Page 22 of Just a Plot Twist
“Nothing gold or silver, because that’s the previous major anniversaries’ colors,” Grandma says, her lips pulled tightly together like she’s chewing through a lemon rind.
We’re at the same kitchen table we sat at all those years that she lived here with me, Grandpa, and Sophie.
For all that can be said about Grandma’s lack of warmth and her maniacal insistence that I use coasters and placemats and all the formal things, I have to hand it to her for uprooting her life. She wanted her granddaughters to stay in the only home they’d ever known. Not every grandparent would do that.
It was a sacrifice for them. There was lots of talk about what they gave up: the freedom to go where they wanted when they wanted to, my grandfather’s desire to run for mayor of Boulder, and a thinly veiled air ofresentment that was more felt than articulated. Still, I like to think maybe living in their daughter Marie’s house gave them some comfort, too.
After I graduated, they went back to their life in Boulder, but I didn’t mind. That meant Sophie and I had the place to ourselves, and except for when I was away in Fort Collins attending CSU, it’s been my home ever since.
And now Grandma is going over the big extravaganza she and the event center’s planner have put together for my grandparents’ sixtieth wedding anniversary. I want to help, even though my mind is on other things. Like my throbbing, tight ankle. And how Benson Kilpack now knows how much I weigh.
Okay. He probably doesn’t know my exact weight. Unless he’s one of those people who wins big at county fairs by guessing what people weigh. Was that really a thing? That seems so…barbaric.
He probably couldn’t guess myexactweight. Not that I know, either. I don’t get on the scale much. But he’s felt how heavy I am. And he’s basically touched my butt.
I will never recover from the mortification.
“So, when you say nothing silver or gold, does that include silverware? Like, should I find some other kind of cutlery?” I’ve got to get back to the task at hand.
Earlier in the day, my grandparents and I, along with Sophie, Oliver, baby Elizabeth, and Wilford, their huge Bernese Mountain Dog, celebrated my mom’s heavenly birthday with her favorite strawberry cake. Like every year, my grandparents get teary-eyed when we sing “Happy Birthday.” They still miss their daughter, of course. They also brought me chicken noodle soup and a bunch of reusable ice packs for my ankle.
Sweet of them, but I need some shut-eye. I have to go into work tomorrow with guns a blazing. Can’t have Rich McClain, or anyone, thinking I’m weak and ill-prepared for the city manager position now that I have this bum ankle.
Grandma gives me a withering look. “Non-silver cutlery? Of course not, Claire.”
She sighs deeply and then scowls at a tuft of Wilford’s coarse fur on her sleeve. She removes it with a scoff.
“Sophie and that dog of hers,” she mutters. “I’m so glad you don’t have a dog.” Without a glance in my direction, she returns again to her fancy notebook full of details of her anniversary celebration.
All this year, she’s been asking Grandpa for his opinions on this and that, but he doesn’t have any. He doesn’t want a big party, but since he talked her into a cruise for their fiftieth, he begrudgingly agreed to a traditional celebration for this one. With a string quartet. And all the friends they’ve made in their eighty years of life. And a fully catered spread.
“I mean no gold or silverdecorations.As the sixtieth, everything must be diamond white. It’s tradition. A non-negotiable.” She turns her head and leans back. “Did you hear that, Vernon? Both the traditional and the modern gift for being married sixty years is—”
“Diamonds.” On the sofa, Grandpa’s eyes hold a bit of a twinkle, despite the glare, as he pauses the news station to meet my grandma’s gaze. “You’ve been telling me that for the last ten years, ever since our fiftieth. I’ve got things under control, Patricia.”
She holds up both palms. “Okay, okay. I don’t want you to forget.”
Grandpa wouldn’t forget something that big. If I had to guess, I’d say he probably bought her some lovely diamond jewelry long ago and has it hidden away in some safe deposit box somewhere.
“Why aren’t you having this extravaganza in Boulder?” I ask her.
She looks at me like I’m slow. Maybe I’m just distracted, but I can’t tell her why. “Because, Claire, I don’t like any of the venues in Boulder. The colonial style of our venue is nice, it’s large enough for all our guests, and it’s halfway in between Boulder and Longdale. We did make friends in the thirteen years we lived here. Besides, this location is easier for you and Sophie.”
“That is nice. Anyway, back to the decorations,” I say. Except I’m a little distracted by these texts that have started coming in from Benson Kilpack.
The man who knows how much I weigh.
I’m not overweight, but I do have curves, and in light of my allergies to the gym and my workplace stress these past few years, it’s no surprise that I haven’t exactly been Miss Fitness of America lately.
Grandma purses her carefully lined lips as she makes sure I’m paying attention to her and not on my phone. “Everything will be white. All the décor, diamond white. And much of the food will be white. Including your favorite, mini coconut cream pies. It’s all high-end, Claire. Of course, we’ll have some brightly colored vegetables and a few macarons on the tables, which will provide a nice contrast. But the overall aura is—
“White,” I supply. “Got it.”
She pores over her notes, reading them aloud. “I don’t want to forget anything,” she says.
The venue is taking care of the catering and white roses and gardenias, but we’re doing the décor. And I still have to go to several stores to gather the last of what we couldn’t order online.
I owe my life to her and Grandpa. It’ll be nice to celebrate them.
