Page 9 of My Mountain Man Grump
Joyce is so apologetic I can’t be angry at her. She invites me to have dinner with her, and I accept. If I’m stuck here, I may as well make the most of it. And I’m beginning to enjoy the company of the older woman, even if I haven’t quite forgiven her yet.
The property borders part of the national park, and there are trails that head off into the woods. I do a short walk in the afternoon and come back to the cabin to cool off. It’s unseasonably hot, and I take a cool shower before heading to what’s become my favorite armchair on the porch.
Sometime while I was out, Cole came back. The pickup is parked out front, and the giggles of the girls travel across the yard as they bounce on the trampoline.
I grab my toiletries bag and dig in it for the nail polish I shoved in there. I don’t often paint my nails; I need to keep them short for work, and who’s got the time to keep up a nail regime? But with nothing to do but wait for my car to get fixed, I take the time to file them into shape. Then I choose a forest green from my small collection. Itgoes with my surroundings and happens to be my favorite color.
I paint my fingers first, and while they’re drying I read my book. Once my fingernails are dry, I move onto my toes. For my toes, I select a deep red. I’m bent over painting the last pinky when a child’s voice startles me.
“What are you doing?”
I glance up to find the youngest girl staring at my toes. She’s in a soccer uniform stained brown and grass-green. Her knees are caked with mud and her dark hair is hanging in loose wispy strands, tangling together as they blow in the breeze.
“I’m painting my nails.” I wiggle my toes and hold out my hands so she can see the bright colors.
She peers are me, her round eyes serious, but doesn’t speak.
“I’m Carrie. What’s your name?”
The girl ignores my question and darts to the left to retrieve a soccer ball that must have rolled there. She turns to head back over to her side of the yard when her sister jogs up behind her.
“Hi!” The sister is less reserved than the younger girl, and her eyes go wide when she sees the pots of nail polish on the table.
“O.M.G. You’re painting your nails!” She squeals in delight and picks up the bottles of polish, inspecting them one by one. “Can you do mine?
The little sister tugs on her older sibling’s t-shirt.
“Dad says we aren’t allowed to talk to her.” She darts a look up at me, and I try not to be offended. Cole doesn’tknow me. He’s just cautious about his girls hanging out with a stranger.
“That was last night,” the older girl says with authority. “He didn’t say it today.”
The little sister’s brow knits together as she processes this information. She must conclude that what her sister says is correct, because she takes a small step closer to me.
“My name’s Kyra,” says the youngest girl. “I’m six years old.” She gives me a shy smile like she’s proud of her age.
“Six!” I exclaim. “What a great age.”
“Olivia’s nine,” Kyra continues. “She goes to hip hop on Saturdays, but I do soccer. I can kick it into the goal. Do you want to see?”
Now that Kyra’s started talking, she doesn’t stop. I watch her as she demonstrates kicking the ball, lining up two tree stumps as goal posts.
Her brows furrow in concentration as she runs and kicks the ball. It looks like it’s going to go wide, but it curves around and slips in between the tree stumps.
Kyra comes running over with a big grin on her face.
Meanwhile Olivia’s inspecting each color, holding it up to the light. “Do you have any pink?” she asks.
I rummage in my bag and pull out a pale pink color, and she grabs it from me.
“Can you do my fingers this color?” Her grin is wide and infectious. “Please,” she adds.
“Sure.”
Kyra picks up the green, the same color I chose. “I want this one.”
Olivia nudges her and she adds, “Please.”
The girls hold their hands out to me. Kyra’s are caked in mud, and even Olivia, who comes across as the least wild of the two, has dirt under her nails.
