a circular flat top less than two feet in diameter and a tapering stem that was planted in a circle of artificial turf edged with inch-high brass filigree. Brass casters on the bottom gave it mobility, and a wooden golf club attached to the base served as a handle of sorts.
“This,” Mom said proudly, “is what I made.”
But what was it made for ? I glanced at Grace again, this time with a pleading look.
“What a lovely tea cart,” Grace said.
A tee tea cart? “And an exceptionally ingenious one at that,” I said, gushing a little too hard.
Mom ignored me. I knew I’d hurt her feelings. She placed the pot and cups on top of the cart and stepped back. “I call my art Tee Time . It’s designed with golfers in mind.”
“Quite clever,” Grace said.
“And so—practical!” I kissed her cheek, discreetly checking my watch. Quarter of four. “Unfortunately I have to go to a meeting now, Mom. Why don’t you stay and try some of Grace’s new coffee blend?”
“You don’t like the cart, do you?” Mom asked bluntly.
“Why would you think that?” I asked, trying to look offended.
The bell jingled and my thirteen-year-old niece, Tara, bounced in. She was dressed like a half-pint rap artist in a hot pink satin baseball jacket and cap, balloonlike cargo pants that sported pockets on the legs big enough to accommodate baby kangaroos, and white sneakers that were barely visible beneath the voluminous pant legs.
“Hi, Grandma,” she said, giving my mom a hug. “Awesome tea cart.”
Brat.
“Thank you, Tara,” Mom said, shooting me a look.
“Hi, Grace. Hey, Aunt Abby.” Tara headed straight for the parlor, where I soon heard a chair being pulled out.
“Tara, what are you doing here?” Mom called. “I thought you had piano lessons at three thirty on Mondays.”
“Just a minute,” came the muttered reply.
“I hope Tara’s not ditching,” Mom said. “It’s important to learn a musical instrument to get a well-rounded education.” This from a woman who grew up on a farm where instruments were saw blades and empty jugs.
She said to Grace, “My boys took to the piano like ducks to water. They have those long surgeons’ fingers, you know.”
Probably why they became surgeons and not pianists.
“Abby, you enjoyed piano lessons, didn’t you?” Mom asked.
Three years of torture enhanced by a piano teacher with green teeth whose breath smelled like sour tobacco. “Loved them. Listen, Mom, about your tea cart. I really, really—”
“I know. You like it. Now would you ask Tara why she isn’t at her piano lessons? She’ll tell you .”
I was about to reply that she was the grandma and therefore the in loco parentis, with emphasis on the loco, but since I’d already offended Mom once that day, I thought better of it. I glanced at my watch. It would be a ten-minute drive to Lipinski’s office. How was I going to make that meeting now?
“Abby,” Grace said, “shall I call and find out if the meeting has started? Perhaps they’re running late.”
I gave her a quick nod. Grace hurried toward the workroom, and I headed for the parlor. Tara had parked herself in a chair at one of the white ice cream tables in front of the bay window and was busy working her cell phone keys.
“What happened to your piano lesson?” I asked, walking up to the table.
“Codycation,” Tara replied without looking up.
“What?”
“Cody. Cation.” Her fingers flew over the tiny keypad.
I put my hand over the screen. “What’s a codycation ?”
“A day off because Cody’s in town. Now can I finish my tweet?” She narrowed her eyes at me. It was like looking at a younger version of myself—same flame red hair, same freckles, same green eyes, and same feisty temperament.
“The piano teacher gave you a day off because of Cody Verse being in town?”
She shifted her gaze away. “Kind of.”
Translation: She ditched.
“Can I please finish now? I’m the official Cody Tweeter, and your
“This,” Mom said proudly, “is what I made.”
But what was it made for ? I glanced at Grace again, this time with a pleading look.
“What a lovely tea cart,” Grace said.
A tee tea cart? “And an exceptionally ingenious one at that,” I said, gushing a little too hard.
Mom ignored me. I knew I’d hurt her feelings. She placed the pot and cups on top of the cart and stepped back. “I call my art Tee Time . It’s designed with golfers in mind.”
“Quite clever,” Grace said.
“And so—practical!” I kissed her cheek, discreetly checking my watch. Quarter of four. “Unfortunately I have to go to a meeting now, Mom. Why don’t you stay and try some of Grace’s new coffee blend?”
“You don’t like the cart, do you?” Mom asked bluntly.
“Why would you think that?” I asked, trying to look offended.
The bell jingled and my thirteen-year-old niece, Tara, bounced in. She was dressed like a half-pint rap artist in a hot pink satin baseball jacket and cap, balloonlike cargo pants that sported pockets on the legs big enough to accommodate baby kangaroos, and white sneakers that were barely visible beneath the voluminous pant legs.
“Hi, Grandma,” she said, giving my mom a hug. “Awesome tea cart.”
Brat.
“Thank you, Tara,” Mom said, shooting me a look.
“Hi, Grace. Hey, Aunt Abby.” Tara headed straight for the parlor, where I soon heard a chair being pulled out.
“Tara, what are you doing here?” Mom called. “I thought you had piano lessons at three thirty on Mondays.”
“Just a minute,” came the muttered reply.
“I hope Tara’s not ditching,” Mom said. “It’s important to learn a musical instrument to get a well-rounded education.” This from a woman who grew up on a farm where instruments were saw blades and empty jugs.
She said to Grace, “My boys took to the piano like ducks to water. They have those long surgeons’ fingers, you know.”
Probably why they became surgeons and not pianists.
“Abby, you enjoyed piano lessons, didn’t you?” Mom asked.
Three years of torture enhanced by a piano teacher with green teeth whose breath smelled like sour tobacco. “Loved them. Listen, Mom, about your tea cart. I really, really—”
“I know. You like it. Now would you ask Tara why she isn’t at her piano lessons? She’ll tell you .”
I was about to reply that she was the grandma and therefore the in loco parentis, with emphasis on the loco, but since I’d already offended Mom once that day, I thought better of it. I glanced at my watch. It would be a ten-minute drive to Lipinski’s office. How was I going to make that meeting now?
“Abby,” Grace said, “shall I call and find out if the meeting has started? Perhaps they’re running late.”
I gave her a quick nod. Grace hurried toward the workroom, and I headed for the parlor. Tara had parked herself in a chair at one of the white ice cream tables in front of the bay window and was busy working her cell phone keys.
“What happened to your piano lesson?” I asked, walking up to the table.
“Codycation,” Tara replied without looking up.
“What?”
“Cody. Cation.” Her fingers flew over the tiny keypad.
I put my hand over the screen. “What’s a codycation ?”
“A day off because Cody’s in town. Now can I finish my tweet?” She narrowed her eyes at me. It was like looking at a younger version of myself—same flame red hair, same freckles, same green eyes, and same feisty temperament.
“The piano teacher gave you a day off because of Cody Verse being in town?”
She shifted her gaze away. “Kind of.”
Translation: She ditched.
“Can I please finish now? I’m the official Cody Tweeter, and your
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