Imperfectly Delicious (Imperfect Series #6) - Mary Frame Page 0,75

hit the wood, it swings open. At the door is an elderly woman with long gray braids, red overalls, and an antique wood pipe in her mouth.

“Gentlemen,” she greets us, talking around the lip of the pipe. A stream of bubbles blows out the bowl. She whoops and Oliver flinches next to me, startled by the piercing sound propelled from the little old lady.

“Granny?” I ask.

She cocks her head at me. “Are you a long-lost grandchild?”

“No. I’m trying to find Scarlett.”

Her eyes flash between me and Oliver and then narrow back on me. “Are you, now?”

“Is she here?”

She sighs and steps back. “I reckon y’all better come in.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m helping Granny change a light bulb in the foyer, while Oliver dusts a fan in the living room.

I’m not even really sure how this all came about. I had begun to explain why I was there, but then Granny went off about her rheumatism and the next thing I knew, we were helping her with chores. I still don’t even know if Scarlett is in the house somewhere, but I doubt it. It’s too quiet.

“That’s mighty kind of you,” Granny tells me when I’m stepping down from the short ladder she had set up for me to reach the recessed lighting.

“Can we talk about Scarlett now?” I ask.

“I suppose it’s time. Come on into the kitchen, I made some sweet tea.”

I follow her into the open concept kitchen. There are high ceilings in here, too, along with top of the line stainless steel appliances, a double stove, and dark granite countertops.

I’m impressed.

She hands me a glass of tea. I thank her absently and take a sip.

Damn that’s more than sweet. I have to work to contain my initial, mouth-twisting reaction to the sugar content.

And then I notice the shotgun from the porch is propped against the counter, within reaching distance.

Not my reaching distance, hers.

“What are your intentions with my granddaughter?” Gone is the whimsical little old lady with the bubble pipe, and in her place is someone who might actually murder me.

“Did I mention I brought you a gift?”

One slender brow lifts and she crosses her arms over her chest. “Did you now?”

“Some champagne. I left it in the car.” Hijacked from Oliver’s plane. Thank God I had the foresight to grab it. I knew meeting Scarlett’s family for the first time necessitated some kind of gift. My parents taught me that much.

She purses her lips and nods at me. “You can get it later. For now, answer the question, young man.”

“My intentions . . .” I sigh and scrub a hand through my hair. “I want to make her smile,” I say finally.

She stares at me in stony silence for a few long seconds and then she grins. “That’s a good answer. A damn good answer. Go get the champagne, my boy.”

I nod and run out to the car. When I come back, Oliver is in the kitchen, sitting on a stool and grimacing at his own cup of sweet tea.

“Did you get the fans dusted?” I ask, enjoying the fact that Oliver had to participate in some kind of manual labor, probably for the first time in his life. I put the champagne in the fridge.

“I did. They actually weren’t very dusty.”

“It’s possible I had someone over earlier this week for cleaning before the holidays,” Granny reveals nonchalantly. “I had a boyfriend named Oliver once,” she adds.

“Did you now?” I ask.

“He was terrible in bed.”

Oliver chokes on his tea and I bark out a laugh.

“Where is Scarlett?” I ask.

Granny sighs. “She’s on her way back from the airport.”

My heart skips a beat and then resumes course, triple time. “She is?”

“She left this morning to head back to the city. But I texted her when you pulled up. She was already on her way back because her flight was cancelled. She and that Fred girl should be here any minute.”

Gravel crunches outside. Without another word, I sprint to the front door.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.

–Harriet Van Horne

Scarlett

“You know, this is like a sign. We should stay here forever and not go back to New York.”

I shake my head. “That’s not going to work for me.”

We drive in silence for a few minutes, and then Fred pipes up again.

“Did you try calling?”

I know what she’s asking without having to clarify. I’ve been moping about Guy since we got here Christmas morning. “I did before we left the airport.