Page 19 of An Overdue Match
I increase the reading speed to 1.5 on the app, then reach up and slide the wig from my head. I’m far enough away from Little Creek that I’m safe from anyone in my adopted speck of a town finding out about my secret.
While the wig gives me a measure of comfort and security, it also seems to take a little bit of me away as well. Which makes no sense, I know. How can something make me feel both more like me and less like me at the same time? I can’t explain it. Probably because I don’t understand it myself.
All I know is, it’s nice to be able to take the wig off every once in a while. The synthetic hair isn’t necessarily uncomfortable to wear (although it is a little itchy), but not having to worry about the wig slipping or someone discovering I’m hiding something is a bit freeing. I can just be me. Who I am now. No pretenses. Nothing fake. No hiding.
My skin prickles as I pass the exit to the Walnut Street Bridge, and not just because of the coolness of the car’s air conditioning. The iconic blue-trussed walking bridge that suspends over the Tennessee River used to hold many happy memories for me. Brett and I went on our first official date to the Tennessee Riverpark at the foot of the bridge. We got scoops on cones at the Ice Cream Show and then leisurely strolled across the bridge, stopping to peer down at the flowing current below us and cheer on a group of kayakers who were training for an upcoming race. We laughedtogether as our ice creams melted in the warm summer heat and dripped onto our hands. Brett had even gently wiped a smudge of smeared chocolate from the corner of my lips for me.
I accelerate, putting distance between the bridge and my memories until they’re only dots in my rearview mirror. One day, maybe this beautiful city won’t have the power to dredge up a painful lump that sits behind my breastbone. Until then, I focus my mind on the reason I endure the unpleasant walk down memory lane in the first place: my family. I can come and soak up the love they have for me, then retreat to my little cove in the mountains. I just have to ignore the reminders that my life isn’t turning out like I’d planned.
But that’s okay. I have a new plan. I may be officially off the marriage mart (why, yes, I did just binge a regency series), but now I’m the respectable chaperone introducing potential couples to one another at a ball (I’m speaking figuratively here) and watching with the overwhelming satisfaction that only a meddling mama can have when interest sparks during a waltz.
Granny and Grampie’s townhouse comes into view, and I pull in behind their car in the driveway. Penelope’s little Volkswagen Beetle is parked in front of the house. I’ll have a reprieve from her badgering me about the anniversary party while our grandparents are near, but I have no doubt she’ll devise a way to get us alone so she can hound me again.
Granny is standing in the doorway with a welcoming smile on her lips when I trudge up the front steps, balancing the lasagna in my arms.
“Oh, sugar, it’s good to see you.” She steps aside, beaming at me as I walk into the house, then follows me into the kitchen, where I set the casserole dish on the counter. As soon as my arms are free, she wraps me in a warm hug smelling of the Chanel No. 5 she always puts on before church. Awave of nostalgia washes over me, and I squeeze her just a tiny bit harder.
“There now,” she says as she pulls away enough to get a good look at me. “It’s good to have my baby back home.”
“I’m twenty-seven, Granny. I haven’t been a baby in a long time.” This is a script we’ve been performing ever since I can remember.
The lines on her face deepen as she smiles. “Doesn’t matter how old you are. You’ll always be my baby.” She squeezes my hand again, imputing all her love in the small gesture.
I look around the kitchen and into the great room. “Where’s Grampie and Penelope? I saw her car out front.”
Granny rolls her eyes. “They’re down in the basement working on one of their models.”
Grampie had built both Penelope and I wooden dollhouses when we were girls. Penelope’s had been a miniature model of a Victorian home complete with gables and cornices on the outside and handcrafted furniture pieces that were exact replicas of the time period as well. Mine had been a New England cottage with a lighthouse attached to it, but instead of making it a family home, I’d talked him into converting the inside into a bookstore.
“Since when did Penelope start building with him?” My sister isn’t exactly very handy when it comes to tools or construction.
Granny gives me a look I can’t quite decipher, then motions me toward the stairs that lead to the basement. “I forgot you haven’t been down there the last few times you’ve visited. Just be prepared that it may be different than you remember.” There’s part humor, part pride, and part exasperation in her voice.
The last time I’d been down to Grampie’s hobby area, he’d been in the middle of constructing a replica of a colonial house someone would have seen at Jamestown. I’m not even surewho he was building the dollhouse for, just that he likes to spend hours tinkering on his model projects now that he’s retired.
“I think it needs to go a little bit more to the left.” Penelope’s voice drifts up the stairwell as I make my way down.
“Are you sure?” Grampie doesn’t sound convinced.
“Yes. Here, listen again.”
I step down the last riser and wait at the bottom of the stairs with Granny. Penelope and Grampie have their backs toward us, heads bent over something on Grampie’s worktable that I can’t see because their bodies are blocking anything from view.
“Because of the blood splatter on the walls, the police think the suspect faced the victim at an angle, standing just slightly to the victim’s right.” Penelope presses pause on her phone. “See?”
“I suppose you’re right. So about here do you think?”
“Huh-hem.” Granny clears her throat.
Both Penelope and Grampie spin around, the former pressing a palm to her chest. “You scared me,” she accuses on a panting breath.
Granny grins wickedly, which makes me wonder how many times she’s snuck down here just to give one or both of them a fright. “Evangeline wants to see your new project.”
Grampie hustles over in his uneven gait and pulls me fiercely to his chest in a crushing hug while being careful not to get the tiny paintbrush pinched between his fingers anywhere near my clothes. Even with his eightieth birthday behind him, he’s still a strong man, and I love that his hugs squeeze the air from my lungs.
Grampie kisses my bald head, and I try not to be self-conscious of the action. There’s not a hint of disgust on Grampie’s face when he pulls back, his eyes twinkling with energy and mischief. “Come see. You’re going to love this.”
I follow him over to the table where a boxlike structuresits. Instead of a full house, it appears he’s working on a single room. There are only three walls, with the fourth and the roof missing. Better to see inside. Although, as I look closer and my stomach spins in on itself, I’m regretting the easy view.
