Page 8 of The Usual Family Mayhem

Honestly, I’d made the offer since it seemed like the rightthing to do. The wholerespect youreldersthing and all. Her skepticism made me double down. “Cleaning?”

She snorted.

Good choice since cleaning was not my thing. But I had to have athingand it was about time I found it. “Okay, cooking.”

Gram took a long sip then set her mug down on the bar with a clink. “You mean baking. We bake.”

“Yeah, forget that.” Me helping in the kitchen sounded like an invitation to food poisoning. “I could help with business paperwork. Gather up—”

“No.”

Whoa. That answer came fast and hard. I’d been recruited to wash dishes, stir, and perform other baking assistant tasks over the years. By “recruited”I meantordered to docertain things. This one time I initiated and offered to pitch in on a non-tasting-related chore and Gram shut it down. Apparently she loved paperwork and didn’t want to share.

Still, I could be a team player. “I thought you might need—”

“That part of the business is handled. It’s fine.”

The odd snap in her voice didn’t sound fine. It seemed like we were having one conversation out loud and one unspoken, only I couldn’t keep up with the silent one. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course.” She waved a hand in the air, which was Grandma code forfind another topic.

Gram wasn’t a yeller. She didn’t need to raise her voice to make her point when she could pull outthe look. It consisted of one arched eyebrow, a grim expression, and an unblinking stare. The kind of stare that bored through you and slammed into the wall behind you.

I’d spent most of my life trying not to tick her off and remembered with painful clarity every instance where I’d failed. The time as a teenager when I crawled out my upstairs window and went to meet friends. The day I drove the car into the garage door because I was texting rather than paying attention. The big misstep where I took twenty dollars from her purse without asking. In my defense, I was only ten during the last one and the guilt ate at me until I fessed up.

Gram’s warm smile returned. “I made cinnamon muffins. Would you like one or two?”

If she wanted to divert my attention with food... well, it worked. I split the muffin in half and let the spicy aroma fill the air. I could swim in a bucket of these and eat my way out. That was the fantasy.

While I ate, Gram cleaned this and rearranged that. The years did nothing to tame her need for constant motion. She was this little ball of energy. Five-foot-one, though she insisted she was closer to five-three. Every inch of her determined and sassy and ready to defend. I was a solid six inches taller than her actual height, but she could outmaneuver me physically and verbally.

My theory was that she lived life at a sprint to keep the bad memories from catching up with her. If she stuck to her racing pace, she could outrun the pain and destruction that defined so much of her adulthood.

She’d lived long and survived some heartbreaking shit. Growing up with a father who spent most of his life sucking down whatever alcohol he could find only to escape to a husband who used his fists to carry his side of the conversation. The men in her life taught her to be on guard. Losing mymom, Gram’s daughter, by her son-in-law’s hand shaped everything that came after, including raising me to be bold, fight back, and detest violent men, especially the one who made my existence possible.

Gram buzzed around the room, keeping her hands moving. Once she wiped down the counter, she started taking baking pans out of cabinets. The bang of precooking preparations sounded like music to me. Familiar and comforting. Soon the house would fill with the delicious scent of some variety of cupcakes.

Most of the work for Mags’ Desserts, the name of Gram and Celia’s business, took place in here. The smaller room next to this one had once been a pantry. It now served as a supply area with two dishwashers that ran what felt like constantly.

The cooking space had been extended and updated several times over the years, swallowing up an office and the formal dining room. They’d invested tens of thousands of dollars in appliances and baking equipment, including a fancy oven that required reinforced flooring, updated electrical outlets, and a special vent hood before it could be installed.

A baking annex converted what had once been my grandfather’s separate garage and workshop into the overflow area with a table for afternoon tea and recipe tasting as well as some offices. The multiple spaces helped the operation run at peak efficiency. Just like everything else in Gram’s life.

I finished off a cinnamon muffin and reached for a second. “I can’t get these in DC. Except that one time I found them in the grocery store, but they didn’t taste the same.”

Gram stopped moving. “You bought muffins in a grocery store?”

Shock. Confusion. The same tone she might use if I told her I’d robbed a bank. Gram had pulled out herI am horrifiedvoice.

Laughter from the doorway saved me from answering. Celia walked into the room in her usual hanging-around-the-house outfit. An oversized long sleeve top and matching lounge pants. She had a set in every color and wore them because “North Carolina gets colder each year.” Never mind that it was seventy-five today, warmer than usual for late March.

“Grocery store muffins? Honestly, Kasey. What were you thinking?” Celia gave me a hug before heading straight for the coffeemaker.

I hated to state the obvious but did anyway. “People usually buy food in a grocery store.”

Gram’s expression could only be described as grim. “Muffins should not be bought in the same place you buy garbage bags.”

That wasn’t a bad argument. But Winston-Salem was the home of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, which suggested pastries could be bought in all kinds of places. I decided not to point that out.

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