“But Margot’s right. You’re all wet, Dillon.” He rubbed his bristled chin. “What happened?”
She explained about her windshield wipers and Grandpa encouraged her to go put on dry clothes. “Don’t need you getting sick on us.” He patted her cheek. “And then we’ll have supper and catch up on everything.”
Dillon grabbed a bag from her car and hurried back into the house, heading straight up the stairs for her old bedroom. But when she opened the door, it looked as if someone else was staying here. Clothes were spread on the bed and over the chair with various personal items littered over the bureau. Had Grandpa taken in a roommate? Perhaps a live-in housekeeper?
Feeling disgruntled over losing her old bedroom, she went to the spare room that her grandmother had used for sewing and crafts. But it was packed even more than she recalled, with barely room to stand. Finally, she decided to just change clothes in the bathroom. As she towel-dried her shoulder-length hair, which had gone from wavy to frizzy, she wondered about the items in her old room. What was going on here? Did Grandpa have a girlfriend? No, Margot would’ve mentioned this.
Feeling warmer and dryer, she hurried downstairs to find Margot still in the kitchen. “Where’s Grandpa?” Dillon asked.
“He went to clean up for dinner. He even said he was going to shave.”
“Good for him.” Dillon watched with concern as Margot attempted to peel an onion with an oversized knife. Hopefully she wouldn’t need stitches tonight. “So . . . are you really cooking dinner?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Margot held up the knife with a furrowed brow.
“Well, I didn’t think you knew how to cook.” Dillon attempted a weak smile.
“That just shows how much you don’t know, silly Dilly.”
“Uh-huh . . . Do you want some help?”
“Yes.” Margot handed her the onion. “Chop this for me. It’ll just make me cry, anyway.”
Dillon cut the onion in half. “It looks like someone’s been staying in my room. Has Grandpa taken in a—”
“That would be me.” Margot filled a large pan with water.
“You’re staying here—at the house?”
“That’s right.”
“You mean for just tonight?”
“I’ve been here since Friday.”
“But I talked to you on Friday. You never mentioned—”
“Yeah . . .” She put the pan on the stove with a clunk.
“So did you come to help with Grandpa . . . because you were worried?”
“That’s part of it.” She turned on the gas stove.
“Well, since I’m here, I can help with him. You won’t have to stay any longer now.” Feeling relieved, she started to dice the onion.
“Thanks, but I’m not going anywhere.” Margot put her hands on her hips, glaring at Dillon with defiance.
“Huh?” Dillon paused from chopping. “But what about Don? Won’t he miss—”
“Don is history.” Margot tore open a box of pasta.
“What do you mean? I thought you were just celebrating seven—”
“I thought so too.” Margot pointed at Dillon. “But thanks to you, we’re not.”
“What?” Dillon frowned. “Thanks to me?”
“Yeah. After I talked to you on Friday night, I told Don about your breakup with Mr. Right. I was worried that you might be taking it hard. I told Don about how you’d always wanted to get married and how marriage was such a big deal to you. White lace and promises and all that. So then Don got all gooey and mushy, and he said it was a big deal to him too.” She rolled her eyes. “So, yeah, thanks to you, Don proposed on Friday.” She shook the pasta box at Dillon. “Can you believe it?”
“Why don’t you marry him, Margot?”
“Because I don’t believe in all that till-death-do-we-part nonsense. And Don knows it. I think he proposed just to make me mad. Anyway, we got into a huge fight and I walked out the same night. Dad was a little surprised to see me, but I think he’s glad for the company. And that I can be of help. And I’m sorry, but I’ve taken your old room. It’s the only other room with a bed.”
Dillon felt sick. “So you plan to live here . . . indefinitely?”
“Well, I can’t say indefinitely. Who knows? But I’m here now. And yesterday morning when I was walking around the property, I got my big idea.”
“Big idea.”
“Yeah, and because of that, I definitely plan to be here all summer.”
“Huh?”
“I ordered a bunch of lavender plants yesterday.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Dad gave me permission to start a lavender farm in the south field. He didn’t have any plans for it anyway. And the rest of the property is leased out.”
