CHAPTER ONE – SYLVIE #2
In the end, my grandparents gifted me my half, and I’d mortgaged the other half, freeing up Hazel’s inheritance money.
Now, my grandparents paid everything but the mortgage—and the cleaner I had go in twice a week to make life easier for them in exchange for looking after the house—and I was creating quite the little nest egg in equity.
I knew I was lucky.
Well. Not really. Paying a mortgage and rent in a house share wasn’t ideal for a thirty-year-old self-employed woman, but I managed. Just.
I was not looking forwards to my mother trying to talk me into moving back home for that very reason.
“Sylvie!” My grandmother had the kind of voice that transcended time and space when she was excited, and the warmth that flooded me as I got out of the car was unparalleled.
“Nana!” I rushed to her, leaving my car door open, and wrapped her in the biggest, warmest hug I could muster.
Another pair of arms from someone decidedly taller than us enveloped us in another layer of a hug, and I giggled at the rich scent of oak trees and freshly cut grass that was my grandpa’s calling card.
All right.
So, the ‘oak trees’ was a polite way of saying ‘whiskey,’ but who was judging him?
Not me.
“Hey, Gramps.” I turned my body slightly to rest my head on his shoulder with a smile. “I missed you.”
“Took your sweet time getting here, didn’t you?” he grumbled, squeezing me gently before he released both me and Nana. “Thought you’d be here by six.”
I grimaced. “Sorry,” I said, extracting myself from Nana’s arms. “There was a crash on the motorway that held me up. I did try calling.”
He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out his dinosaur of a phone. “Oh. It’s got no battery.”
I dipped my chin. Of course it hadn’t.
“Keith, stop being such a fusspot,” Nana said. “She’s here now. Shouldn’t you be doing something useful like putting the kettle on? I’m sure Sylvie needs a cup of tea after being stuck in traffic for so long.”
“Of course, dear. Cup of tea, Birdie?” Gramps asked me.
I sighed. Of course, he was going to use that nickname. “I’d love a cuppa, Gramps. Thank you.”
“Come inside,” Nana said, squeezing my hand. “It’s getting chilly out here and I don’t want you to freeze to death.”
“I will, just give me a minute to grab my stuff.”
“Oh, goodness. Keith! Move the car! I can’t believe you parked in front of the bloody door when you knew Sylvie was coming.”
“It’s fine,” I called through the door, touching Nana’s shoulder. “Gramps, don’t worry. Suitcases do have wheels these days.”
He poked his head around the doorframe. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Yes. Nana, please go inside if you’re getting cold. It won’t take me more than a couple of minutes to bring my cases inside.”
She huffed. “At least back up to your grandfather’s car so you don’t have to take it so far.”
She was acting like I’d parked halfway down the street, not at the side of the house.
Gramps fought a smile. “I’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow, Birdie. Block me in for my sins.”
I sniffed, fighting against a laugh. “I will do. Nana, go inside. I’ll be there by the time the tea has brewed.”
She shuffled inside with a grumble about my grandfather’s ignorant lack of care for my journey up here. I caught a glimpse of his shoulders shaking as he disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving me alone on the driveway to bring my belongings in from the car.
With a shake of my head, I got back into my car, backed up to the front of the house, and climbed back out.
Thankfully I’d left enough space to open my boot and pull out my stuff.
I was exhausted from the long drive up here, so I just grabbed my smaller suitcase that was packed for overnight, my laptop bag, and rounded back to the front seats to grab my handbag from where it’d fallen into the footwell.
I locked it up and hauled my stuff into the hallway. Nothing had changed. The house was exactly how I remembered it, exactly how I loved it, and the smell of a beef joint roasting in the kitchen assaulted my senses.
Nobody cooked beef like my nana.
That. Was. Amazing.
Nana smiled at me, showing a bright pink smudge of lipstick on her front tooth. “I made your favourite.”
“You are my favourite,” I told her, wrapping her in a big hug. I positioned my mouth near her ear and whispered, “You have a little lippie on your tooth.”
She instantly released me and stormed into the living room. “Keith! Why didn’t you tell me I had lipstick on my tooth?”
Welp. There went my attempt at being discreet.
“I didn’t notice, dear!” His tone was rather meek and mild, and I dipped my head to hide my smile.
Oh, he noticed.
He just didn’t want to tell her.
