Page 50 of Flirting with the Scrooge

Connor

I’ve gone over to Tatum’s house a few times, but she never answered. I knew not telling her myself was going to come back and bite me in the ass. When you play with fire, it’s inevitable that you’ll get burned. And I had the matches in one hand and the accelerant in the other. I should have stuck with the plan and never got involved with her. Instead of getting the house finished, she’s occupying all my thoughts. And it’s all for naught. I’m leaving. I knew this, so I need to forget everything. Forget her. Unfortunately, it’s going to be easier said than done.

The entire upstairs is finished, the only place in the house I haven’t touched is the basement. And Grams liked to save everything, so this is going to be interesting. I flip on the light and descend the stairs. Nostalgia hits me as I glance around the open space. Growing up, every time I came to Gram’s house, I would hang out in the basement. It was my own space. Dust flutters through the air as I swipe away cobwebs to get to a dark corner filled with boxes.

An hour later, I’ve opened half the boxes, most of them filled with blankets or old clothes. When I’ve made a dent in the stack, something white and shiny catches my attention and my heart rate doubles. Hurriedly, I lift boxes and move them to the side, until I uncover exactly what I thought it was. My Westone Pantera pearl white guitar. My very first electric guitar. I move a couple of the boxes to build a makeshift chair and sit. Resting the guitar on my lap, I strum a string and cringe. It’s been a few years since this guitar has been played.

When I was a kid, I would always find something to bang a beat to and make my own music. When I told my parents I wanted to play music, they took that as piano lessons. I got to play music, so I wasn’t going to complain. Except my piano teacher was brutal. Ms. Rurik. She was an older woman, probably much older in the eyes of a seven-year-old. Her hair was always in a bun so tight I’m surprised she had feeling in her face. At the first wrong note, she’d slap a ruler centimeters away from my hand. I was terrified she would actually hit my hand the next time. She was stern and kept me in check, but I wasn’t getting a participation trophy from her. Looking back on it now, I can say she taught me persistence and discipline. By the time I was done with my lessons I knew how to play “Fur Elise” by heart.

When I finally worked up the courage to tell my parents I didn’t want to play piano anymore, but instead I wanted to play guitar, they got me an acoustic guitar. They said it was quieter for me to learn on. But what I really wanted was the high energy, electrifying current of an electric guitar. Once Grams caught wind of my parents getting me an acoustic, she wasn’t going to let that fly. She dragged me to the music store and told me to pick out whatever guitar I wanted, but it had to be on the sale rack. Again, no complaints from me. I was getting what I wanted. I spent an entire summer in this basement learning how to play “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” by Poison. From there on out, I knew I wanted to be a musician. Grams was there during that pivotal point in my life, so maybe she can help with this one.

* * *

I stride to the reception desk at Whispering Pines Assisted Living. An older woman with salt and pepper hair and a friendly smile greets me from the other side of the desk. I glance down at her name tag. Loraine.

I pull off my sunglasses and fold them over the neck of my shirt. While I don’t suspect anyone will notice me here, I still want to keep a low profile, just in case. “Hi. I’m here to visit Mary Ann Hendrickson. I’m her grandson, Connor.”

“Let me see if I can track her down.” Loraine picks up the phone and makes a call. “You can sign in while I find where she’s at.”

“Thanks.” I scribble my name, date, time, and who I’m visiting on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard in front of me.

“Mary Ann is in the activity hall. It’s down the hallway and on the right.” She points behind me.

“Thank you.” I turn around and stroll down the hallway she pointed to. Nurses and LPNs stroll past me, and I lift the collar of my jacket to stay hidden. I maneuver around an elderly couple shuffling their way toward the activity hall. The end of the hallway opens to a large room filled with tables and chairs. Christmas decorations fill every corner of the room. An electric fireplace is the focal point in the center of the wall. Flames flicker and dance as stockings hang from the mantle. It radiates a cozy vibe.

Quickly I scan the room and immediately spot Grams. She’s the only person who still owns a hot pink track suit. Her back is to me, so as I approach she doesn’t notice, plus she’s too preoccupied by the game of solitaire in front of her. The scraping of the chair against the linoleum gets her attention as I sit down. She does a double take until a wide pink lipstick grin covers her face.

“Hey Grams.”

“CJ? Well, hot damn. Look who finally pays me a visit. My favorite grandson.” She holds her arms out and I wrap her in a tight hug. “I barely recognized you with that beard.”

“Good try. I’m your only grandson. And what, you’ve only been here for like two weeks. Plus, I’ve been busy cleaning out your house.”

“Three weeks. But who’s counting.”

I laugh. Grams may be eighty-eight years old, but she’s still sharp as a tack and as feisty as the day she was born. It was her idea to go into an assisted living facility. She said she wanted to hang out with her friends all day.

I blow out a low whistle. “This place looks pretty swanky.” I peer around the room. “You got a fireplace and an indoor garden. Everyone seems nice, too.”

“It’s not bad.” She leans in as if she’s telling me a secret. “But Tuesdays and Thursdays are my favorite days.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Thursday is cards. While they won’t let us bet money, they do let us bet with candy.” She reaches behind her for her bag. She glances over one shoulder and then the other before peeling open one side of her oversize black purse. A mound of butterscotch, peppermint, and strawberry hard candies sit inside.

“You hustler. What are you, the candy mafia around here? Got some lackeys doing your dirty work?”

“If you play the game, you better be able to pay.” She pulls out a butterscotch candy, tugs off the wrapper, and pops it in her mouth. She nods as she holds her purse open to me. I grab one with the red wrapper and green top, colored to resemble a strawberry, because I haven’t had one of these since I was a kid. I toss it into my mouth, the artificial strawberry is as sweet as I remember.

“So, Thursdays you steal unsuspecting victims’ candy. What about Tuesdays?”

A gleam sparkles in her eyes. “Tuesday is bingo night. And I make sure to get down here early so I can get a seat in the front row.”

“So you can hear them call the numbers?” I flash her a snarky smile. We’ve always had a close relationship. Out of all my relatives, she’s my favorite.

“My hearing is just fine,” she sasses. “Every Tuesday a very attractive young man, about your age, comes in to call the numbers.”

“Oh! You come for eye candy.” I laugh.

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