Page 55 of Real Fake Husband

“Yep.”

“Was that a burst ofimpulse?”

“Nah.” I shrug it off. “Just want to help.”

“Sure looked like a shiver of compulsion to me. And how do you know about the good dishes?”

I set the sketchbook off to the side. Looking around the room, my eyes land on the china cabinet, and I let the memories wash over me. “I helped Mrs. Blanchie get ready for dinner parties so many times, and she always had me get those dishes out of the cabinet. I asked her why she didn’t just keep them in the kitchen and why she packed them awayallthe time.”

“Because they’re for guests,” Cal says with a smirk, doing a pretty good imitation of his grandmother’s voice. “Not for everyday use.”

I laugh, having heard that phrase many times. “Yeah, that’s what she always said. So before the dinner parties, we’d have to take them out and handwash them. Then after, handwash again—very carefully—and put them back.”

I remember it so clearly. Just the two of us, standing in the kitchen, side by side, talking about everything and nothing. Once I suggested we use the dishwasher, and shebalkedat the idea. I never suggested it again. She’d wash, and I would carefully dry. I never knew my own grandmother, but Mrs. Blanchie filled that role effortlessly.

“What else did you do with Gran?” Cal asks.

“A bunch of different things, especially when her arthritis started to get worse. She was always so insistent about doing her own cleaning, even though there was a cleaning lady that came over a couple of times a week.”

“I remember. I hired her. Gran would have things spotless when she arrived, so more often than not, she had nothing to do.”

“Huh, sounds like someone else I know,” I tease.

Cal grins. “Hey, I had to learn it from somewhere.”

“We girls at The Diner called her ‘the Baroness’—have I told you that?”

“The Baroness? Ha. I like that. I can see why. Gran was a perfect lady who always kept her countenance. Did she know about her pet name?”

“She did. She thought we were being silly. She said”—I mimic Mrs. Blanchie’s cute elderly voice—“Girls, I’m no baroness, there’s not a single drop of blue blood running in my old veins. Only merlot.” Cal grins and so do I. “Then she’d order another glass and leave a huge tip each time.”

“Did you know she was wealthy?”

“No, I really had no idea. You?”

“She kept it from us,” he admits. “She wanted to surprise us. Probably had this planned a long time.”

“Anyway, on days when she was having a hard time, I would take care of a few things for her. Like shopping. Or carrying a plant pot from the living room to the bedroom. Then she always insisted we have lunch. God, her food was terrible.”

Cal bursts into laughter, pressing his hand over his heart. “She was the sweetest, but she wasn’t much of a cook. Except for her butter cookies, they were good.”

Phantom scent memories of her butter cookies waft through my nose.

“Oh, my God, they were! They were the best! We’d have them in the evening with Earl Grey tea. So yummy. But lunch was the absolute worst. I’m just glad she let me cook for the dinner parties because I could not subject her friends to her food. I still don’t know what she put in those tea sandwiches she made when we had our lunches. I always had to eat at least half to be polite, and I don’t think my stomach ever recovered. I started offering to make lunch just so I wouldn’t have to eat them anymore.”

“Bet that went over well.”

“Surprisingly, yes. She thought I was just being sweet, and she loved what I would serve for lunch, and her girlfriends raved about my cooking at those dinner parties.”

“She didn’t know you were trying to avoid food poisoning for all of you.”

Cal and I both laugh, and it feels good. Feels good sitting here sharing memories of a woman who made such an impact on both our lives. I bet she’d like this: seeing us sitting in her living room, actually getting along.

“You grew up with her,” I continue, tucking my legs underneath me to get comfortable. “Was it hard for you too, being raised without both parents?”

He looks at me in a funny way I can’t read, and for a moment, I think I’ve overstepped—that I’m too curious, toonosy, so I add, “My father passed away when I was a toddler, and I was raised by a single mother. That was hard, especially when she became so sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. No, all I remember are fights and broken dishes and shit scattered everywhere. They fought all the fucking time. I hated being at home. It reeked of cigarettes, alcohol, and other shit. What I remember vividly, to this day, is my father hitting my chest, my shoulders, and his favorite spot, my back, with a belt, and my mother doing her best to look away, especially when he came visiting my bedroom at night, his motherfucking belt ready in his hand, not even bothering to lock the door. Thecoldnessin his eyes. Thehatein his eyes. God, I loathed the motherfucker, I wanted to murder him. And I would have. One late evening, they overdosed. Gran took me in.”

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