Page 10 of New River Gorge(ous)
“Nothing’s wrong, Meemaw.”
“Sure, honey. And you aren’t mad or upset, sure as idiots don’t ask dumb questions.”
I shake my head, trying to follow her train of thought, but failing.
“I’m tired from the drive, Meemaw,” I deflect, but I can’t tell her about Matt and Melanie with Matt sitting right there. And I don’t really want to tell her about Dr. Beckett Whistler either.
Meemaw leans into me and gives me a hug, and her familiar scent of butterscotch and moonshine, with a hint of lard, fills my senses.
“When do you have to leave, Matt?” Meemaw asks.
“Soon, Meemaw. Sorry I can’t stay long, but I have to get back.”
“You can’t leave till tomorrow,” Meemaw announces imperiously as she straightens. “I need you to help me around here. Such a strapping young man. Your muscles are enormous. Did you pay for those with that plastic surgery?”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Matt scowls at me over Meemaw’s head.
“No, Meemaw, these arenotfrom plastic surgery. I own a gym now.”
“That’s so nice you’re a gym teacher. Those kids with ADHD need that movement. I hear the dyes are to blame. But how will I be able to wear bright red if they ban all the dyes?”
Matt’s eyes widen. Meemaw has always been eccentric, but is this willful misunderstanding of information, or is she confused? Our Meemaw decoding skills are a little rusty. “Uh. Well, the dyes are food dyes.”
“What has this world come to? People are dyeing their food now?”
“Uh … yeah.”
Meemaw snorts. “In my day, it was enough to just serve it to a man, not try to entice him by making it look pretty.” She pats Matt’s arm. “You men need to stop being so high-maintenance.”
Matt’s eyes meet mine across Meemaw’s head. As a personal trainer and gym owner, he is particular about his food, and this conversation has spiraled out of his control.
Meemaw springs up as best she is able to with her foot in the cast. “Bring me my scooter, Matthew.”
Matt wheels a knee scooter over to Meemaw, and she slips onto it with surprising deftness. “All this talk of food has made me hungry,” she declares. “You’ll be wanting fried chicken?”
Matt grins. “Definitely, Meemaw. No one makes it like you.”
I have it on good authority that Matt won’t touch fried chicken unless it’s Meemaw’s.
He grins as he catches my not-so-subtle eye roll. “How can we help?”
“You”—she scoots past him into the kitchen—“can stay out of my kitchen, but Brooke needs to come. A woman needs to know how to make a man-pleasin’ dish.”
Matt holds back a laugh. “Welcome to the eighteenth century, Brooke,” he whispers as I pass him.
I use my small stature to swing my elbow into the soft spot just above his hip. He doubles over, but he’s still shaking with unreleased mirth.
If I can count on one thing, it’s that I never know what Meemaw will do next. And that the next few months of me living here and helping out will be … interesting.
We’re all up early the next morning. Meemaw, because she’s always up before the sun, and Matt, because he needs to head back to Michigan and Melanie. I heard him talking to her on the phone last night, and I wanted to gag. If I could have, I would have grabbed the phone through the wall and yelled, “That’s my brother you’re talking to!”
Unfortunately, the wall separating us is not soundproof, but it did prevent me from phasing through and throwing his phone into the nearest river.
At least he had to sleep on the lumpy pull-out couch while I got the guest bedroom. It’s a tiny pink square with a twin bed, and Meemaw’s craft supplies crammed into every nook and cranny, but it wasn’t the back-breaking sofa.
Meemaw can’t get down the steps to the driveway, so she says her goodbyes from the kitchen. She whispers something into Matt’s ear, and he flushes while he shakes his head. She leans in again, and both of them look directly at me. Matt grins and winks before pulling Meemaw into a hug and placing a kiss on her wrinkled cheek.
“Take care of Meemaw, Brooke,” he says as we walk down the porch steps and over to his truck. “She’s a schemer, but I think you’ll have some fun if you go along with it.”
