But I redeemed myself with UNO and whipped him a few times. I’m the kind of person who will make you draw all four of your cards before I slap down my last one, revealing that I already knew I’d beat you before you went through all the trouble.
It humbles a person.
I showed Elijah the summer children’s activity flyers I’d collected for Robin Creek. He said the library would be great, and the YMCA, too. “Are there any kids on your street?”
“I’ve seen a few,” I recalled, suddenly regretting the fact that I hadn’t made my rounds in the neighborhood since moving in a little more than two weeks ago. “I’ll ask Miss Mary, the mail carrier, tomorrow. She knows everybody and their children and their dogs.”
We had hot dogs and beans for dinner—using the stove only, of course. Later, we watched a movie, which I fell asleep on.
“Grandma, you’re asleep,” Elijah said as he elbowed me. “You should go to bed.”
“I will. After it’s over.” The truth was that I hadn’t figured out how to put the child restriction on the television, so I couldn’t leave him alone with free rein over a remote control. This was the kind of thing Gabriella could help me figure out, but I gathered she and I were still in “cooling off” mode, with our attitudes lingering in the air as much as the burnt-oven-coil smell.
So waking up again to the smell of simmering fruit the next day and hearing Elijah’s voice intermixed with Gabriella’s—yeah, that was different from either child I’d raised, and definitely different from the silence between her and me the day before.
My hand reached for my trusty robe first, which usheredthe memory of Gabriella’s rant about robes and housecoats. Amusement brought a tiny grin to my face. My roommate was an opinionated one. Strong. Didn’t let anyone—including me—run over her. I liked that about her. I could have used more of that in me at her age. Maybe even now.
I proudly zipped up my pink fleece housecoat, handled my morning business, and joined the two of them in the kitchen. Elijah wore Gabriella’s “Kiss the Cook” apron. I obeyed the instruction, grabbing his cheeks and planting a smack on his forehead. Then I pointed at his apron, and he smiled at me. “Morning, Grandma. We made breakfast. It’s waffles, but we’re not using syrup.”
“Oh?”
His eyebrows jumped with excitement. “We cooked strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries. We added sugar, water, and cornstarch.”
“It was easy,” Gabriella singsonged as she set a stack of perfectly golden-brown waffles on the table, avoiding eye contact with me.
“Good morning, Gabriella.”
Finally, she looked at me. “Good morning.”
My mother used to say that there’s more to good manners than just words. “Speaking to folks lets us all know we see each other, and it keeps lines of communication open,” Momma said. And she was right.
Elijah blurted out, “We also added lemon, to balance out the sugars—right, Gabriella?”
It occurred to me then that I hadn’t properly introduced those two yesterday, with the smoke and all.
“It’sMissGabriella to you, EJ.”
“Oh, I don’t mind—”
“And I want her to call me Elijah.”
Those two were bursting with information.
“It it’s all the same to you, Gabriella, I’d like for him to practice his manners, respecting his elders, by calling you Miss Gabriella. And EJ…Elijah…that’s fine. Do you want me to call you Elijah, too?”
“No. EJ is fine for you.”
“Great. Miss Gabriella and Elijah, otherwise known as EJ, the breakfast looks and smells amazing. I can’t wait to taste your creation.”
A silent puff of forgiveness passed between me and Gabriella as we all sat down to break bread. Elijah blessed the food, and we passed the plates of waffles, chicken sausage, and eggs around first. Then came their masterpiece of mixed-berry syrup, which melted away the last remnants of my attitude with Gabriella. The syrup, still a little warm and thick with fruit chunks, glistened as it poured slowly from the pitcher—deep reds and purples swirling together like stained glass. It clung to the waffles, seeping into every crevice. This girl had some kind of culinary magic in her hands.
Now, my momma could cook, as could Grandma Jewel. They passed down their cooking skills and recipes to me, and I knew them by heart after so many years of repetition. Gabriella had a way of taking what was already delicious and adding her own twist. Such was the case with this syrup. There was a little more warmth and depth to it—something besides the ingredients Elijah had listed.
I swallowed. “There’s something in here. Adding richness…”
Gabriella rewarded me with a wink and a smile. She turned toward Elijah, who was beaming with enthusiasm. “Should we tell her?”
He nodded half a second before shouting, “A dash of vanilla!”
