“My mother-in-law is staying with us through next week,” Darcy said through clenched teeth. “Mike owes me and I plan to take it out of him in girl-time.”
“Sounds like a plan. Mom’s going out. I’ve got the salt and limes if you bring the tequila.”
“Can’t wait. I need to get out of this zoo for a spell before I lose my ever-loving mind. No, Dylan! Take that back into the kitchen this minute!”
There was another crash and then Darcy sighed, “Joey, I’ve got to go. See you at seven.”
“Looking forward to it,” I said and then hung up.
Damn it, if Darcy could deal with that circus and make a buck there had to be some job that I could swing. I was a free agent and could come and go as I pleased.
With my resolve back in place, I opened the laptop and continued reading the want ads. I paused on an unusual one that I must have overlooked at first glance.
Assistant wanted immediately. Reliable person needed to help out with life coaching. Some nights and weekends. No experience necessary.
Life coaching. Huh. Didn’t think that was something that would be lucrative around these parts. Then again, some weekenders and tourists might require such a thing. Last year we’d gotten our first Starbucks. They’d fired me already. So, I would probably be fetching coffee and sending emails for the life coach specialist.
I frowned at my bum wrist. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be too much typing. I could handle a few emails and social media, but day-long typing wouldn’t work.
After one more quick search through the listings, I decided that the assistant to the life coach was my best bet and dialed the number listed.
An automated message answered. Hello. If you are interested in the assistant job, please come to 676 Firefly Lane to apply in person. Thank you.
I raised a brow. Firefly Lane was a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. This job was sounding stranger and stranger.
What the hell. Even if the job didn’t pan out, at least it was still Margarita Monday.
Chapter 2
“Never a borrower or a lender be. Why? Because keeping track of stuff is a pain in the rump.”
-Notable quotable from Grammy B
“Grammy?” I called as I walked into the front door of my grandmother’s cottage that was two streets back from our own. “Are you here?”
Grammy B appeared wearing a powder blue tracksuit with white piping and pink fuzzy bedroom slippers. “Joey! What a nice surprise. And don’t you look all gussied up?”
“Thanks.” I had taken a hot bath and put on my best outfit. Tailored black slacks and a matching jacket topped a deep blue shell that matched my eyes. I’d even re-applied my make-up. Mascara and eye shadow made my eyes itch like the devil and peri-menopause hot flashes caused me to sweat foundation off, but anything to take a few years off my face. I had scrounged in my bathroom drawers and found a tinted lip balm to give my winter pale face a bit of color. My dark brown hair was still threaded with gray because I didn’t have time or money to deal with it. I had spent a few moments pulling it back up into a French twist. Even though it was treacherous in the winter, I had dusted off my black heels, though I carried them. My feet were currently shod in my standard hiking boots and thick socks.
“So, what brings you here?” Grammy settled herself in her scuffed Lay-Z-Boy recliner and kicked up her feet, clad in socks that said, “Fuck off, I’m reading.” Grammy didn’t believe in beating around the bush.
“I was wondering if I could borrow Earl.” Earl was my grandmother’s ancient truck. It got about three miles to the gallon but it ran and I was out of options. “I know you don’t like to loan him out, but I have a job interview and no other way to get there.”
Grammy moved her dentures around as she considered my offer. “How about a trade? You make me some of those fancy apple oatmeal cookies of yours and I’ll let you drive Earl as long as you want.”
“Grammy,” I sighed. “You know the doctor said you’re supposed to cut back on sugar.”
She waved me off. “Doctors, what do they know?”
“Um, a lot. Because they went to school for like a decade to become doctors.”
“You know what your grandpappy used to say. You can send a monkey to college but all you get back is an educated monkey.”
It was no use arguing with her. Grammy B was ninety-three years old and feisty as the day was long. She had a bit of country wisdom for every occasion and was more stubborn than any one person had a right to be. There was no changing her. She’d said once that the main benefit of aging was that you could speak your mind and not give a damn about who took offense. I was still waiting to crest that particular peak.
“One batch of cookies,” I said, feeling like a bad granddaughter. Maybe I could call the doctor’s office and ask about sugar alternatives.
She folded her hands, looking like the cat who’d gotten into the cream. “Keys are in the silver dish on the counter. And bring me my crossword. And a cup of tea.”
“Thank you.” I got up and headed into the kitchen.
The counters were all wiped down and the sink stood empty of dishes.
I raised my voice to make sure she heard me. “Grammy, did you eat today?”
A grunt was my only reply. I put the kettle on and then checked in the fridge to make sure that her milk hadn’t gone bad and that she had plenty of meal options. Mom and I took turns cooking for Grammy and cleaning her house. It would have been easier to move her into the Victorian, but Grammy had set her foot down. She would live in her house until the undertaker carted her lifeless carcass away. Her words.
The kettle started to sing and I pulled out the mug she always used, plopped in a teabag, and filled it up to the three quarter mark. Letting it steep, I pulled a sugar-free banana nut muffin out of the freezer and popped it in the microwave to defrost. I added milk and then set the tea and warm muffin on a plate along with her crossword puzzle book and the glasses she was forever misplacing and carted the haul out to her.
“No butter?” Grammy frowned at the offered muffin.
I heaved out a sigh. “You need to cut back.”
She tisked at me but removed the wrapper.
I kissed her wrinkled cheek. “Mom will be by after her date. Call if you need anything.”
“More sugar in this tea,” she hollered an instant before I scooted out the door.
I held the handrail and descended the steps that headed into the carport where Earl, the ugly old rust-bucket diesel, sat dripping oil on the concrete.
Grammy had a few containers of oil in the cabinet. I grabbed one, and then popped the hood, careful to stand far enough back so that my suit wouldn’t get smudged. After adding the oil, I secured the hood, then snagged an extra container to take with me. I tossed it on the floor and then set my heels and shoulder bag on the seat beside me and cranked the old boy up.
Which sounds dirtier than it was.
The ancient engine rumbled to life like Frankenstein’s monster. Within a minute, I backed Earl out of the driveway and headed for the hills.
“Okay, Joey Whitmore, why do you want to be an assistant to a life coach?” I asked myself as I navigated the twisty roads that led away from the center of town. I’d experienced enough job interviews to know that sincerity was more effective than lies that could trip me up.