Thunderbolt over Texas by Barbara Dunlop Page B

for Sydney to meet Grandma.
    Cole had warned Sydney that his grandma was an incorrigible matchmaker, and that she’d go for broke the minute she laid eyes on Sydney. So Sydney was prepared for anything.
    What she got was a sharp, funny, sweet-natured, little woman in a floppy hat and bright gardening gloves with a dream of a period house. Circa 1940, it had an octagonal entry hall, with an archway that led to a living room, while another doorway led to what looked like the master bedroom.
    The wallpaper was yellowed and russet tiles were faded with age. But the wood trim shone with a dark patina and the leaded windows were definitely original.
    â€œYour home is beautiful,” Sydney said to Grandma, peering into the living room. The couch and armchair were burgundy, looped brocade, dotted with doilies that Sydney would bet Cole’s grandmother had crocheted herself.
    Grandma glanced around. “Never thought of it as beautiful before.”
    â€œIt’s gorgeous, ” said Sydney, smiling at the incongruous wide-screen television and the personal computer perched on an antique, rolltop desk. Oh, how she’d love to check her e-mail.
    â€œSydney’s here to visit for a few days,” said Katie. “She’s interested in the Thunderbolt of the North.”
    Sydney stole a quick glance at Katie, trying to decide if she was giving Grandma a subtle warning about her possible motives.
    â€œHave to marry Cole to get the Thunderbolt,” said Grandma as she led the way through the living room.
    â€œSo I understand,” said Sydney.
    They passed into a second octagonal hallway in the middle of the house, and then through a doorway to the kitchen at the back.
    â€œGood news is that he’s available,” said Grandma.
    â€œYou know, he told me that himself.”
    Grandma looked back and cocked her head. “Did he, now?”
    Sydney nodded.
    The older woman smiled. She took a blue enamel kettle out of a painted cupboard and filled it with water from the deep, old-fashioned sink. “From New York, you say?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œLike it here in Texas?”
    â€œSo far I’m having a wonderful time.”
    â€œThat’s good.” Grandma nodded her head. “Cole’s mother passed away, you know.”
    â€œKatie told me about that.”
    â€œHis dad, too. My Neil.”
    â€œI’m very sorry.”
    â€œWell, I’m still here. And I’ve always figured that meant I’ve still got a job to do with one wayward grandson.”
    Sydney grinned, assuming she was in for the full court press. “You mean Cole or Kyle?”
    â€œCole, of course.” Grandma paused. “You want to help me?” Then a split second later she gestured to a bowl of freshly picked blueberries so that the question could be interpreted either way.
    â€œI’d love to help.” Sydney was ready to give her all on both fronts.
    â€œGood!” Grandma winked. “You can wash the berries. Katie, you get down a mixing bowl.”
    Katie opened a high cupboard and retrieved a large stoneware bowl. “Grandma’s scones are renowned in this part of Texas.”
    â€œRecipe is a family secret,” said Grandma. “Handed down from generation to generation.”
    â€œCan’t wait to try them,” said Sydney, pushing up the sleeves of her shirt.
    â€œGrandma?” Katie ventured. “Why don’t you explain to Sydney why the Thunderbolt goes to the wives?”
    â€œI’ll do that,” said Grandma with a nod.
    Katie turned to waggle an eyebrow at Sydney. “I love this story.”
    â€œNear as I can figure,” said Grandma, scooping into a tin flour canister, “it started around the middle of the fourteenth century.”
    Sydney was instantly riveted. There was nothing sheliked better than family lore. As far as she was concerned, stories were as important as antiquities.
    â€œThe family went through