Page 38 of Twelve
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. I’d guessed right this time. It was a guy, and she’d met him at The Holler the night before.
“You’ll be okay, won’t you?” she asked softly. “Just for a few days?”
I was a big believer in absolute honesty: say what you mean, mean what you say, and don’t ask a question if you don’t want to know the answer.
But it was different with my mom.
“I reserve the right to assess the symmetry of his features and the cheesiness of his pickup lines when you get back.”
“Sawyer.” My mom was serious—or at least as serious as she got.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I always am.”
She was quiet for several seconds. Ellie Taft was many things, but above all, she was someone who’d tried as hard as she could for as long as she could—for me.
“Sawyer,” she said quietly. “I love you.”
I knew my line, had known it since my brief obsession with the most quotable movie lines of all time when I was five. “I know.”
I hung up the phone before she could. I was halfway to finishing off the milk when the front door—in desperate need of both WD-40 and a new lock—creaked open. I turned toward the sound, running the algorithm to determine who might be dropping by unannounced.
Doris from next door lost her cat an average of 1.2 times per week.
Big Jim and Trick had matching habits of checking up on me, like they couldn’t remember I was eighteen, not eight.
The guy with the Dodge Ram. He could have followed me.That wasn’t a thought so much as instinct. My hand hovered over the knife drawer as a figure stepped into the house.
“I do hope your mother buys Wusthof,” the intruder commented, observing the position of my hand. “Wusthof knives are justsomuch sharper than generic.”
I blinked, but when my eyes opened again, the woman was still standing there, coiffed within an inch of her life and be-suited in a blue silk jacket and matching skirt that made me wonder if she’d mistaken our decades-old house for a charitable luncheon. The stranger said nothing to indicate why she’d let herself in or how she could justify sounding more dismayed at the idea of my mom having purchased off-brand knives than the prospect that I might be preparing to draw one.
“You favor your mother,” she commented.
I wasn’t sure how she expected me to reply to that statement, so I went with my gut. “You look like a bichon frise.”
“Pardon me?”
It’s a breed of dog that looks like a very small, very sturdy powder puff.Since absolute honesty didn’t require that I sayeverythought that crossed my mind, I opted for a modified truth. “You look like your haircut cost more than my car.”
The woman—I put her age in her early sixties—tilted her head slightly to one side. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”
She had a Southern accent—less twang and more drawl than my own.Com-pluh-mehnt or anin-suhlt?
“That depends on your perspective more than mine.”
She smiled slightly, like I’d said somethingjust darlingbut not actually amusing. “Your name is Sawyer.” After informing me of that fact, she paused. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” Clearly, that was a rhetorical question, because she didn’t wait for a reply. “Why don’t I spare us the dramatics?”
Her smile broadened, warm in the way that a shower is warm, right before someone flushes the toilet.
“My name,” she continued in a tone to match the smile, “is Lillian Taft. I’m your maternal grandmother.”
My grandmother,I thought, trying to process the situation,looks like a bichon frise.
“Your mother and I had a bit of a falling-out before you were born.” Lillian was apparently the kind of person who would have referred to a Category 5 hurricane asa bit of a drizzle. “I think it’s high time to put that bit of history to rest, don’t you?”
I was one rhetorical question away from going for the knife drawer again, so I attempted to cut to the chase. “You didn’t come here looking for my mother.”
“You don’t miss much, Miss Sawyer.” Lillian’s voice was soft and feminine. I got the feeling she didn’t miss much either. “I’d like to make you an offer.”
