Chapter 4
FOUR
KYRA
“Well, it’s not much of a surprise why you don’t have a man, if that’s how you line up a stitch.
” Grandma Lucy doesn’t look up from decorating her patchwork to critique mine.
“You young ones all race around, trying to get to the next thing as quickly as you can. You need to slow down and take more care. Have some patience. If that’s how little pride you have for making something for the home, then how is a man supposed to believe you can care for him? ”
I drop the somewhat crooked start to my quilt in my lap and sigh.
“And what man do we talk about exactly?” I narrow my eyes at the old fusspot and tilt my head a little.
“Because since I’ve been back, I haven’t seen anyone much other than the boys who were here when I was in school, and none of them were good enough for you then, so what makes them ideal candidates now? ”
“People grow up,” she quips. “Attitudes change.”
“Yours hasn’t.” I set the crafting aside and rise from the embroidered sofa. “It must be time for a coffee. Would you like one?”
“There are biscuits in the tin beside the sugar pot.” Her nimble fingers sweep through the creation of an impossibly perfect flower burst.
Mom thought it would be considerate of me to spend regular time with my aging grandmother now that I’m back—make precious memories while I can.
I think she considered her own sanity when she came up with the idea.
All the woman has done since I arrived is spout negative feedback about everything, from my choice in clothes to the time of day I called around.
I set the kettle to boil, then retrieve the bitter-tasting instant coffee from the cupboard above the counter.
People like Grandma Lucy are why I’ve been intentionally misleading about what I’ve done since leaving college, choosing to spin a lie about an internship at a marketing startup rather than tell the truth.
If they knew the real reason why my bank account is stacked enough to afford the move and pay for a house with cash, they’d have a conniption.
“No creamer for me!” she hollers from the front room.
I roll my eyes to the ceiling and then call back with a fake smile, “Sure thing.”
I’ve often wondered if I could tell anyone here how I made my money.
Or would it be a source of public disgrace for my family?
Common sense says the latter now that the new laws have passed.
I spent a good deal of my first paychecks and two years after college on therapy to undo the intricate knots of trauma from growing up in a strict and often stifling household.
Being brave enough to own my success is the last hurdle to get over, but it’s a damn tall bitch.
One I’ve exclusively focused on for the better part of this last year, with minimal progress.
Turns out, no matter how bold I am when the person on the other end of the internet is a stranger, when it comes to my family, I struggle to overcome the deep need to be accepted. Good enough.
Praised according to their values, not mine.
“I hope you didn’t make it too hot.” Lucy carefully folds her progress and places the bundled quilt on her footstool.
I set the cup on the side table to her right and draw a deep breath. “Best you blow on it first, then, just in case.”
She retrieves the drink as I retake my seat, shrewd eyes on me over the lip of the pretty china. “Your mama said that you work for the council now.” The late afternoon sunshine that slips through her window frames her in a laughably ironic halo.
“Yes.” I fidget with the drink, finding the best place on my knee to balance it. I did make the blasted thing too hot. Damn it. “Picked up the job last week. They needed someone who could start immediately.”
“You should enjoy it there,” she appraises. “Typing is a woman’s job. As is being the pleasant face they see when they arrive.” She curls her upper lip. “Sales were always the men’s domain. Too brash and pushy.”
How this woman managed to live through the evolution of women’s rights and keep such a narrow mind, I’ll never know.
“Women are often more successful at sales than men. They know how to interpret a client’s needs better.
” Although I don’t talk about new cereal packets or billboards for housing estates.
Not that she needs to know.
“Anyway.” She dismisses me as she sets the cup back on the side table.
“Have you had any luck finding somewhere to settle? I have a friend at bingo who looks to sell her house. Moving into a serviced apartment now that her mobility isn’t so good.
I could ask her what she hopes to get for the place. ”
“What kind of house is it?” Not that I’m overly fussy.
As much as I love my parents, living with them again has reminded me why I left in the first place.
More so, I haven’t been able to film any new content since being under their roof.
It would be easy enough to do a few close-up teases—something to keep the membership hooked—but it doesn’t feel right.
Not in my childhood room.
Not now that it could send me to jail.
“It’s a two-bedroom bungalow. Craftsman style. She had the roof redone about five years ago, and the bathroom updated; otherwise, it’s mostly original. It’d need a few renovations to be more pleasing for your modern eye, I imagine.”
I ignore her subtle dig. “She doesn’t have it listed yet?”
“Not yet.” Lucy reaches for her coffee again. “I can have a word with her. But Kyra? Are you sure you can afford this on your own?”
I stifle the urge to choke on the sip of hot liquid that scalds my lips. “Do you mean, am I sure I can do this without the support of a man?”
She lifts an eyebrow.
For crying out loud. “Yes, Grandma. I can do it without a man.”
“Well, if you’re confident,” she sing-songs, lifting both eyebrows this time. “I’d hate to waste Marla’s time.”
“I wouldn’t be looking if I didn’t think it was achievable.” I’ve let my family believe I only have a deposit for a home. That I rely on steady employment to pay the ensuing mortgage. It was a hell of a lot easier than explaining how I saved over half a million dollars in under five years.
“I think it would suit you,” Lucy says with a small tip of her head. “Not too much land to take care of. It’s not as though you need a lot of bedrooms any time soon, either.”
Lord, give me patience. I raise my cup to my lips and focus on the heat of the steam against the underside of my nose as I stare out the window at her rambling garden. “Do you give my brother this much grief?”
“What are you talking about?” She sets her drink down and retrieves the quilt. “I simply make observations.”
“That all seem pretty darn negatively geared toward me, Grandma.”
“Well, you go on and take it how you like, Kyra. But that’s not how they’re intended.”
They should give the woman a part-time job as a real-life case study in gaslighting for psychology students.
I abandon the health-hazardous drink and pull the crooked craft project onto my lap. “Well, how about you go ahead and give me some more of your positive encouragement, then, by telling me how I can fix this.”
Saves her from telling me how to fix my life.