“Gran?” I shut the front door behind me, inhaling the familiar scent of my grandmother’s house. She had two stories and an attic where she did her art, and the warm wood-floored hallways always smelled of the lake air and whatever cookies she’s decided to bake recently.
I strode down the hallway and stopped in the open doorway to the kitchen. It was empty, but there were chocolate chip cookies sitting out on a plate in the center of her cute square table.
“Gran, are you home?”
I navigated back into the hall and up the stairs to the second floor. The entrance to the attic, a pulldown trapdoor that extended with stairs, was shut tight, but I picked up the wand that I could use to tug it down and tapped it against the trapdoor.
“Gran, are you up there?”
“Milly?” My grandmother’s reply came, sounding harried rather than happy to hear my voice. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Gran. Are you OK?”
“I’m well,” she said. “How are you?” She was closer to the trapdoor, now, but still hadn’t opened it.
“I’m good, I guess. Can I come up?”
“No, dear. I’m working on something private. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in ten minutes, all right?”
“OK.” I propped the long hook against the wall, then went back downstairs, unable to keep the frown at bay. Gran sounded stressed. Or different. What was that about? If she had a problem, surely she would share it with me?
Our family had been through a lot lately, what with Dad’s passing and all. It hurt to think about him too much, so I tried focusing solely on the cafe, but there was something that Detective Freedman had said to me that’d been bugging me over the past couple of days.
Freedman had pointed out that my father had given his lawyer instructions to deliver the gift to me on his birthday. And that he hadn’t died of terminal illness. Why would my dad have given his lawyer the gift for me in advance if he hadn’t known he wouldn’t be around to give it to me himself.
It was mind-bending. That or Dad had just been super paranoid and he’d given a gift to the lawyer every year?
That was easy enough to check out.
I sat down at Gran’s table and helped myself to one of the chocolate chip cookies. They were the type I loved, chewy and sweet, the chocolate chips had melted just so, but had cooled again, making them into dense chocolate blobs of goodness.
Gran entered the kitchen as I started on my second cookie. She wore an art apron that was splodged with dry paint, but the rest of her was immaculate as usual.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hello, dear.” Gran pressed a kiss to the top of my head then moved over to the kettle with a sigh. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please,” I said. “You know how much I love coffee.”
“A family trait.” Gran paused, her hand on the machine.
“Gran? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Her voice trembled.
“Gran?” I got out of my chair and went to her. “What’s going on? Gran, I know something’s wrong, and you’d better tell me what it is, right now. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
“Milly…”
“Don’t tell me nothing’s wrong. I know there’s stuff bothering you. You haven’t been at the cafe lately, and even Sue’s asking where you’ve been.”
“Bless her.”
“Gran!”
“Sit down, Milly. I’ll make the coffee, and then I’ll tell you.”
I resumed my seat, reluctantly, watching Gran’s every movement. She was tiny. A package of dynamite when she was in her usual mood, but today, Celia Pepper was reserved. She waited for the coffee machine to finish then poured us each a cup of straight black coffee and brought it over.
I accepted mine and took a sip, just to keep myself busy. “Spill, Gran.”
“Oh, Milly, you don’t have to worry so much about me. I’m fine.” Gran reached into the pocket of her art apron and withdrew a letter. “This came in the mail a week ago. I’ve been… thinking a lot about it.”
“What is it?”
“A letter, dear. Read it.”
I took it from the table and opened it, casting an unsure look up at Gran. She nodded, gesturing for me to read, then took a cookie for herself.
Dear Celia Pepper,
I hope this letter finds you well.
My name is Thomas, and I believe you are my grandmother. My father, Frank Pepper, was your son. I have done my research on my family using an online DNA test, and it came back telling me that you are my family.
I managed to find your address by hiring a private investigator. I hope that’s OK, but I don’t have any other family, and I wanted to meet you.
I will be coming to Star Lake on November 13th to meet you.
Sincerely,
Thomas Pepper, your grandson.
I dropped the letter, my eyes widening. “What? No.”
“So, you see, I’ve been rather preoccupied with, uh, this information,” my grandmother said. “Never in all the years that your father was alive did he tell me that he had another family.”
“But he didn’t,” I said. “He couldn’t have. He had Mom, and she passed, and he raised me. And he was always around. Always in the cafe. It’s not like he was sneaking off to go be with another family. That’s… just… no. That’s not like Dad. I don’t believe this. I don’t.”
Maybe it was childish of me to reject this out of hand, but it was difficult to take. Thinking that my father might have had another family and kept it both from my grandmother and me? No way. No way.
I refused to think anything negative about him.
“Maybe it was an accident,” Gran said. “Maybe my Frank didn’t know that he had another child.”
“No, Gran. No. You know that Dad wasn’t like that. You know that.”
Gran nodded, her jaw tensing. “I agree with you.”
“You do?” I’d expected her to be the voice of reason, to tell me that I was overreacting because it was an emotional topic for me. But Gran agreed?
“Yes. I agree with you,” she said, taking the letter from me and folding it up, then slipping it into her apron pocket again. “I’ve grappled with this all week, and I can’t figure out what this Thomas person really wants, but I don’t believe he’s telling the truth about being related to us.”
“Why would someone make up a story like that?” I asked. “It’s not like Dad was rich or something.”
Gran quieted, considering the plate of cookies as if they would have the answers. “I don’t know,” she said, a little shakily. “But we’ll surely find out when he gets here.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.