Page 3

I shrugged. “I didn’t name it.”

Behind the Moon was a small metaphysical boutique in the Crabtree Valley Mall with a bohemian-witchy vibe. Incense, crystals, boho-chic clothing—everything Patricia hated.

“Your uncle Tim will be home any minute. You could have at least dressed appropriately.”

Appropriately—meaning church-worthy attire.

I sighed, glancing down at my dark-wash skinny jeans and white tank top. Paired with a long-sleeved mulberry cardigan and my favorite black combat boots, the outfit wasn’t inappropriate. It didn’t even show my tattoos.

Heaven help me if I had to listen to an hour-long lecture on how my body was a temple and inking my skin desecrated that temple. I didn’t desecrate it; I decorated it. Big difference. Besides, wouldn’t chemical injections fall into the same “temple-desecrating” category?

I rolled my eyes. Hypocrite.

Plenty of women attended modern churches dressed like me.

I never understood why Tim saw it as a big deal. He allowed Patricia to wear pants and get Botox, yet my outfit didn’t meet the rigid standards of the holy rollers in his church, and that was enough reason to give me a hard time—insisting if I didn’t give myself over to God, I’d burn in eternal hellfire.

When I attended their church once as a teenager, I discovered real quick their idea of “modest” for women meant dresses and silence. Patricia followed those rules only when it suited her, holding me to a different standard.

Needless to say, I never went back.

I wasn’t a religious person anyway, so there was no love lost.

I pushed to my feet and poured a fresh glass of sweet tea. “I’m gonna visit with her a bit.”

“Remember not to upset her.”

Instead of saying more, I stepped off the shaded porch onto the stone path leading to the white gazebo. I rolled my shoulders and shielded my eyes from the sunlight reflecting off the pool.

The farther I walked from Patricia, the lighter I felt. By the time I reached the gazebo, I could breathe comfortably again.

White and orange chrysanthemums lined the entrance of the gazebo. Their sweet, spicy scent welcomed me when I entered the cool shade inside.

“Sweet Pea.” Grandma smiled, her gray eyes—so much like mine—crinkled at the corners. The last of the pressure on my chest lifted. “I’m happy you’re still here.”

“Of course I’m here. I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my favorite grandma.”

“Your only grandma.”

Smiling, I took a seat on the wraparound bench in the gazebo. “You’d still be my favorite even if I had twenty.”

“Such a flatterer.”

The tension I carried across the yard eased at the sight of Grandma lucid. I hadn’t known what to expect after she’d barely said a word around Patricia at lunch.

Some visits weren’t productive and needed to end early—if they happened at all. Times when Grandma stared into nothingness, with only the occasional flinch or hard swallow to let me know she was even there. Today, she sounded fine, but the darkness shadowing the heavy skin beneath her eyes told a different story.

“So, what have I missed? Mr. Miller still trying to get you to join his Bingo group?”

A few mousy-brown strands fell loose from the low bun at her nape when she chuckled and shook her head. “That man isn’t thinkin’ about Bingo, and you know it.” Her slender fingers tightened on her glass of tea to steady their tremor. “But I did join the group. Alice and Claire joined, so I couldn’t leave him to those vipers.”

Relaxing against the wall of the gazebo, I smiled. Grandma didn’t harbor real ill will toward Alice and Claire.

I’d met them a few months ago at a senior luncheon. The two women loved Grandma to pieces, and it comforted me to know she’d found a place to escape everything.

“I tried making those biscuits from your recipe book yesterday to bring today, but they fell apart. I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Grandma had gifted me our family recipe book during my last visit. I’d spent my free time ever since trying to master the recipes from my childhood. I’d always wanted the book, but after Mom died I was too young to take care of it, so Grandma kept it safe. Among my favorite recipes were my great-grandmother’s buttermilk biscuits, a staple of our holiday dinners made by either Grandma or Mom.