She waves a free hand in the air, completely unapologetic, as she makes her way up the steps. “It’s Millie’s son. He was on his way home and said he’d give me a lift so I didn’t have to grab a cab. Couldn’t use Uber without a phone, right?”
“No, I guess you can’t,” I say, like this is all perfectly reasonable.
She drops her bag by the door and collapses into the chair beside mine with a satisfied sigh, like she’s just had the most normal taxi ride in the world.
“I am sorry I’m late,” she says, glancing over at me. “Did I ruin dinner?”
I reach for my glass again before remembering it’s empty. “Nope. We’re ordering in tonight, so you’re right on time.”
“Perfect,” she says, settling back, completely at ease now that she’s home.
I glance at her, still a little in disbelief, but it fades quickly. It always does.
I’ve been here a few years now. Long enough that this—motorcycles, missing phones, unexpected detours—has somehow become part of my everyday.
Part of me still can’t fathom that when she got hurt, when I called my mother and told her what happened, she didn’t come back to help her own mother. She’s too busy for that. Too important, at least in her own mind.
So I stayed. Someone had to. People can slip away, so it felt easier than wondering what would happen if I didn’t.
And now, I’m the one who sits on the porch in the middle of June, waiting for my grandmother to come home from erotic book club on the back of a Harley like this is just another Thursday.
Which, for her, apparently, it is.
She fans herself beside me before glancing over. “So,” she says, like she hasn’t just arrived via motorcycle, “how have things been at the store this week?”
I shrug a shoulder, stretching my legs out in front of me. “Pretty good. Busy.”
“That’s my girl.”
“I’m finishing up the McAllister brooch,” I add. “And I’ve got the design to do for the Williamses’ fiftieth anniversary. That one needs to be done by Friday.”
“Oooh,” she says, pleased. “Fifty years. That’s a good one.”
“Yeah,” I say, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “It is.”
“And the wedding ring?” she asks, glancing at me.
I arch an eyebrow. “I’m having to tweak that one a little.”
Her eyes light up immediately. “The bride who came in with her brother? The one who got the ring stuck on his hand?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Yes. That one.”
“Oh, I like him already,” she says.
“You would,” I mutter. “I’m going to go in on Sunday and repair it so she has it well ahead of the wedding. With very clear instructions that no one else is allowed to try it on.”
She laughs, delighted. “Seems reasonable.”
“Bare minimum, honestly.”
She studies me for a second, her expression softening in that way it always does when she’s about to say something I may or may not be ready for.
“You’re very good at what you do, you know,” she says.
“Considering you’ve given me the keys to the store,” I say as I glance over at her, “I’d hope so.”
“I mean it,” she adds, nudging my arm lightly. “You take care of these precious things. You make them better than they were. You’ve always had a knack for that, for taking such great care of others.”
