Thirty-Seven
At exactly two o’clock,I open our front door to hear, “This is how you rough it, to prove you’re a man. This isn’t a home.”
Rosalie bares her teeth in a grin as I stand before them, hearing the tail end of her grandmother’s judgment on Roman’s cabin.
The woman, who might be a foot shorter than Rosalie, doesn’t care that I’ve opened the door though. She keeps talking. “You have to have running water and a functioning bathroom to call it a home.” The woman pats the side of her curly silver hair and wrinkles her button nose.
“Oh, we do!” I say. “Both, actually. We have a fully functioning kitchen and a bathroom. It just looks a little rustic on the outside. Please, come in.”
“Very rustic,” Rosalie’s grammy says.
“I think it’s cute,” Rosalie chimes in, smiling at me. It’s a smile that apologizes for her grandmother’s brazen comments. But as a girl who just spent the last month withthe burden of lying about her feelings on her shoulders, I find her honesty refreshing.
“Me too,” I say.
“Good grief,” the older woman gripes. Then she stares ahead into Roman’s tiny living room, to the tree that’s filling most of the space. “You have a tree growing in your front room. Did you know?”
“It’s a Christmas tree, Gram. See the lights?” Rosalie clears her throat. “Stella, this is my grammy, Noreen. Grammy, this is my friend, Stella.”
My stomach flutters a little with how easily Rosalie calls me a friend. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Yes,” Noreen says. “Lovely. You are the girl with the clay.”
“I am.”
“You make pottery for a living?”
My brows knit. “Not really. I’d like to, though.”
“What I’m asking, dear, is if you’ll be able to make certain that my pot isn’t horrendous. I can’t give my Kermit something that stinks.”
I cough out a laugh. “I’ll be here to help you with every step. We’ll make something beautiful forKermit.”
“My grandpa,” Rosalie says. “Hey, Grammy, maybe we don’t refer to your ceramic creation as pot, huh?”
Noreen huffs. “This one is always stressing,” she says, pinching Rosalie’s coat sleeve before walking further into Roman’s home. “Robert made her question her life choices. She’s chosen a great profession. She’s got that goofball friend?—”
“Fran isn’t a goofball, Grammy.”
“But she’s loyal,” Noreen continues as if Rosalie hasn’t spoken. “And now she’s got Zev.” Noreen grins.
I’ve been curious about Zev and Rosalie—with Fran’s scheme to get them to kiss.
“I know Zev,” I say, because I truly want Noreen to spill more tea.
“Yes. That man is built like an ox. He could bench press Kermy with one hand.”
Rosalie swallows. “Yes, you’ve tried to get him to do that multiple times. Haven’t you?”
“Kermy won’t go for it,” Noreen says.
Rosalie presses her lips together and lifts her brows while staring at me. I’m pretty sure that look says that Zev isn’t going for it either.
“That man would have her married with a great-grandchild on the way if it weren’t for Rose’s bullheadedness.” Noreen is fantastic at tea-spilling.
“Okay!” Rosalie barks so loudly that Roman probably hears her from his bedroom. “Let’s talk about your pottery, Gram.”
Noreen’s hands flutter in the air, and she gives the stink eye to her granddaughter. “I thought you said we couldn’t call it pot.”