My phone vibrated in my hoodie pocket. I set down my things and pulled it out to look at the new text that always gave the little zz-zz-zzzzzz buzz.
HAZEL: Christina just told she me thinks she saw your fancy pants car. Does that mean you’re home???
Jesus Christ.
My sister’s best friend needed a hobby.
And my car was not that fancy pants.
ME: I just walked through the door. Still had my suitcase in hand when you texted. Does Chrissy have a hobby?
HAZEL: No. Does this mean we can do breakfast tomorrow????
ME: Can I eat dinner first? Nana made roast beef.
HAZEL: She never makes me roast beef. Talk about the golden child.
“Nana! When was the last time you made Hazel your roast beef?” I called.
“Two weeks ago!” she said, strolling into the hall and right through to the kitchen, sans lipstick on her teeth. “If she’s telling you I never make it, don’t listen to her.”
“That’s what I thought. She’s being a brat again.”
“Don’t call your sister a brat,” Gramps said, sniffing in the doorway.
“Sorry,” I replied, hitting the message box. “I’m the big sister. It’s practically a requisite that I call her a brat.”
They both laughed. They knew it came from a place of love—excluding that time I was fifteen and she was thirteen and she stole all my make-up.
That was not from a place of love.
That was from a place of me being very pissed off because I’d been sweeping hair in the local hair salon for weeks to afford the more expensive makeup she’d stolen.
ME: Nana said she made it two weeks ago. Brat.
HAZEL: Shit.
HAZEL: Don’t call me a brat.
ME: Don’t act like one, then.
ME: And remember that nice discount your darling big sis is giving you for her wedding planning services.
HAZEL: I love you. Sooooooo much. The best big sister everrrrr.
Suck up.
ME: Brat.
HAZEL: Hey!
I laughed.
ME: I really did just get here. I need sleep. Can we meet for lunch instead?
HAZEL: Of course. Where?
ME: Here or your place.
HAZEL: I’ll come to you and bring some food. Julian promised to help Gramps finish hanging the rest of his lights.
ME: That’s why they weren’t turned on.
HAZEL: Yeah. Be glad they pay the electric bill on that place, that’s all I’m saying.
ME: Please bring champers and OJ for mimosas.
HAZEL: Done and done. Pls ask Nana to save me a bit of that beef.
ME: Not Julian?
HAZEL: It’s a dog-eat-dog world. What can I say?
“Well?” Nana asked, turning to me as I walked into the kitchen. “What did the lying brat say?”
Gramps shook his head.
I laughed. “She asked if you’d save her some beef for tomorrow. She’s bringing lunch.”
Gramps sniffed. “Is that simp of hers going to finish hanging my lights for me?”
Pausing, I tilted my head to the side. “Do you know what that word means?”
“Simp? No idea. I heard in the café from some of those teens that it’s a euphemism for a ‘little whipped bitch’ and thought it was appropriate. I’ve been waiting to use my newfound lingo.”
I wasn’t going to laugh.
“It’s not entirely wrong,” I said slowly. “But best not to use that one in front of Hazel or Julian.”
“So, it’s offensive? God, you kids are offended by everything these days. Back in my day—”
“Where are the peas, Keith?” Nana asked, cutting off what was sure to be a ten-minute tirade about those bloody millennials. “I asked you to bring them in for me!”
“Millennials are perpetually offended, the teenagers can’t tell their left tit from their right toe, and me not bringing peas is the issue. I’m going to move to Mars.” Gramps huffed out a breath and headed for the annexe where the chest freezer was.
“Millennials aren’t the ones always offended,” I helpfully called back. “That’s Gen Z. We’re all too old to be offended now.”
“Too old? You’re barely thirty!” he shouted.
Wrong. I was almost thirty-one, the forgetful old coot.
The sound of a freezer top opening and closing rather enthusiastically punctuated the air, and I frowned in that direction.
“Stop being such a boomer!” I yelled back.
“What did you just call me?”
“A boomer!”
“Ooh, May, sort that girl out!”
Nana frowned. “Sort her out? She’s not a filing cabinet, Keith.”
Gramps came back with the bag of peas and shot me a playful glare. “She called me a boomer.”
“You are a boomer.” Nana took the bag from him and turned back to the stovetop. “Stop whinging and set the table.”
I grinned when he walked to the cutlery drawer with a grumble.
Oh, I’d missed them so much.