Meemaw
June MacCord knows her memory isn’t what it once was. She also knows that her neighbor and her granddaughter are destined for each other. When Beckett’s mother appeared on June’s doorstep, she knew how serious things were. Women like Natasha Whistler are infamous even among the older generation.
Yes, June overstepped with her social media posts, but that’s been taken down, and a message posted that apologized for the confusion.
Now June sits at the table, waiting for her neighbor to drive her and her granddaughter to the specialist. A card is tucked into an envelope bearing the name “the future Mrs. Brooke Whistler,” and that envelope is tucked in her bag.
Brooke is blow-drying her hair in the bathroom, and the soft hum of noise is loud enough that when Beck knocks on the door, Brooke won’t hear him.
June drums her fingers along the oak table while she waits.
A soft knock at the door, and June springs into action. She opens the door and smiles into the warm brown eyes of the man who will soon be her grandson. “Beckett.”
“Miss June,” he says, sweeping his worn gray baseball cap off his head and walking through the threshold.
“I have this for you,” she whispers conspiratorially as she extends the envelope to him.
He takes it with slightly shaky hands, and June has a glimpse of nerves that make her giddy. This man is perfect for her granddaughter because while the man himself is not perfect, the man cares .
Loud music sounds from the road as a delivery truck drives by. Obnoxious beeps startle the older woman and the younger man from their moment as their heads turn toward the road.
“Did you order something?” the younger man asks.
June shrugs.
The truck continues backing up the steep driveway until it’s close to the walkway. A man in a brown delivery uniform hops out and strolls across the path with a clipboard in hand.
“June MacCord?” he inquires.
“Yes?” June replies.
“Great. It will be a while—one hundred and eighteen cast-iron skillets are really hard to unload.”