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Marge was family, and family mattered. She lived next door, but her kitchen was crap, and having her come over to help with the cooking and join me for meals worked out well for both of us. Not to mention, it kept Mom happy that I was keeping an eye on her sister after Marge’s fall last year. Supporting family was paramount, and this was a duty that fell to me.
Marge shook her head. “Your mother would disown me, or something worse, if I let you subsist on that packaged microwave garbage you used to eat. Besides, who else is going to tell you the unvarnished truth about anything?” That was the one cost of having Marge constantly around. She enjoyed calling me on my shit.
“I don’t know, maybe Rose?” Rose Seneca was our local fortuneteller of sorts, not that I bought into that incense-and-crystal-ball bullshit.
“Don’t you dare make fun of her,” Marge said. “Remember what happened to Tommy Turnbull.”
I nodded. “I heard.” Tommy had hassled Rose at The Peanut Barrel one night about a year ago. On the way home, he’d crashed his truck and claimed the steering had failed. The mechanics never found anything wrong with the truck. Superstition could be a strong force.
“Rose told me I should have added a twenty-seven to my lotto numbers,” Marge said. “I tell ya, not listening to her cost me a pretty penny. You pay special attention to anything she says.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tommy and Marge could believe anything they wanted. I’d stick to cold, hard facts.
She wagged a finger at me. “I’m serious.”
I nodded and forked another bite. If I started this argument, it would never end.
“Hear anything from Grace yet?” Aunt Marge asked.
“She only left yesterday,” I reminded her.
She shrugged. “Nine-letter word for cooking appliance?”
After some thought I suggested, “Stovetop.”
“You need to learn to count. That’s eight.”
“Stovetops then.”
“The clue was appliance, not appliances,” she chided.
My phone buzzed with an incoming message. I finished another bite of the omelet before checking it.
CLARA: We need to talk
Clara ran day shift for me at the hotel, and she had a tendency to overreact, according to Grace. Grace had warned me that while she was gone, I’d get the full dose of Clara.
I’d talk to Clara when I got in. Right now, my aunt’s heavenly omelet was my priority.
Marge tapped the table with her pen. “I saw the light on last night down at the cottage.”
I cut another bite. “Grace told me her sister was coming to take care of the dogs.”
“Nice of her.”
“Yeah, she’s letting her stay here as a break from city life.” What I didn’t add was that Grace had said her spoiled sister was bugging out on her boyfriend to make him miss her. Pretty crappy way to act, but nobody asked me.
“I meant it was nice of the sister to offer to take care of so many animals.”
“That too,” I agreed. Grace’s mutts could be a handful. But, any girl who would pull a psychological-warfare stunt like that on her boyfriend just to make him jealous deserved having her time away be difficult—or worse.
The poor guy was probably worried already. And Grace’s sister, the cause of his despair, was probably reveling in the control it gave her.
Marge put her pencil down and stood. “I guess I better make another omelet to welcome her properly.” My aunt was thoughtful and caring to a fault. She’d take in a mangy coyote just as readily as a cute puppy.
I ate my omelet, feeling a little self-conscious that I hadn’t taken more time to ask Grace about her sister. She might be a rotten girlfriend, but she was still Grace’s family, and family mattered.
Another of my faults—not taking the time out for an occasional personal chat with my employees. I needed to work on that when I got the time.
