Page 20 of Finding Home

Despite turning the kitchen into a disaster area, dinner had been a success. Of course, a few of the dumplings had turned out either too stiff or too doughy, but the ones she’d cooked just right were delicious. And the chicken breasts, boiled first to support the dumplings, then seasoned and grilled under the broiler till they were tender enough to fall off the bone were amazing. And the pie…Well, that had been above and beyond. Those tender apples mixed with cinnamon and sugar had satisfied any possible craving she could have had. And the men without families who decided to join them before heading home had given her their rave reviews.

“Maybe dinner is more your speed,” Nash complimented—at least she decided to take it as a compliment.

Vivian smiled as she cleared the last of the plates from the old farm table and carried them to the deep sink basin that, in the city, would have cost a hefty sum. Here, she’d bet it was just as commonplace as the shabby chic décor that was also en vogue back home. There, she’d never understood the appeal of the rustic style, but here it worked. Maybe because it was a result of years of love and life etched into every chip of paint and scratch and scuff on the wood. Whatever it was, it just felt…cozy.

“You did a mighty fine job tonight, dear,” Gretta said as she washed up the dishes.

“Thanks, Ms. Gretta, but I never could have done it without you.”

“You mean without my constant harping?” she teased.

“Exactly.” The truth was the truth. If the woman hadn’t stayed on top of her the entire time, Vivian probably would have burned down the house.

“Everyone needs a little instruction sometime, somewhere,” Gretta said as she rinsed a plate. “It’s all part of life and learnin’. Can’t learn nothin’ if there ain’t no one willin’ to teach— Ah!”

The cry and gasp weren’t loud, but they were sharp and sudden enough that Vivian and Nash were instantly at her side, filled with concern.

“What’s wrong?” Vivian asked, looking for any sign of injury. Had she cut herself on a knife? Was the water too hot? Too cold?

But no, when she looked at Nash, Vivian realized it was much worse than that. Gretta was holding her fist to her chest.

“Vivian,” Nash said, his voice calm but strained, “I need you to go to Ms. Gretta’s room and get her pills from the nightstand. Could you do that for me?”

“Y-yes. Yes, of course,” she stammered and hurried off.

Thankfully, they were easy to find, and she was able to hurry back in moments. Nash had taken Gretta into the living room and was in the process of sitting her down on a flower-patterned loveseat next to the cold hearth that she’d bet emitted plenty of warmth during frosty winter evenings.

“Here you are.” Vivian thrust the box she’d found at him, and he took it with a grateful look in his eye. There was no smile this time, though, because they were both scared.

“How often has this been happening?” he asked Gretta as he opened the box and popped a white oblong pill from the foil package. It reminded Vivian of a Tylenol, but she knew it was much more important than that.

“Oh now and then. Nothing to worry yourself about.” Gretta tried to downplay it. Nash’s expression said he wasn’t buying it.

“What does the doctor have to say about this?”

Gretta tossed back the pill and swallowed down some water from a glass that had been sitting on the table. “He doesn’t know nothin’ about it, and he doesn’t need to,” she said forcefully.

“Now, Ms. Gretta—”

“Now, Ms. Gretta, nothin’,” she snapped and jumped to her feet, pushing Nash out of her way. “I don’t need no one makin’ a fuss over me. I’m old, not feeble, and I can look after my own health.”

“Fine, have it your way,” Nash snapped back. “But if you drop dead from a heart attack, don’t come cryin’ ta me!”

Vivian refrained from pointing out the problem with his logic. Instead, she tried to make herself as small as she could standing in the archway and remain out of it. She had a feeling this wasn’t a new argument for them, and she didn’t feel she had earned a place in the middle of it either.

“Vivian,” Gretta said, turning to her, “would you please tell the man that I am not a child and I didn’t survive seventy-eight years and a pain-in-the-ass husband to sit here and be told what to do by someone a quarter my age.”

“Vivian,” Nash added, “would you please tell Ms. Gretta that being a pain inmyass more than qualifies me to stick my nose in any-damn-well-where I please?”

Vivian’s gaze jumped from Nash to Gretta, unsure who to address without exacerbating the problem. It was apparent, no matter who she sided with, she was going to upset someone, and tensions were already running too high for her comfort.

But Nash saved her from having to say anything. “You’re gonna make a call to the doc, or I’ll do it for you. I don’t want to hear any more fuss about it, Ms. Gretta. It isn’t up for discussion.”

Vivian expected more arguing, more raised voices, but Gretta just glared Nash down, her lips pressed into a mulish line. She reminded Vivian of a child who’d been bested and knew it but wasn’t ready to give up the fight, yet knew better than to keep it going.

Nash appeared to understand that as well. With a firm nod, he stepped back from the woman and, with angry tugs, rolled his sleeves up each arm. “Now I’ve got work that needs tendin’. I’ll be back ‘round lunchtime, and I’d better hear that you called and got somethin’ scheduled.”

Gretta grunted and turned her face away, mumbling under her breath. Nash turned to leave, his gaze colliding with Vivian’s.

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