Diann Walker - Blissfully Yours

“Mitch, you’re cold,” Granny says with a mock frown. “Get your coat off and come join us.” She turns and stares at me, and to be honest, she doesn’t look all that friendly.

“Hi, I’m Gwen Sandler,” I say, extending my hand.

She shakes her head. “I’ve got to keep my hands clean while I’m handling the food. I hope you like sausage, biscuits and gravy, because that’s all I’m fixing.”

I look over at Mitch, who shrugs and offers an apologetic smile.

“I love it.” Feeling a little nervous, I scoot into my chair. I watch as Martha lifts the dishes from the tray and arranges them on the table. I would help her, but I figure she’d go into this speech about the germs on my hands. I fold my hands and hide them on my lap. My fingers turn the colored bracelets on my right wrist, a habit I acquired shortly after my thumb-sucking days ended.

Soon the table is spread with a feast fit for a king.

“This looks fantastic, Granny,” Mitch says.

She snaps her head forward. “Well, what did you expect? I’ve been cooking for fifty years.” She throws me a look that says, “Try and top that one, sister.”

I’m wondering if I’ve done something to offend her. I retrace my steps and can’t imagine what. She hasn’t known me long enough. She doesn’t seem rude, really, just a granny with attitude. Sort of the Granny Clampett type. Come to think of it, she kind of resembles her, too. Hair pulled back in a tight bun, her body thin and wiry.

Out of the blue she says to me, “Don’t call me Martha. Everybody calls me Granny.” I almost see the hint of a smile here.

Mitch slips into his chair beside me. I shiver a moment for no reason at all. Well, except for the fact Mitch is so close I can smell his cologne. It reminds me of the great outdoors, fresh and energetic. Intoxicating. I want to lean into him and take a deep whiff, but then I remember my manners.

Without another word, Mitch and Granny join hands, then Mitch reaches for mine. They bow their heads, and he begins to pray for the meal. I try hard to concentrate on the prayer, I really do, but my palm is getting all sweaty, and I’m wondering if he’ll notice. Plus I can feel the pulse in my fingers. And it’s very fast. This is so embarrassing. He’ll think I’m nervous, that I lack confidence. That I’m a wimp—or worse, that I have an artery problem.

I hear him say “amen,” and I lift an apology heavenward for failing to participate in the prayer. I toss a quick smile to Mitch, hide my sweaty palm under the table and quickly wipe my hand on my khaki pants. Probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done.

Granny picks up the plate of biscuits and passes them.

“So you’re going to Dream Slopes this morning, you said?” Mitch asks as he takes a couple of biscuits and passes the plate to me.

“Thanks.” My bracelets rattle as I take the plate. I remove one biscuit. I’d rather have three, but I want to appear the dainty female, even though I’m not. “Yeah. I wanted to check it out.”

“Great,” he says.

I feel proud that he’s happy with my decision. Funny that it’s important to me to please him. But after all, he is my boss.

He scoops some scrambled eggs onto his plate and smothers his biscuits with gravy. “They have a nice place, there’s no denying that. But ours will be nicer.” He looks at me and winks. “I’ll take you to Cool Beanz when you get back.”

I try to ignore the goose bumps crawling up my arm and take a tiny little bite from my naked biscuit. Did I mention I passed up the gravy? After the meal I think I’ll sneak into the kitchen and lick the pan.

“Monica Howell does a fine job of running the place, but she doesn’t always play by the rules,” he says.

“Oh, don’t tell me that girl is still up to her tricks.” Granny spreads some jelly on her biscuit. “That one sure does need prayer,” Granny says before taking a bite of her biscuit.

“I know,” he says with a sigh. “Sometimes she gets me all stirred up, and prayer is the last thing I think about when it comes to Monica.”

“From what your family has told me, she could try the patience of Job,” Granny says.

They’ve piqued my interest in Monica. I’m wondering how old this woman is, what kind of personality she has, what she does that gets Mitch all stirred up.

He turns to me. “Monica is thirty-four, divorced and drop-dead gorgeous.” Mitch must have read my mind.

Excuse me? Do I want to hear this? I’m thinking no.

“I went to school with her. But her charm is only on the outside, believe me.”

Can anybody really be all that bad? I always believe the best in people. I can’t help it. Innocent until proven guilty is my motto.

Granny and Mitch share a glance.

“See, in high school Monica and I dated. She never quite forgave me for losing interest and moving on. Still, we’ve maintained a civil relationship through the years. It doesn’t help that I now have a business in direct competition with hers.” He plops the last bite of biscuit in his mouth and shrugs. “That quote about a woman scorned sure is true.”

“You got that right,” Granny says with an ornery chuckle. “But in all fairness, from what I hear, she hasn’t had it so easy.”

“Yeah, must be tough growing up with all that wealth,” he says with sarcasm.

Granny raises her eyebrows. “And you’ve lived in poverty?”

Mitch grins. “All right, so you’ve got me there.”

I’m enjoying their conversation, even if I feel a little excluded at the moment.

“Enough about Monica.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Thanks for breakfast, Granny. It was delicious. I’ve got to get back out there and check the rope tow and ski lifts—make sure everything is running as smoothly as a beginner’s slope.” He scoots out his chair and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll see you in a little while.” Putting on his coat, he grabs his hat and gloves and heads out the door.

My shoulder tingles where his fingers had been, and I linger there a moment.

“You want anything else?” Granny asks as she rises from her chair and starts to clear the table.

“No, thank you.” I want to add that I’m stuffed so she’ll think I eat next to nothing, but that would be a flat-out lie. I’m not stuffed. I’m starving. I consider throwing myself on the biscuits and gravy, but decide against it. Instead, I lift some dishes to help clean off the table.

“Nope, this is my work,” Granny says with a possessive edge to her voice.

My hands have been slapped so I will know my place around here. I’ll have to work my way into her heart. In the meantime, I go to my room to get ready for my trip to Dream Slopes. Once inside, I see Guacamole nosing around the handbag that I had left on the floor. “Oh, no, you don’t,” I say, scooping it up. I have to keep everything out of his reach, or he’ll hurt himself.

Which reminds me. I haven’t told Mitch about Guacamole yet. Good grief. He doesn’t know about my iguana. He probably won’t mind, but an iguana is hardly a normal household pet. He also doesn’t know I can’t ski. The man will throw me out. I have to tell him. And soon.

The cold air stings my cheeks as I purchase my ski ticket at Dream Slopes and head for the entrance. My fingertips hide in my gloves and tingle from the chill.

Skiers and alpine trees dot the mountainside, giving the scene a winter wonderland feel to it. The sky boasts a vibrant blue with only a smattering of shredded clouds drifting lazily along. God creates the most incredible color. I take a satisfying breath. Before leaving the B and B, I changed into my new purple ski suit, new gold-colored coat, gold-and-purple stretchy band around my head and matching ski gloves—complete with the leather strip for grabbing the rope tow. I feel quite the skier. My snow boots keep my feet warm as I trudge through the snow toward the rental building.