Page 67 of New River Gorge(ous)
“June MacCord?” he inquires.
“Yes?” June replies.
“Great. It will be a while—one hundred and eighteen cast-iron skillets are really hard to unload.”
37
Brooke
When I walk out of the bathroom, freshly showered and ready to face this appointment with Meemaw, I am met by the unexpected on several counts.
First, Beck stands next to Meemaw by the front door, his mouth agape. Second, a delivery man holds a clipboard with a receipt that has been folded and looped over multiple times before being secured under the clip. The delivery man continues unlooping it until the receipt is a trail of paper that blows in the wind like a kite string. It trails down the porch steps and onto the walkway.
“One hundred and eighteen cast-iron pans. You’ll just need to sign here,” he says.
Beck’s jaw snaps shut. His muscled forearms are tense, and the muscles pop when he crosses them over his chest. “Don’t sign that.” He looks from the delivery man to the receipt. “Clearly, there’s been a mistake.”
The delivery man checks the address and sizes up Meemaw. “You June MacCord?”
“Yes…” Meemaw’s voice wavers.
“You know you ordered one hundred and eighteen cast-iron skillets?”
“Do I look crazy to you?” Meemaw says, turning her Southern lady charm on. I know West Virginia isn’t exactly Southern in the truest sense of the word, but the woman knows how to challenge the menfolk.
“Blimey. This is a mess.” Delivery Man shakes his head. “No, ma’am, you do not look crazy.”
“Good,” Beck cuts in. “Because, June, how many skillets did you intend to order?”
“Four. Who needs one hundred and eighteen?”
“Why would you order four?” Beck asks, the muscles along his jaw ticking as his jaw clenches.
“One for each burner,” Meemaw responds as if it’s the most basic of facts.
The delivery man nods as if that makes perfect sense.
“But, Meemaw,” I say, breaking into the conversation and startling everyone. “The burners are all different sizes. And you already have cast-iron skillets.”
“Hmmm.” Delivery Man purses his lips and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.
“You must be thirsty,” Meemaw says.
Beck groans. “Not now, June. You have an appointment in an hour.”
“That’s plenty of time for”—she squints her eyes at the embroidered patch on the delivery man’s brown shirt—”Jarrod here to have a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade.”
Jarrod licks his lips and looks nervously from Beck to Meemaw. “Only if it’s not too much trouble, ma’am. But I sure am thirsty.”
“We don’t have much time,” Beck interjects, checking his watch.
“A glass of lemonade doesn’t take too much time.”
“June,” Beck says sternly, and I see him slipping into his role as a physician again instead of the man he is when he’s with me. “You’re delaying on purpose.”
“Here,” I break in. “Meemaw, I’ll get Jarrod the lemonade while you all figure out how tonotunload one hundred eighteen cast-iron skillets from the truck.”
I disappear to the kitchen, leaving Meemaw, Beck, and Jarrod murmuring about pans and logistics behind me. I haven’t updated Matt in a while, so I send him a quick text.
