And while my father keeps talking about market projections, my mind drifts back to the ranch and all its potential.
Isit at the dining table with my book open to the last chapter. My notebook sits beside it, already filled with scribbled notes and question marks.
The back door opens.
Then comes the familiar rustle of paper bags and the heavy thud of boots on hardwood.
Grandma is back from the market.
I push back from the table just as she walks through the doorway, carrying two overloaded brown paper grocery bags in her arms.
“Grandma!” I say, jumping up.
She pauses, peering over the top of the bags. “Well, hello to you too.”
“You should have called me. I would’ve come out to help you.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she says. “I’m not fragile.”
Still, I hurry over and take one of the bags from her arms.
It’s heavier than it looks.
“You bought half the store.”
“It was all on sale.”
“Then you had no choice,” I say.
We walk into the kitchen together.
It’s spotless, and it smells of the lemon cleaner she uses on the countertops every morning.
I set the bag on the big kitchen island while she places the other beside it.
She immediately begins unpacking them.
Milk.
Eggs.
Apples.
A loaf of sourdough.
“What are you up to?” she asks without looking up.
“Research.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
I lean back against the island, crossing my arms. “I’m reading up on The Lady in Red.”
Grandma pauses mid-unpacking.
She turns slowly to face me. “The who?”
“The Lady in Red.”