“You are going to farm lavender?” Dillon felt incredulous. Margot had always hated hard work of any kind. She probably wouldn’t last two days as a farmer.
“Yes. I’ll grow lavender. Then I’ll use it to make soap and oil and candles and all sorts of delicious lavender things. I ordered ten dozen plants. They’ll be here by the end of the week.”
“You are going to plant a hundred and twenty plants?” Dillon couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her voice.
“Still good at math.” Margot dumped the pasta into the still-cold water, then turned to Dillon. “And that’s just for starters. I’ll probably order more varieties in the fall. The nursery guy was telling me all about it.”
“Wow . . . that’s, uh, interesting.” Dillon checked the pasta clumped together in the now-lukewarm water, then grabbed the pasta spoon from the utensil pot.
“Now, tell me, Dilly, what exactly are you doing here?”
“I’m stirring the pasta before it glues itself together.” She started to pick it apart. “Since you didn’t let the water boil.”
“Still telling me what to do?” Margot’s tone was sharp. “But that’s not what I meant. What are you doing here? You know Dad’s birthday isn’t until July, and you didn’t even let us know you were coming. What’s up?”
“I think we should focus on dinner.” She pointed to a jar of canned tomatoes. “Do you plan to make marinara sauce?”
“Dad requested spaghetti like Mom used to make.” Margot struggled to open the jar. “He claims all the preserves are still good. But Mom put them up before she died.”
Dillon sniffed the jar. “Smells good to me.” She felt a wave of sadness, missing Grandma . . . thinking how hard she’d work to can the produce from her big garden.
“Well, Dad’s bent on meat sauce, but I told him it’s not good for him. So I got some ground free-range turkey breast. I doubt he’ll notice.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Dillon returned to chopping the onion. “He likes his beef. And I’ll guess he’s got a freezer full of it.”
“Maybe so, but he’s been eating all the wrong things. It’s no wonder he’s been feeling low. I plan to get him into healthier eating habits.”
“Uh-huh.” Dillon didn’t even want to think about that.
“Anyway, quit beating about the bush, Dilly. What are you doing here? And why didn’t you call?”
“I wanted to surprise Grandpa.” Dillon felt her eyes fill with tears but wasn’t sure if it was the onion or thinking of Grandma or something else. “I, uh, sort of quit my job. Then I packed up all my stuff and I just . . . well, I wanted to come home.” She sniffed, then reached for a paper towel to wipe her wet cheeks.
“Oh, Dilly-Dilly.” Margot came over to hug her. “Are you crying?”
Dillon blew her nose. “It’s the onions.”
“Oh.” Margot handed her a garlic clove. “Can you chop this too?”
“Sure.” Dillon focused on this task, using the side of her knife to smash the clove like Grandma had taught her, then peeling it.
“Well, I suppose you can bunk with me, but it might be crowded. It’s the smallest room in the house.” Margot didn’t sound pleased with this idea. And Dillon felt like throwing someth
ing. Maybe the knife.
“Or else you could move into Grandma’s craft room,” Dillon suggested. “It’s bigger anyway. Then I could have my old room back.”
“Are you kidding? That sewing room looks like a scene from Hoarders. It’d take me all summer to clear it all out. And then where would I put that junk? The attic is already full. Besides that, I’m going to be busy with my lavender farm.”
“Right . . .”
“Maybe you could turn Dad’s den into your bedroom,” Margot suggested.
“No thanks. Grandpa loves that room. I’m not taking it from him.” Dillon pursed her lips as she minced the garlic. None of this was turning out how she’d hoped. “I’ll just sleep on the sofa tonight,” she finally said.
“Good idea.” Margot set the cast-iron frying pan on the stove with a frown. “Hey, maybe you’d like to take it from here, Dilly? Your grandma used to brag about what a good cook you were.”
