Page 37 of New River Gorge(ous)
“My grandpappy’s shotgun.” She bobs her head. “Has a sawed-off barrel and everything.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Eh. What the government don’t know won’t hurt ‘em.”
I cross the room to sit by June on the couch. “Listen, Miss June,” I say quietly. “I have no idea where things are going to go with me and Brooke, but I like her a lot. And I haven’t felt that way about anyone since…” I release a breath. “I promise that I think of Brooke as marriage material, and I won’t do anything to disrespect her.”
“Good.” She gives a curt nod. “Now go help her make lunch. A woman needs to see a man capable of domestic tasks if you’re going to have any chance of that hanky-panky.”
This woman is eccentric, but I understand her. She loves Brooke fiercely, and wants her to be happy. Why she thinks Brooke would be happy with me is a mystery, but I’ll give June the benefit of her elder years.
I push up from the couch and begin walking to the kitchen, where I can hear Brooke humming. I stop midway and turn to June. “You don’t really have a sawed-off barrel shotgun, do you?”
All June does is wink.
Meemaw
June MacCord has several life ambitions, but one of them is to attend the wedding of at least one of her grandchildren. Admitting her age is something she does, if only begrudgingly. With her recent injuries, June begins to suspect she isn’t as spry as she once was.
Ol’ Eddie does indeed exist, although this version does not have a sawed-off barrel, and June knows she’d never use it on Beckett. Still, the tease was fun, and she has no regrets about bringing up marriage between her handsome doctor neighbor and her granddaughter on their first date.
Her hearing isn’t what it once was, but it’s still surprisingly good for someone who’s in their seventies. She listens to the sounds coming from the kitchen, where her granddaughter prepares lunch. She sinks her head back into the couch pillows and closes her eyes, straining to hear the doctor’s low rumble and her granddaughter’s quiet murmur.
June’s lips curl into a frown as minutes go by and she can’t make out any of their words.
A huge crash of metal on metal causes her eyes to fly open.
“Woah, that was heavier than I thought it would be.” The low voice sounds above the ringing of the metal.
“Yeah, you need some serious muscles to lift them. But I thought everyone used cast-iron around here,” the granddaughter says.
“Nah, I don’t own a cast-iron pan. I don’t do much cooking, honestly.”
“My mom switched to cast-iron when we were growing up, and they took a long time for me to get strong enough to lift, but I prefer them now.”
The ringing stops, and the voices drop back to a quieter pitch that June can no longer hear. But that doesn’t bother her at all. She has an idea. Not just any idea. A brilliant idea.
Sliding her phone open, she begins carrying out her not-fully-formulated plan.
20
Brooke
Beck left after a lunch of grilled ham and cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, and I find myself missing his presence. I’m sitting on my bed, thinking about painting, but I can’t seem to muster up the enthusiasm for a landscape right now. Instead, my fingers keep tugging on my hair, and my eyes keep drifting to the window, which doesn’t even face Beck’s house.
When I snap a pink strand off, I know I need to do something else. I grab the crochet blanket I’m working on, and as I work the hook through the yarn, I think,Get a grip, girl.It’s been one date.
And yet, it’s true: I miss him. He’s honestly not the most physically attractive man I’ve ever met, and he’s certainly not the most talkative, but he is different from all of the guys who’ve taken me out.
Maybe he’d be running for the hills if he knew I heard what he said to Meemaw about marrying me, but he also didn’t run for the hills despite Meemaw’s threats involving munitions.
Ol’ Eddie, my goodness.
“Brookie,” Meemaw calls from the couch. “Could you help me? I’m ready for a change of location.”
“Sure thing, Meemaw,” I shout to ensure she hears that I’m coming and doesn’t try to do anything foolish.
The soft pink shag carpet tickles my bare toes as I walk down the hallway, and my eyes snag on the line of photographs spaced evenly on the wall. Everything about Meemaw’s house is clean. Faded, yes. Old, definitely, but clean. The photograph of her and her husband on their wedding day stands out in a way that never has before.
