Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“Nonsense, it’ll be fine, no one’ll notice, too busy stuffin’ their faces.” She eyes me. “Who’s this truck-full-a’-smiles?”
“My neighbors’ nephew Diego,” he says simply.
“Lottie and Marcos’s? Whose? Marcos, if I had to guess from that snide look you’re givin’ me,” she teases. “Marcos, he mastered that look, too, when he had a part-time job here back in the day. Yep,” she then adds, “I’ve been around that long. I know I look like a princess, but I’m older than you think.” After a second, her voice lowers and she says, “Sorry about your father. I do remember him. Strong-willed guy. Great work ethic. Seems like you turned out a fine young man, yep, just like him, looks like it to me, no doubt, especially knowin’ your father and uncle the way I do.”
Don’t know what to say to that.
So I don’t say anything.
She turns back to Wyatt. “Did I order thirty-five or forty?”
“Thirty-five,” answers Wyatt, then leans in and says, “but just in case you were off by a table or ten, I threw in fifteen extra for an even fifty.”
“Bless your heart, you know me too well. I can haul two sacks of flour over these bony shoulders but can’t recall my own son’s birthday. Eat tons of cauliflower now,” she says, wagging a finger at us, “so you still got a good brain in your old age.” Then she nods at the door behind her. “Once Walt’s out of the bathroom, he’ll get on those flower arrangements. Just leave ‘em here’s fine.”
“Tell your son I said hi,” says Wyatt sweetly, “and, um, hope poor Walt isn’t having another of his … weekends.”
“When isn’t he?” grumbles Gran before heading off.
By the time we’re back in the car, I’m not sure what the hell to think. Her sentiment about my dad wasn’t needed. Not even sure I feel any certain way about it, other than I don’t need someone to tell me how great a man my dad was. No one will live up to him. I already know that.
But I guess hearing it from someone other than myself wasn’t the worst thing.
Except I didn’t need to hear that my glare in any way reminds her of Tío Marcos. Maybe next time I see this Gran lady, I’ll dare to give her a smile. That oughta scare the shit out of her.
Also, what the hell good does cauliflower do for your brain? That shit just makes you fart.
“Do you always give your customers so much free stuff?”
He’s pulling up to the curb of a house on our street. “Who …? Oh, you mean Deidra?”
I have no idea which one that was. “The Gran lady.”
“Gran? From Gran’s Home Kitchen who knew your dad?”
As if I need reminding. “You gave her fifteen free arrangements. Fifteen.”
“Did you know I went there for my sixteenth birthday?” He chuckles to himself. “She made me a cake. Can you imagine that woman making anyone a cake? I doubt she even makes her own son birthday cakes.” He bites his lip in thought. “Nah, ‘course she does, why wouldn’t she?”
“So … what? You’re paying her back fifteen years later?”
“Seventeen years later, but who’s really mathing? It’s called being thoughtful, Diego.”
“Thoughts don’t put food on the table.”
“Actually they do.” He turns off the engine, then gazes at me, turning cold again. “Maybe if you paid a bit more attention, you’d realize that’s exactly what I’m proving tonight.”
I stare back at him, annoyed.
Then dumbfounded.
Then blankly.
Longer I look in his eyes, the more I lose what the hell I was about to say. And I’m pretty sure I was gonna say something good, something that would nail my point down. Words have never been my thing. They sure aren’t doing me any good now.
And when we’re at someone else’s front door, I hand him the vase of flowers to give to some awkward teenager who answers. “Uh … my grandma says thanks. For the eggs and, uh, the arthritis cream and stuff.”
Eggs. Arthritis cream.
That list I saw on Wyatt’s nightstand …
“Tell her I hope her hands are feeling better, and I’ll see her and you Sunday.”
“Thanks, Mr. C.” The kid goes inside, door shuts.
Next minute, I’m standing by the car, lost in thought, as Wyatt goes around to his side. He stops, seeming to sense me standing here like a telephone pole. “Diego …?”
“I’m paying attention. I’ve been paying attention.”
“Okay, but—”
“My point’s that everyone seems to get something from you.”
He watches me from over the top of the car, waiting for more, those kind, sweet, annoying eyes of his locked on me, patient.
I scowl. “Just wondering what the fuck you get.”
He doesn’t say anything. After a second of thinking it over, or maybe thinking of nothing at all, he just gets into the car, closes the door, starts the engine back up.