“And I’ve got my first official full day of work today.” Samantha slipped on a button-up tunic with “Silvan Bay Grille” embroidered beneath a flopping perch.
“How’s that working out for you?” Gerard asked from a stool, sipping on coffee and blinking hard.
“I love it. I don’t have to worry if I ordered enough food, if the wait staff is feuding, or if we served enough Coneys to pay the bills. At the Grille, I just help customers feel like I’ve got nothing better to do than make their experience extraordinary.” She gave a crooked smile. “Which is pretty much the truth. Bye, all!” With a wave and a fling of the kitchen door, she was gone.
Sam’s absence left a gash in the continuum. Without her, we all drifted our separate ways, Missy and the kids to their second-floor haven, me to work on getting one more bathroom up and running. At some point, I heard a car arrive and Gerard’s diesel depart during the changing of the guard.
Midafternoon, I hit a remodeling “wall” and had to quit my efforts for the day or end up dumping water or breaking a lightbulb on account of brain fatigue.
With the sun shining and temps in the upper sixties, I decided it was the perfect day for a pony ride. The thought of my new horse brought a gush of excitement.
My grandfather waved to me from the front porch as I pulled in the circle drive. He and Olivia sat in a double swing together, taking life at a leisurely pace.
“Hi, Grandma Olivia. Hi, Puppa.” I walked up and leaned against the rail.
“Off work so early?” Olivia asked in her quavering voice.
“I finished cleaning and I thought I’d take a break.” I leaned close to her and gave her cheek a kiss.
“Oh? So you’re a housecleaner?” she asked.
“She doesn’t have a job, Mother,” Puppa explained. “She’s fixing up the old lodge.”
“Doesn’t have a job?” Olivia sounded indignant. “Don’t seem right to me.”
Her criticism wiggled its way through my armor. “Well, technically, that is my job. I fix houses and sell them for a profit.”
“Sell the lodge?” Olivia turned and gaped at my grandfather. “Did you know that when you let her buy the place?”
“Calm down, Mother. No one has used the lodge in years. I figured Patricia was the best one to get a hold of the place. At least she’s family.”
Olivia cocked her loaded finger my way. “That was my father’s lodge, young lady. That stays with blood. I didn’t hand Belmont property over to the Russos just to see it get sold off before I’m even dead.”
“You’re a Belmont?” I couldn’t believe in some roundabout way I was related to that jerk Drake.
Puppa squeezed his mother’s shoulders gently. “The Belmonts and Russos have always been big names on the peninsula.” He met my eyes. “When Olivia Belmont married Philippe Russo, two families that had been divided by hatred were now united in marriage.”
“Yes, I only wish someone would have told Philippe the feud had ended.” Olivia’s eyes teared up even as she smiled.
My grandfather held her closer.
She struggled free. “Don’t change the subject. That lodge belongs to my father. You are not to sell it, young lady.”
“Mother, your father built a shack that stood where the kitchen stands now. Dad built the lodge as it is today.” Puppa kept his voice slow and steady.
“All the more reason for it to stay with the Russos. And if that girl”—she jabbed her finger at me—“isn’t going to have children, then it should go to Joel or Gerard.”
“That girl is my direct descendant and has more right to the lodge than anyone else, with or without children.”
Olivia’s jaw set. “The worst day of my life was the day your son brought that Beth girl around. If it hadn’t been for her, Sid would still be here. And so would Jake.”
“That’s too dramatic, Mother.” Puppa helped her to her feet and began the walk inside. I followed behind.
“Besides,” he said, helping her into the living room glider, “you liked Elizabeth from the moment you met her.”
“Maybe so. But I changed my mind since.”
“I’m taking Patricia outside for a while. I’ll check back on you in a bit.” He kissed the top of her head.
We scooted out the side door.
“My goodness, you’re patient,” I said laughing as we veered toward the barn.
“It took years to hone my ability to stay out of her drama. Poor Mother feeds on gossip and criticism. I don’t get mad at her for it anymore because I realize she doesn’t know any different. And I can’t make her change. Only she can do that.”
I hopped on the bandwagon. “My grandma Amble was the same way. It was as if she had to hate everything. Nothing was good enough for her. I’m afraid I took it personally. I think I’m still getting over the way she tore everything, including me, to shreds.”
He nodded. “It’s a pretty widespread phenomenon, actually. It’s a family condition—or should I say a human condition. If you don’t get treatment, you stay sick.”
“Are you joking?” I stumbled in a rut on the lawn.
“Nope. I couldn’t be more serious. I’ll be in treatment for the rest of my life.”
I couldn’t catch what he was getting at.
“How do you get treated for a human condition? It’s not like there’s a cure for that or anything. I mean, we’re human. Period.”
“Technically you’re right. But there’s a loophole. Christians call it salvation. ‘For God so loved the world,’ and all that.” His voice dropped lower, as if he was shy to speak of his faith.
Grass swished against my shoes as we cut past the garage. “Yeah,” I said. “Thank God for a loophole.” Goodness knew, people like me needed a Get to Heaven Free card in their wallets. I frowned as I kicked the fluff off dandelions with my feet. “Except I have a hard time believing that I only have to believe. It seems like I should have to earn my salvation.”
“I used to feel the same way. Because of my upbringing, it took a twelve-step program to get the smoke out of my eyes.”
I tensed. Twelve-step program? Didn’t that have something to do with drug addiction? I kept quiet, like I hadn’t really heard him.
“It saved my life, Patricia. It could change yours too.”
So he thought I needed “treatment.” I cleared my throat as we reached the barnyard, trying not to be offended. “I’m doing really good right now. Things are under control. God and me have it all covered.”
He nodded. “Let me know if you ever want to know more.”
“Sure. Absolutely.” I bolted through the white fence and raced toward my horse. “There’s my Goldie Locks,” I said, rubbing on her face. Behind me, I could feel my grandfather’s stare. I brushed it off. There was nothing wrong with my way of seeing things. I didn’t need twelve steps. Life was great just the way it was.
But somewhere at the back of my mind, a little voice whispered, Liar.
27
Through a fog of sleep, I heard Sam calling my name.
I jerked awake. “What’s wrong? What happened? Who’s here?”
“Come on. Time for church.” Sam yanked the covers off, exposing my boxer jammies and very white legs.
I tried to sit up. I crashed back onto my pillow. “I can’t go today.” Every muscle in my body screamed in protest.
“Get up. You’re going.” Sam grabbed my ankles and swung them off the edge of the bed.
I yelled my pain. “Knock it off! I’m too sore.” Yesterday, after our talk, my grandfather had saddled up Goldie.
