Page 11 of The Backtrack
This day wouldn’t be her best.
“I wouldn’t have recognized you.” Jessie grabbed Sam’s shoulders and gave her an appraising glance. “You used to remind me of Wednesday Addams with all the black, but look at you now, the spittin’ image of your mama, isn’t she?” Sam’s gaze darted to Pearl, who pursed her lips in response. But Jessie just kept on going. “And those legs! Tell me these aren’t the longest legs you’ve ever seen, Pearl?”
“She didn’t get them from me.” Her grandma cough-laughed.
Sam’s mom and grandma were on the shorter side, so she’d gotten her long legs, allegedly, from her dad. She hadn’t known him, and didn’t have strong feelings about him either way, but she’d have the occasional reminder, like when her height became a topic of conversation.
“Speaking of legs, I was worried you’d learned to crack eggs with your feet,” Sam said, deftly switching gears.
“Your grandma said she wanted to make your favorite breakfast, but needed a hand, literally.” Jessie returned to the stove to flip the eggs.
“I managed to unwrap the butter, but cracking the eggs was not working.” Pearl brought the coffee mug to her lips, and Sam was relieved there were still some things her grandmacouldhandle.
“When I came in, there was eggshell on the fridge door handle,” Jessie added.
“Don’t ask me how it got there.” Her grandma held up her wrapped arm as if in defense.
Sam’sfavorite breakfastwas fried eggs and toast with massive tabs of butter. It was the only thing her grandma could make that was actually edible.
Jessie scooped a fried egg from the skillet onto a waiting plate. “Here,” she said, handing Sam the plate. “And help yourself to coffee.”
Sam took the plate and then opened the closest cabinet in search of a coffee mug, but instead she found bowls. She opened the next cabinet only to find spices and flour. This was the house she’d grown up in, but she didn’t know where the mugs were. Eventually, Jessie took pity and grabbed a mug from the one cabinet she hadn’t opened.
“Thanks,” Sam said.
“Pearl’s been bragging about you all morning,” Jessie said.
Sam’s mouth cracked into a doubtful smile as she looked to her grandma, but Jessie just continued, “She says you get to fly first class when you travel, and there’s free champagne?”
“I fly in the jump seat,” Sam corrected. “But sometimes if there’s an extra spot in first, they’ll let me sit there.”
“The only first class I’ve ever been to was the first pottery class at the Color Me Mine studio downtown.” Jessie grabbed a piece of toast from the oven and put it on the plate. “So your first class is exciting, is all I’m saying.”
Jessie slid the plate of food in front of Sam; an expectant smile played across her lips as she rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You ever think about moving back to Tybee?”
Without looking up to meet Jessie’s eyes, Sam said, “I live in Paris, so, no,” then took a loud bite of her toast. Hernosat in the room like a whirlpool, sucking in all the air and life and good smells and leaving behind the uncomfortable and unapologetic crunching of Sam eating toast.
“Well,” Jessie said in a twang so thick it sounded likewhale. She pinched Sam’s shoulder, which made her accidentally bite her own tongue. Maybe she deserved that, honestly. “We sure are glad to have you home.”
“Yes, we are,” Grandma Pearl echoed. She picked up the toast and took an equally loud bite. “I was getting sick of flying to Paris, truth be told.”
“You were not.” Jessie gave her a half smile.
One of the ways Sam had avoided a return trip to Tybee was by flying Grandma Pearl out to Paris each winter. They’d celebrated the holidays in a charming French hotel, eating baguettes while walking along the River Seine and drinking endless Bordeaux.
“Now that I’m done playing chef, I’m going to let you two catch up.” Jessie lifted the apron over her head. “And, Sam, can I paint you while you’re in town?”
Jessie was a local artist who worked with watercolors and was known for her eclectic nudes. She’d done several of Grandma Pearl that were hard to unsee.
“Excuse me,” Pearl piped up. “Sam’s here to help me because I’m old and feeble, not pose for a painting.”
“I’m old, too,” Jessie said. “Old and in need of a model with those legs. Think about it.” Jessie pecked Sam on the forehead. “I can’t pay you anything, but I make a mean sangria.”
“Will do.” Sam gave a half smile as Jessie walked out the front door.
“That woman won’t stop until she’s painted every fuzzy Georgia peach in this town,” Pearl said. “And I’m not talking about the fruit.”
“Grandma,” Sam chided, though she also loved this unabashedly naughty side of Pearl.
