Page 10 of Over My Dead Boss
Olivia: Plan A failed. Need a Plan B.
Sienna: If you need a Plan B, I wouldn’t say Plan A failed. Well, I guess parts of it did. Next time use protection, dummy.
Olivia: Very funny. Speaking of bad decisions, you haven’t downloaded tinder again, have you?
Sienna: No, m’am. I have learned my lesson. Tinder and cheating exes are a part of the past; becoming a crazy cat lady shall be my future.
The sun is out and since I’d usually only get to experience it from behind an office window, I drape my blanket on top of the hood of my car, lay down and contemplate my next steps. It is almost past lunch and I have already dismissed several well-thought out plans of armed robbery when I discover something approach in the very distance. Not from the driveway from which I’ve come, but from up a narrow path that leads away from the house. I grab my binoculars and watch a person struggle to drag something up-hill in my direction. Without a second thought, I throw the blanket back in my car and run in their direction, my foot still hurting from this morning. When I get there, I recognize her immediately: Mr. Cyrus’s grandmother. Dressed in a rugged cardigan, long skirt and heavy boots, she looks as if she could be a runway model for an haute couture forest-hermit collection.
I reach for the portable shopping trolley she is dragging through the uneven terrain and offer my help. “Please, let me take that for you.”
“Oh,” she responds with an even heavier Scottish accent than her grandson, obviously surprised to run into someone in the middle of nowhere. “How very convenient.”
“Happy to help,” I say and we slowly make our way towards the house, me with the trolley, her with her cane. “Are you visiting Mr. Cyrus?” I inquire to make some small talk.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” she chuckles. “I imagine I’ll get an earful from him. He always says I should call so he can pick me up, but it’s important to stay active in my old age, isn’t it?”
When we reach the gate, she pulls out a key from her pocket, opens the door, and motions for me to enter. Slightly unnerved, I do as I am told and drag the trolley up to the entrance. “What is in this thing, anyway?” I ask as I lift it up the stairs and then go back to help the old lady.
“Oh, it’s mostly vegetables from my garden. I force my grandson to cook with me every once in a while. Otherwise, he’d just live off of scotch and cynicism and we can’t have that, can we?”
His grandma is charming and adorable, and the exact opposite of him, but I have to get out of here immediately if I don’t want to get into more trouble. “Right, well, that’s very nice of you. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Cyrus.” I give a little bow and am about to rush down the stairs when the door to the house opens.
6
“What are you doing here again?” His eyes shoot icicles my way.
“Is that the proper way to greet your grandmother?” Mrs. Cyrus retorts and whacks her grandson with her cane.
Trying to dodge the blows, Phoenix’s explanation that he wasn’t talking to her goes unnoticed.
“She helped me carry my things all the way up here, unlike the spawn of my loins’s loins, who did no such thing.”
“I didn’t even know you were coming, Nana.”
“Awright, ya wee shite. Enough of your excuses. Carry this inside,” she points at the trolley, “and you…” Grandma Cyrus catches me on my way down the stairs. “Don’t make me use my cane on you as well. Get in here and have lunch with us. No discussion.”
I am not about to turn down an invitation as convenient as this, so I enter and can’t help but pass Mr. Cyrus with the biggest smile I can muster as he stands aside.
“Listen, Nana, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You know I’ve had some issues recently with people stalking me and…”
“Stalking you? Please, who would be insane enough to endure that?”
Trying to suppress my laughter as I follow along into the kitchen, I feel the need to confess and tell the truth. “Well, actually, he isn’t entirely wrong. I am not a stalker, but I have been, uhh, looking for him.”
Without skipping a beat, grandma Cyrus hands me her cane and reaches for my arm to hold on to, her wrinkly smile making her look like the sweetest little thing. “That sounds very interesting, my dear. Please, tell me all about it while we prepare the food, will you? Are you, by any chance, good at cooking?”
A little ashamed, I shake my head. “But I’m excellent at the eating part,” I add.
“Ah, I am not much of a chef either, but luckily for us my grandson is more than capable in the kitchen, aren’t you, Phoenix?”
A dragged out grunt fills the silence between us before I begin to unpack the trolley and Mr. Cyrus puts everything in its appropriate place while his grandma watches us work. I hate myself a little more each time I catch myself goggling as he reaches for a top shelf or bends down to a low drawer, and I hope neither of them notices. Fortunately, his grandma, who instructs me to call her Nana, spends most of the time telling us stories about herself or berating Phoenix about his cooking, which he effortlessly ignores, until we all sit down at the table to eat. By now, lunch has turned into an early dinner and I am unsure whether Dog is more eager to taste the food or if I am. The freshly prepared eggplant steak from Nana’s garden smells exquisite and all of us dig in as soon as everything is served.
“I told you he was an excellent chef.” Nana smiles while observing me gulp down too much food at once, which keeps me from responding properly.
“So where did you learn how to cook like this?” I inquire once I wash everything down with some water.
Our chef rumbles for a little, obviously hesitant to divulge any personal information about himself, but eventually does so anyway. “Nana taught me when my parents died. She can cook better than me.”
