“Mexico is one of the original sources of vanilla,” she said.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” I said, swirling another square of my waffle in the sweet crimson sauce. How she’d known to add vanilla was pure genius. “This is so rich, I hope it’s paying local taxes.”
Gabriella laughed, and Elijah joined her like he actually understood the joke.
She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin and cleared her throat. “Well, I’m glad you like it, because I’m planning to enter it next week in a contest. At Preston’s Fine Dining. In Lubbock. They’re accepting entrants for the summer Breakfast and Bliss contest. I’m thinking I’ll enter my waffles and this syrup.”
“You’ll definitely win with that combination,” I told her.
“But I need that soul food spin, so I’m gonna perfect my honey-pepper bacon. Which means I’ll need the oven. With a broiler. Like, soon and very soon.”
Her reference to ’70s gospel music struck me almost more than her request. “Whatchu know about Andraé Crouch?”
“They sing that song ateverysingle funeral on my dad’s side of the family. And ‘Amazing Grace.’”
“We might need some amazing graceanda miracle, too, to get that oven fixed by next week,” I told her with a shake of my head.
She reached into her jeans pocket and handed me a slip of yellow paper.
I unfolded it to find three names with phone numbers.
“Handymen near Robin Creek,” Gabrilla added. “My boss recommended the first two. The third is my cousin.”
Following her previous marks, I refolded the paper and set it next to my napkin. “I’ll give them a call.”
“Thank you, Ms. Joyce,” Gabriella said.
She learned fast, I tell you.
Elijah and I cleaned up after breakfast so Gabriella could head out for work. He asked me at least ten times what I thought of the food.
“It was amazing, EJ. I never knew you could cook like that.”
His teeth—way too big for his mouth—shone brightly. “I took a picture of the syrup recipe. I’m going to make it again for my mom and dad.”
“Maybe you could make it with Grandpa. He keeps berries and fruits around, you know.”
There I went again, trying to smooth things over between family members. And there went Elijah’s smile. “No. Only with my parents. And you.”
The next dish to pass from the sink to the dishwasher was the large plate that had previously held the waffles. Elijah grabbed his side of the dish, and I didn’t let my side go, which forced him to look me in the eye.
“EJ, you know your grandfather and I still love you very much even though we’re not together.”
He tugged at the plate again, and I released it. The sullen look on his face remained.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What do you have to say?”
He faced me again. “I don’t think Grandpa loves me.”
“Why would you say that, EJ?”
“’Cause whenever I’m around, he tells me to be quiet or go to another room. He never calls me, he doesn’t come to any of my games.” Elijah concluded, with a shrug, “He doesn’tactlike he loves me.”
And right then and there, I stopped trying to convince my grandson to override his people-meter. Shoot, if I had any sense, I would have come to that same conclusion about my ex-husband twenty years ago instead of writing him passes because he worked (which he would have to do, married or not), protected us (I guess by virtue of being a male residing in the home), and didn’t cheat (to my knowledge).
