“The day your mother was born was the worst day of my life. Do you want to know why? I’m going to tell you.”
My grandfather worked behind the huge industrial stove, his eyes meeting mine next to the order wheel. He was cooking today rather than holding court at the coffee counter, because my uncle had called in sick. Days when my grandfather mastered the griddle were both the worst and best days to work.
They were the best because he insisted waitresses not wash dishes so they wouldn’t dirty their uniforms. When my uncle was in charge, everybody had to help with the dishes — and it sucked. My grandfather, however, believed in looking professional above all else. That was a minor treat, though. In exchange, the days were the worst because he told endless stories (and occasionally threw bread when things didn’t go his way). I couldn’t have a single moment to myself as he insisted on spinning yarns that I’d heard at least fifty times each during the course of my sixteen years. I’d heard at least thirty variations of this particular story.
“It was the worst day of your life because it also happened to be the first day of deer season,” I answered without thinking. “It was snowing just enough for you to be able to make out tracks, but not so cold you would’ve frozen your nuts off — which was probably a good thing for all your other kids, huh?” I flashed a smile that I didn’t really feel. “And, of course, she was a girl and you wanted a boy. Missing deer season for a girl is simply unacceptable.”
Grandpa met my gaze with a dark one of his own. “I’m going to tell you the story the way I want to tell it,” he snapped. “And, just for the record, I was fine with your mother being a girl. If she says otherwise, she’s lying.”
I knew better. Grandpa had gotten drunk a time or two and admitted that he had melted down about missing deer season for the birth of a girl. Apparently he would’ve been fine missing it for a boy, but a girl was something else entirely. I liked to think karma was listening that day, because the baby that was born the following December — forcing him to miss another deer season opener — was also a girl.
“Uh-huh.” I tapped the counter next to the ticket I’d given him minutes ago. “Do you have my eggs and bacon?”
Grandpa’s eyes narrowed. Charles Archer hated being rushed. “I’m working on it.” He turned his back was to me and focused on the griddle. It was a busy morning at the Two Broomsticks Gas & Grill in Shadow Hills, Michigan. The leaves were just starting to fall, signaling our busy season was right around the corner. Given our location in northern Lower Michigan, we had exactly two seasons to make money: summer, when all the golfers came to town to hang out at the neighboring resorts, and winter, when the skiers and snowmobilers flocked to the surrounding hills and trails. Sure, people visited in the spring and fall, but two seasons could make or break every business in the area.
“You know what your problem is?” Grandpa called over his shoulder.
“Yes, I’ve been waiting for my bacon and eggs twice as long as necessary,” I drawled, rubbing my forearm against my forehead and glancing at the clock on the wall. My shift ended in an hour. I had a paper due for English class and I hadn’t even started it. I should go straight home after my shift and hit the writing. That wasn’t going to happen, though. My boyfriend Hunter Ryan was picking me up so we could hang out for a few hours. I had been looking forward to that more than anything else all shift, including no longer smelling like a grease trap thanks to my proximity to the deep fryers.
“Your problem is that you’re exactly like your mother,” Grandpa shot back. “Why do you think she named you Stormy Breeze Morgan?”
I’d been wondering that very thing for most of my life. “I think she secretly hated me for twenty-five hours of labor and that’s how she paid me back,” I replied without hesitation.
“Wrong. She was always going to name you Stormy. I tried talking her into giving you a normal name, but she was having none of it. Do you want to know why?”