“Only because she taught me everything I know. But I haven’t done much cooking of late.” Dillon knew exactly what was happening. Margot would start something . . . and Dillon would finish it. That was how it always used to go. Back when she was a girl Margot would say, “Let’s clean the house,” and then Margot would disappear and Dillon would be stuck with the actual cleaning. Or it’d be, “Let’s make a vegetable garden,” and Dillon would be the only one outside digging in the dirt.
“Well, if you handle this, I can set the table in the dining room. And I’ll make it look pretty. Don’t you think Grandpa would like that for a change?”
“Yes . . . I’m sure he would.” Dillon forced a smile. “I’ll take it from here.”
“I’m sure you know your way around this kitchen better than I do anyway.”
“Probably.” Dillon was actually relieved to have the kitchen to herself. She hadn’t wanted to tell Margot, but she’d been doing it all wrong. Grandma always started the marinara sauce before the pasta. Hopefully, she could rescue the spaghetti that was about to boil. As far as rescuing her plan to live here on the farm and help her grandfather . . . that felt hopeless.
CHAPTER
4
Dillon was pleasantly surprised to see that Margot had actually put some energy and creativity into setting the dinner table. Not only had she put out a small bouquet of flowers, which must’ve come from Grandma’s garden, she’d lit some candles too.
“The table looks pretty,” she told Margot after Grandpa said the blessing.
“Thank you.” Margot smiled. “I thought we should celebrate this reunion.”
“This looks good.” Grandpa forked into his pasta, which Dillon had plated in the kitchen—just like Grandma used to do.
“We used Grandma’s recipe,” Margot said a bit smugly.
Dillon considered mentioning the turkey substitution, but she didn’t want to spoil it for Grandpa. Instead, she told him about losing her job and breaking up with Brandon. She just wanted to get it out of the way and move on. “It all happened pretty fast,” she admitted. “I decided it was a good excuse to come home. But maybe I should’ve thought it through better. Taken more time to figure things out. I guess it’s too late now.”
“Well, you’ve always been a planner, that’s for sure, but can’t say I’m disappointed—since it brought you back home.” He grinned. “And you know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.” He turned to Margot. “You both are. Here I’d been feeling lonely and sorry for myself—and suddenly my house is full. I guess it’s true what they say: when it rains it pours.”
“I hope we don’t overwhelm you.” Dillon poured dressing over the green salad she’d hastily thrown together while the sauce had simmered.
“Not at all.” He held up a fork of spaghetti. “And I must say your cooking skills have improved, Margot. This is a little different than what your mother used to make, but it’s not half bad.”
“Well, thank you, Dad. Dilly helped a little.”
Dillon grimaced, but said nothing to claim the credit. Besides, the ground turkey was Margot’s idea. Dillon still felt beef would’ve been better. Maybe she’d let Margot cook the next meal unassisted. See how that turned out.
After Dillon brought him a second helping, Grandpa patted her hand with a sympathetic smile. “You’ve been awfully quiet. I hope you’re not feeling bad about that boy. If you ask me, he was a fool to let you go.”
“Thanks.” She forced a smile as she sat down. “To be honest, I haven’t really given him much thought tonight.”
“That’s good. Sounds like he wasn’t the right one anyway. And it pays to get the right one, Dilly. Marie was my proof of that.” He sighed.
“I know.” Dillon forced a smile. “Your marriage to Grandma was an inspiration.”
“Well, I could be wrong, but I think Dilly was more in love with the idea of marriage than she was in love with her groom-to-be.” Margot winked at Grandpa as she reached for the salt. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have broken up with him, Dilly. I think you missed a bullet.”
As much as Dillon hated to agree with Margot on this, she suspected it was probably true. Even so, it felt insensitive. But why be surprised by that?
“Give yourself time,” Grandpa told Dillon. “You’ll get over it.” And now, in typical Grandpa style, he began to go over the upcoming weather forecast. “We really needed that rain, but it’s supposed to be sunny throughout the week. My tractor’s running good again. I think I’ll start tilling the south field first thing in the morning.” He turned to Dillon. “Did you hear your mom wants to grow lavender?”
“She mentioned that.” Dillon frowned. “Sounds like hard work.”
