floor. “Luke Curtis. That handsome devil. Whatever happened to him?”
“Here,” I say, setting down her buttered roll. I squeeze some honey onto it before she grabs it. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Mom says.
“Taking out the trash.”
“The trash isn’t full.”
“My brain is.”
I pull the trash bag from the can and tie it closed, then I pick it up and head for the back door. Two cement steps descend from the door, and a broken sidewalk leads to the sagging garage. I walk carefully over the uneven sidewalk, making sure my toe doesn’t catch on one of the cracks.
This isn’t safe. Nana could trip and fall, break her wrist or her hip. I don’t care what she says. I’m fixing it.
The paint on the garage is flaking worse than the house, and the shingles are twice as old. The leaks have encouraged termites to take residence and nibble the studs into Swiss cheese. There’s probably no saving the structure. Best bet will be to demolish it and start over.
Gran still uses the garage at the risk of her own safety. She stores the Christmas trees and ornaments under a tarp and has metal shelves full of plastic containers. I don’t know what’s in them, or whether the contents will survive the water and mice. Probably not.
The gray door doesn’t want to budge. I have to kick it a few times to gain entry. The scents of rotten wood and mildewed canvas waft from the interior. I hear something skitter in the far corner, and I shudder. A mouse. Nana puts out mouse traps and switches them frequently, but new generations of mice always find their way in.
If Nana ever gets written up by the city, it will be for this eyesore. Her neighbors probably don’t appreciate the view or the mouse population. If they lodge a complaint, it could open up a can of worms.
I deposit the trash bag into the metal can and tug the door closed. When I head back to the house, I see the faint traces of Aunt Suzanne, Madison, and Nana through the kitchen window. Nana is sitting at the table to rest her feet.
She doesn’t mean to be blunt. It’s just her nature.
...you went on a date, live, with the guy who cheated on you...
Why yes, Nana. Yes, I did.
Let’s see if my little stunt is paying off.
I park my bum on the bottom step and pull my phone out of my back pocket. To check my subscriber count, I have to go through the admin app. It has a reports page that tells me how many users are currently in the system and how many total profiles have been created.
The app’s spinner goes round and round while I wait. And wait.
That’s odd.
I wait a few more minutes. Nothing. This has never happened before. So, I exit and tap on the MatchAI icon.
The same.
A minute later, still spinning.
This isn’t good.
I open my phone app and punch Bethany’s cell number. She’s my go-to girl at Excel if I have any operating hiccups, contracting issues, or promotional needs.
“Hey,” Bethany says.
“Bethany, I think we have a problem.”