Kaitlyn Rice - Renegade

“My dear grandson, I knocked before I barged,” she said primly. “There’s a fine but distinct difference.”

“Thanks for clarifying that,” Riley said. “Next time I’m doing anything adult or private, I’ll barricade the door.”

“Just like old times,” she said with a nod. “Except I’m glad you aren’t sucking on those cancer sticks anymore.”

Riley grinned. “Same to you, Gran.”

“And we thought we had each other fooled,” she said, returning his smile. “Want some help today?”

Riley shot a glance at the astronomy text on the floor. “You planning to study while you paint?”

“Nope,” she said, lifting her palms. “I figured if I helped you paint and brought you lunch, you might help me cram this afternoon.”

Riley chuckled as he imagined his grandmother’s silvery locks amongst the hundred assorted freshman styles in the astronomy classroom at the university. “I might remember something,” he said. “That class was more interesting than most. I figured I could astound women with my knowledge.”

When his grandmother put her hands on her hips and started tapping a foot, Riley chuckled. “Help me paint. We can talk about the stars after lunch.”

Two hours and six windowsills later, Riley’s grandmother took her bag to the kitchen to pull together lunch. Riley cleaned paintbrushes and hammered lids on cans, then wandered back to check things out.

An open can of pork and beans was waiting on the counter with a plastic spoon stuck inside. Beside it lay several thick slices of bologna, a package of cream-filled cupcakes and two rather shriveled-looking plums. “This is the promised lunch?” Riley asked as he watched his grandmother eat a spoonful of beans from the can.

She nodded. “One of my favorites.”

Riley picked up a round of bologna and used it to point toward the can of beans. “Do I just use the same spoon?”

“No.” Lydia nudged the brown paper bag a few inches closer. “There’s a whole can in here with your name on it.”

“How generous.” Riley opened the bag and pulled out the beans. When he located the can opener his grandmother had left near the sink, he realized she was drinking coffee out of the cup he’d left there a while ago. “Isn’t that mine?”

Lydia scrutinized it. “Possibly.”

Riley snorted and opened the cupboard to search for a glass.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I wiped the rim first.”

“There’s no doubt in my mind about which person in the family I take after,” Riley said with a grin as he grabbed a wineglass and swooped across to fill it at the sink.

“You could do worse,” his grandmother said.

Riley lifted his water, and two of the town’s biggest misfits silently toasted the truth: even if no one else recognized their rare form of character, they did.

Honor and propriety were vastly different things.

“The convict my daughter chose for a husband didn’t do you any favors,” Lydia said. “I can almost hear him bellowing some drivel about women belonging in the kitchen and not out shooting hoops.”

She raised her chin and said proudly, “Your grandfather didn’t care if I ever set foot in our kitchen. He loved to cook for me.”

Riley only grunted. He’d scrounged another spoon from the back of a drawer and was chewing a mouthful of the cold, nearly tasteless beans. Leaning against the counter beside the adult who’d likely saved his sanity, he finished eating lunch with her, grateful for her company. When he’d left town to save his self-respect, he’d lost the opportunity to spend time with Lydia. Well, he was here now. The next few months should be a blast.

“Think I can make it?” his grandmother asked. She was perching her bean can on her open palm and nodding toward the trash can.

Riley laughed. “Those scrawny arms won’t lob it halfway.”

She held the can in two hands, then gave a cheeky little hop, threw the can and gloated.

“Lucky shot.” Riley scooped out his last spoonful and chewed while he wiggled his own can out in front of Lydia’s face. Turning his back to the trash can, he tossed it over his shoulder. When he heard the clank of the two cans colliding, he crowed.

And for the next little while, Riley and his sixty-seven-year-old grandmother grabbed cans, plums, spoons and wrappers and performed acrobatic tosses across the room. Most of the time, they each made it. Any misses were met with loud and vigorous hoots from the other. By the time the supply of trash was gone, Riley was ahead by a napkin. Although he didn’t say anything, he made sure his preening was obvious enough to catch notice.

Lydia smiled and looked around the room. Her eyes moved from the coffee cup to the wineglass—the only throwable objects left. After a moment’s consideration, she picked up the coffee cup and poised.

Riley grabbed the cup and returned it to the sink. “You might have noticed I’m not long on dishes here.”

His grandmother cackled as they made their way to the living room. With a limberness belying her years, she scooped the astronomy text from the floor and looked around for a place to sit. “You’re not long on furniture, either,” she said. “You need to fill this place up—unless you’re planning to leave soon.”

“I hope to stay a while, although I’ve already been warned I’m making a mistake.” Riley headed to the back bedroom to fetch two unopened gallon paint cans.

“Who told you that?” Lydia hollered.

“Tracy,” he hollered back. He paused in the bedroom when he noticed that his grandmother’s voice had sounded odd from across the walls. It had a new quality, something not obvious when she was within his sight. As he returned to set the cans a few feet apart in the middle of the living-room floor, he realized what it was—she sounded old.

But she was quiet now, so he picked up a board he’d bought to repair a rotted window and centered it between the cans. “There we have it,” he said, directing a tender smile toward his grandmother. “The amazing, instant study desk.”

“It’s good to know I didn’t waste my money on that fancy California university,” Lydia said as she sat and stretched out her legs beneath the board. She couldn’t be comfortable in that position for long. Criminy, he wouldn’t be comfortable. He’d have to pick up a table and chairs somewhere.

His grandmother didn’t complain, though. She spent a moment perusing a glossy photo of some distant galaxy, then said, “I guess you’ll have to convince her she’s wrong.”

Riley didn’t ask who his grandmother was talking about, because his mind hadn’t completely left Tracy since he’d seen her. “Convincing that woman of anything would be a pleasure,” he said as he attempted to position his legs on the other side of the board. “Is she involved?”

“As in dating?” Lydia flipped through pages until she found the one she’d dog-eared. Then she looked up.

“As in dating, engaged, married, living with…all that brouhaha.”

His grandmother shook her head. “Getting involved with the Gilberts’ youngest daughter would be a mistake,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Who said I was getting involved?” Riley asked. “I asked if she was involved.”

His grandmother arched an eyebrow. “She’s a career woman and a single mom. She doesn’t have time for anything else.”

“Wow, a single mom.” Riley pictured a little girl or boy with Tracy’s hair and eyes. “What sort of career?”

“She works for Booker Vanderveer. He came here from Chicago a few years ago when his wife took a job as a psychology professor. I’m taking her class next fall.”

“Gran, what kind of business is it?”

“Oh, well, why didn’t you ask in the first place? Booker runs an organizing business.” She chuckled. “I’ll be danged if the idea hasn’t caught on. It seems that quite a few college professors and some of the wealthier students are willing to pay through the nose for someone else to clean up their clutter.”