Blissfully Yours. Diann Walker
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guy anyway,” I say to Guacamole, who is checking out the shower stall. I look back at the mirror. “Besides, he will hate me once he discovers I’m a fair-weather, feet-on-the-ground kind of gal.” I’m talking to myself in a mirror, and I have a bird’s nest on my head. How good can this be? I sigh and seriously consider going back to bed. I’m not officially reporting for duty today. Still, I can’t be a slug. It’s not in my nature.
I haven’t really had a chance to visit Martha Windsor, Candace’s granny, aka the new cook. She arrived last night, and I stayed in my room to give them some family time together. So I figure now might be a good time to get to know her. Once word gets out on the B and B, I suspect we’ll be pretty busy.
After directing Guacamole back to his habitat—not that he’ll stay there—I grab a bright green sweater and khaki pants, and head for the shower.
The scent of strong coffee and spicy sausage greets me as I descend the stairs. The polished wooden banister still calls out to me, but I ignore it. I am, after all, a grown woman.
Martha brings a tray of breakfast dishes to one of the tables in the great room, as Mitch walks through the front door. He walks into the dining area—his face red, and his eyes vibrant. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” he teases me when he steps inside. I like that he teases me. At least, I think I do. I hope he doesn’t think of me as a kid sister.
“Hi,” I say with a smile.
Mitch pulls off his black gloves and rubs his hands together. “Granny, that looks great.” He gives her a peck on the cheek.
Oh, I’ll take one of those, I want to say, but of course, I keep silent.
“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.