Pinching the bridge of his nose, Greyson said, “It was a hospital, Gram, not a prison. And are you telling me you’ve been mowing the lawn yourself?”
“Well what else am I supposed to do? The yard needs care.”
“You’re nearly eighty,” Greyson replied wearily as he got out of the car. They’d had this argument before. More times than he cared to admit to or remember. The elderly woman sitting in his passenger’s seat was more stubborn than a monkey with its hand caught in a trap. He walked and opened his grandmother’s door. “What happened to hiring one of the local boys to do it for you?”
“Oh, Thomas graduated six years ago. He’s married now,” she added with a significant look at her grandson.
“That’s great for him,” he said, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, “but that was six years ago. Blessings isn’t that small. Surely you could have found someone else.” They took the walk up the sidewalk slowly. His grandmother had regained much of her lost mobility following her stroke, but her left side continued to be stiff.
“No one mows lawns like Thomas did. He was always so careful about the gardens.”
Greyson sighed, the beginnings of a headache twinging behind his eyes. “So, you’re saying that in six years,” he emphasized the words so she’d realize how ridiculous her argument was, “you couldn’t find a single, young person who could tend your yard.”
“No.”
“And Blessings doesn’t have a lawn care company you could hire?”
Georgie scowled at him. “I don’t have time to conduct interviews. You know how busy I am with the town historical society.”
Greyson bit back the retort teasing his tongue. He was relatively sure his age of twenty-eight years wouldn’t stop his grandmother from washing his mouth out with soap. “Well, I guess once I get you settled in, I’ll get that lawn taken care of for you. And then I’m going to make some calls and get someone out here on a regular basis. You live in a historic home, Gram, it should look like it.”
“I’d rather say it does,” she retorted with a mischievous, lopsided grin, her blue eyes twinkling. “All I need is to find a ghost to come live in it.”
Greyson returned her grin. “Please, Gram, you are trouble enough by yourself. I don’t need to be worried about what kind of trouble you’d get into with an undead companion.”
Georgie laughed as Greyson unlocked the door and led her inside. “Spoilsport,” she said.
Instead of replying, Greyson looked around. The interior of the home wasn’t in quite as bad of shape as the exterior, but he could see it needed work too. Funny it should all seem so glaringly obvious now. It hadn’t been an issue the last several times he’d visited. Then again, the last visits hadn’t involved him trying to decide how to convince his aging grandmother that is was time to move into a home for the elderly. Or even come to Kansas City and live in his townhouse. He cringed, knowing how much his grandmother would hate either idea, especially when she’d balked at the suggestion while still in the hospital.
“Are you cold, dear?” Georgie asked.
“Hmmm? No, just thinking. Have a seat, Gram, and I’ll get you some water.”
She scoffed. “I’m perfectly capable of getting my own water.”
“Yes, you are,” Greyson admitted. “But you also taught your grandsons to be gentlemen. Do you really expect me to forget those lessons now?”
Georgie beamed with pride. “Well, I suppose I could allow you to do it. But not because I can’t do it myself.”
“Of course not.” Greyson walked into the kitchen and looked around. It hadn’t changed much since he was a boy. Same faded blue wallpaper, dark wood cabinets, antique appliances. He sighed. The numbers in his head just kept going up. He shook his head as he filled two glasses with water. As he was walking to the parlor, he heard a knock on the door. Handing his grandmother the glasses, he said, “I’ll get it.”
“But you’re the guest here, not me,” Georgie said, her lower lip protruding slightly.
“And I’m already up,” Greyson replied, before leaving the parlor as another knock sounded. The comforting aroma of chicken and noodles wafted through the door as he opened it. A young woman wearing faded jeans and a plaid jacket stood on the porch holding a large soup pot. A loose bun held her honey blonde hair away from her face. Warm brown eyes crinkled in confusion when she saw him as her bright smile dipped somewhat. “Can I help you?” he asked lamely.
“Oh, I’d just heard that Mrs. Able was returning home today and thought she might enjoy a home-cooked meal tonight.”
“Yes, Gram and I just arrived. And you are?”
“About to burn my hands,” the young woman replied candidly. “I’m sorry, would you mind letting me in?”
“Sure,” Greyson said, moving so she could walk past. Whoever this was, she knew her way around Gram’s house. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that as she scurried to the kitchen to set the pot down. She then walked straight to the parlor where Georgie welcomed her with a hug and kisses on her cheeks.
“Greyson, dear,” Georgie called, “come meet Hope.”
As he stood in the doorway, Greyson decided Hope was the perfect name for the woman standing next to his grandmother. Her smile lit the room as she said, “Sorry not to have introduced myself. Those potholders are about worn to nothing, but I always seem to forget that when I’m taking food to someone.”
“Understandable,” Greyson said, though he wasn’t sure that was the right response. Why keep something that didn’t do its job? “Greyson Able.”