reassuring despite her authoritative tone. “You’ll deal with your troubles the same way you’ll deal with painting the porch—one rotten board at a time.”
5
S calding water beats against my shoulders and loosens my muscles. Steam encases me in a bubble, and the steady sounds of the shower fill the bathroom. But I can’t avoid Grammy J or the fact I forgot my father’s birthday celebration forever.
I shut off the water and wrap myself in a scratchy, threadbare towel. Climbing out of the tub, I step onto a mat as thin as a pillowcase, and shiver as the coldness of the tile seeps through. This bathroom is nothing like mine in Dallas, with its heated marble floors and rugs so plush my toes disappear. Wiping the fog off the mirror, I examine my reflection, hardly recognizing the person staring back at me, the resentment in her eyes, the hard set of her jaw.
I style my hair, put on makeup, and slip into white skinny jeans, a Kelly green blouse, and ballet flats, careful not to aggravate my still-throbbing and swollen ankle. Like the rest of my closet, my daily wardrobe is crisp and polished. My mother says worn-in, comfortable clothing belongs on slobs or in the children’s department. Sophistication is everything , she reminds me at least once a week.
Outside an engine growls, and I remember my Audi is still at The Tangled Vine. Thanks again, Roaming Eyes Ryan. Maybe after I conjure up a painter to deal with the porch, Grammy J will drive me into town to get it.
Tucking my car keys and cell phone into my pocket, I hobble downstairs, past the dining room arranged with individual white-clothed tables with flowers at the center of each. Carafes of various juices, bowls of fresh fruit, and platters with pastries crowd a sideboard that could use more varnish.
At a large round table, a group of twentysomething girls chat and laugh while they eat omelets off fine china and drink mimosas out of crystal goblets, fueling up for a long day of wine tasting. The brunette nearest the French doors wears a glittery plastic crown and a sash over her eyelet dress—a bride-to-be surrounded by her closest friends for a bachelorette weekend. I wonder how long her happy ending will last.
In the adjoining sunroom, an older couple sips coffee and reads the newspaper, admiring the rolling countryside of Wilhelmsburg, a yellow-green patchwork of vineyards and farms and wildflower fields that remind me of a Van Gogh painting.
Grammy J wanders in from the kitchen and peers at me over her glasses. “Child, I hope you’ve Scotchgarded that outfit.”
More like Teflon-coated .
“Not to worry. I’ve got it under control,” I say, waving the paintbrush in the air to assure her the porch will be painted, just not by me. Where I come from, we leave home improvement to hired experts, so I’ll make a phone call.
Grammy J nods, though her expression indicates she’s certain I’m about to learn an obvious, unwanted lesson, and delivers a tray loaded with pancakes to the couple.
From somewhere upstairs, I hear a door open and cheerful voices. The Bluebonnet Inn has seven rooms—five available for guests, the spare I’m occupying, and Grammy J’s modest suite off the rear entrance. During high season visitors flock to Hill Country to tour the wineries, pick apples and peaches in the orchards, and enjoy the many festivals and historic sites. Late summer means the bed-and-breakfast should be booked solid, but the few cars I saw parked out front last night indicate otherwise. So different from the summers I spent here as a kid. I wonder what Grammy J does to promote the B&B or if there’s a website for people to make online reservations. Maybe it’s something I can help her with while I’m here.
I move onto the back porch, which looks like it should be attached to a run-down, abandoned house. The wooden floorboards are cracked and pulling up in places, crying for a face-lift. The white paint is peeling away and is gone entirely on the
5
S calding water beats against my shoulders and loosens my muscles. Steam encases me in a bubble, and the steady sounds of the shower fill the bathroom. But I can’t avoid Grammy J or the fact I forgot my father’s birthday celebration forever.
I shut off the water and wrap myself in a scratchy, threadbare towel. Climbing out of the tub, I step onto a mat as thin as a pillowcase, and shiver as the coldness of the tile seeps through. This bathroom is nothing like mine in Dallas, with its heated marble floors and rugs so plush my toes disappear. Wiping the fog off the mirror, I examine my reflection, hardly recognizing the person staring back at me, the resentment in her eyes, the hard set of her jaw.
I style my hair, put on makeup, and slip into white skinny jeans, a Kelly green blouse, and ballet flats, careful not to aggravate my still-throbbing and swollen ankle. Like the rest of my closet, my daily wardrobe is crisp and polished. My mother says worn-in, comfortable clothing belongs on slobs or in the children’s department. Sophistication is everything , she reminds me at least once a week.
Outside an engine growls, and I remember my Audi is still at The Tangled Vine. Thanks again, Roaming Eyes Ryan. Maybe after I conjure up a painter to deal with the porch, Grammy J will drive me into town to get it.
Tucking my car keys and cell phone into my pocket, I hobble downstairs, past the dining room arranged with individual white-clothed tables with flowers at the center of each. Carafes of various juices, bowls of fresh fruit, and platters with pastries crowd a sideboard that could use more varnish.
At a large round table, a group of twentysomething girls chat and laugh while they eat omelets off fine china and drink mimosas out of crystal goblets, fueling up for a long day of wine tasting. The brunette nearest the French doors wears a glittery plastic crown and a sash over her eyelet dress—a bride-to-be surrounded by her closest friends for a bachelorette weekend. I wonder how long her happy ending will last.
In the adjoining sunroom, an older couple sips coffee and reads the newspaper, admiring the rolling countryside of Wilhelmsburg, a yellow-green patchwork of vineyards and farms and wildflower fields that remind me of a Van Gogh painting.
Grammy J wanders in from the kitchen and peers at me over her glasses. “Child, I hope you’ve Scotchgarded that outfit.”
More like Teflon-coated .
“Not to worry. I’ve got it under control,” I say, waving the paintbrush in the air to assure her the porch will be painted, just not by me. Where I come from, we leave home improvement to hired experts, so I’ll make a phone call.
Grammy J nods, though her expression indicates she’s certain I’m about to learn an obvious, unwanted lesson, and delivers a tray loaded with pancakes to the couple.
From somewhere upstairs, I hear a door open and cheerful voices. The Bluebonnet Inn has seven rooms—five available for guests, the spare I’m occupying, and Grammy J’s modest suite off the rear entrance. During high season visitors flock to Hill Country to tour the wineries, pick apples and peaches in the orchards, and enjoy the many festivals and historic sites. Late summer means the bed-and-breakfast should be booked solid, but the few cars I saw parked out front last night indicate otherwise. So different from the summers I spent here as a kid. I wonder what Grammy J does to promote the B&B or if there’s a website for people to make online reservations. Maybe it’s something I can help her with while I’m here.
I move onto the back porch, which looks like it should be attached to a run-down, abandoned house. The wooden floorboards are cracked and pulling up in places, crying for a face-lift. The white paint is peeling away and is gone entirely on the
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