I think that a lot of kids would have been messed up after their parents did something like that, but not us. For one, we had everything we ever could have wanted, because our grandmother is richer than dirt, I mean sin, I mean, well, she has more money than a lot of really even uber rich people, and also because she never let that make her into a different person. Grandma has always been unapologetically quirky, sensational, affectionate, and just about the best human being that I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing.
So, I’m all about the granny hugs and no matter how old I get, I always will be.
“Where have you been hiding for the past two weeks?” Grandma asks, admonishing me gently with her tone. “A body misses you, you know. A body worries you might be dead if you don’t check in. A body-”
“Sorry, Grandma, I’ve been busy. Working. I had to go to New York, remember?”
“I didn’t realize that plants could be so lucrative.” Wesley asks from across the kitchen. A safe distance, I might add. He’s not too big for wedgies. Just saying.
“For your information, cacti and succulents have never been hotter.”
“Neither have your endless greenhouses. I don’t know how you can take all this good money and invest in plants. That’s boring.”
“That’s enough, Wesley!” Grandma says, shaking her finger at him. We’re never too old for finger shaking either. “There isn’t anything wrong with plants. In fact, back in the day, before my time even, though that might be hard for both of you to believe, there was a whole language based around plants. It was called Floriography, or as it’s better known, the language of flowers. In the Victorian era-”
“Grandma, your pancakes are burning!” Wesley yells, flapping his arms up and down like a chicken who actually cares. I’m surprised he didn’t let them burn. Though, Grandma would have whipped up another batch. There’s no stopping her when she gets in the mood for gut busting cakes, I mean pancakes.
Grandma whips around and all talk about my business- and yes, I happen to own several greenhouses and have plants in stores across the country, and yes, I was at a plant convention in New York because I believe in plants and who doesn’t love plants- and all talk about flowers and languages or whatever, is forgotten as she makes a mad dash to the stove. She lets out a horrified screech when she flips the pancakes over and finds them totally burnt. As in, beyond charred. Beyond edible, which is par for the course, but just in a different way.
She shovels them into the garbage, greases the pan, and pours a healthy (and I actually mean unhealthy because our poor stomachs) amount of batter back into the pan to replace the first ruined batch.
“I did want to ask you something, Grandma,” I venture when she’s turned back around from the frying pan.
“See, I told you! He’s only here because he wants something,” Wesley yammers.
“That’s not true.” I grind my teeth in annoyance. Only Wes can get under my skin like this. I swear, it’s a blood hobby for him. “I don’t want anything. I just want to know if you remember the night of the fundraiser?”
“The masked ball?” Grandma hoots. “Of course, I do. Sweet lord, that was a fun night. I danced until my hips just about broke right off.”
“I seem to remember that was after a few shots of tequila,” Wesley adds.
Grandma turns a scathing look on him and I give her a mental high five. “Just because I’m not your age anymore, Wesley Parton, does not mean a few shots are not allowed. I’m a responsible adult, and if I want a few shots of tequila so I can go out there and dance my bums off and have some fun before I end up taking my eternal nap, then so be it!”
“Please don’t talk about eternal naps,” Wesley groans.
I give him a now you’ve done it, here we go with the talk of death again and it was a beautiful morning look. Grandma gives him a look that is much darker.
“Anyway, what did you want to ask me?” Grandma bustles over to the stove and deftly flips the pancakes. I’m not sure how, seeing as they weight approximately ten thousand pounds a piece.
“I wanted to ask if you knew who the woman I- was- uh- talking with is? She was wearing all black. A vintage dress. She had sapphire earrings in.”
“You don’t even know who you took home?” Wes is half amazed, half repulsed, and half incredibly amused at that. “I’m assuming you did take her home. Why do you need to know her name if it was clearly a one-night stand? I can guarantee that if she hasn’t called you, she isn’t thinking about you, wondering who you were. Or maybe she knew, and she’s not interested in someone who dedicates their lives to learning about different species of cacti. That makes for a rather prickly personality…” Wes laughs obnoxiously at his own joke while I go scarlet at his talk of me taking someone home and one night standing with them in front of our grandmother.