“Yep.” He nodded. “But hard work’s like medicine. Good for what ails you.”
“Well, maybe I can help out in the house,” Dillon offered. “Looks like you could use a good housekeeper.”
“I’m sure you’re right about that.” He slowly shook his head. “I’ve let things go . . . since Marie passed on.”
“Well, with the three of us working together, I’m sure we can get this place back into great shape in no time.” Margot held up her water glass for a toast. “Here’s to us being the Three Musketeers—able to conquer whatever comes our way.”
Dillon lifted her glass, but her heart wasn’t into the toast. Perhaps the best plan would be for her to start doing an online job search tomorrow, and move on and out as quickly as possible. Leave Margot and Grandpa to lavender farming . . . and housekeeping . . . without her.
Grandpa excused himself to bed early, which wasn’t so unusual, and Margot, claiming she needed to read up on lavender plants, made herself scarce as well. But Dillon didn’t mind being left with the cleanup. She was glad to be alone in Grandma’s kitchen. Losing her grandmother so suddenly last fall—hearing the news of the brain aneurism after it was too late—Dillon had felt robbed. With no warning, she’d never had the chance to say her goodbye. But being in Grandma’s kitchen helped some. It was almost like being with her.
While cooking dinner, Dillon had observed what must’ve been six month’s accumulation of grease and grime—understandable since Grandpa wasn’t accustomed to being a bachelor, but something Grandma never would’ve tolerated. It felt good to scrub things down now. Unlike her previous job, it was rewarding to see the fruit of her labors right in front of her. And by the time she finished, the kitchen was gleaming and orderly. But it was past eleven and she was worn out and ready for bed . . . and hopefully ready for that sofa.
By morning, Dillon’s back ached from a restless night on the saggy sofa. After a few stretches, she heard noises from the kitchen and, knowing Grandpa had always been an early riser, she suspected it was him.
“I’m making us oatmeal,” he said when she joined him. “Not as good as bacon and eggs. I put them on my shopping list—as well as some other food that never made it home. Stuff that Margot claims isn’t good for me.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I like bacon and eggs too. But if Margot doesn’t get up too
early, maybe we can sneak some tomorrow.”
“Sounds good to me.” He winked. “I’m almost sorry I gave Marie’s laying hens to the neighbor last winter. But I kept forgetting to feed them. Now I sort of miss those eggs.”
“Maybe you should get some more chickens.”
He nodded. “I’ll be thinking on that.”
“In the meantime, I’ll make a store run later today,” she told him.
“Margot’s really into this health-food nonsense. Tried to get me to drink some awful green stuff for lunch yesterday.” He made a face. “I poured it down the sink when she wasn’t looking.”
“She’s worried you aren’t eating right.”
“Well, drinking green slime doesn’t sound like eating right to me.”
Dillon laughed. “I agree.”
“Anyway, oatmeal’s quick and easy.” He paused to stir it. “And I wanted to get out there and get my tractor running while the soil is still damp from yesterday’s rain. It’ll dry up fast on this warm day.”
“Well, oatmeal sounds just fine to me.” She got out bowls and spoons and a few other things, setting them on the old maple kitchen table.
He dished hearty portions of oatmeal into their bowls, and she followed his lead in dousing hers with milk and dollops of butter and brown sugar. “Margot wouldn’t approve of this.” He chuckled. “But we won’t worry about that.”
“Looks like the coffee’s done.” Dillon got up to pour them each a mug. She added two spoonfuls of sugar into Grandpa’s like she’d always done before she sat back down, bowing her head as he said his usual blessing.
“Good oatmeal,” she said after taking a bite. “I’ve gotten used to the instant microwave kind, but it’s not nearly this good.”
“I added cinnamon just like Marie used to do.”
“Well, it’s perfect.” She smiled. “Grandma would be proud.”
He nodded. “So what do you really think of your mom’s plan to grow lavender?”
“Sounds like an enterprising challenge.” Dillon was starting to look forward to Margot out there digging in the dirt.
“Don’t know that she’s cut out to be a clod-buster.”
The Happy Camper Page 3