Firstly, the door had been closed and Laura, Brock’s gorgeous sister, was standing by it grinning like a madwoman.

Secondly, there were two dark-haired boys on the floor, both of them in little boy football uniforms ( sans shoulder pads), both of them appearing at some point in the not too distant past to have rolled around in the dirt for a good length of time and my guess was that was at least five hours, both of them appeared to be arrested in mid-wrestling match and both of them had green Kool-Aid mustaches.

Third, there was an adorable, little, dark-haired girl wearing a princess dress costume, complete with fake satin top and masses of tulle skirt, this ensemble complimented by clickety-clack, little girl, plastic, high-heeled shoes, sitting on the couch with her legs straight in front of her, feet bouncing while she gamely licked a melting popsicle but was struggling in this endeavor as evidenced by it dripping purple on the fake satin of the top of her dress.

Fourth, an older woman with thick, silver hair and blue eyes and an overall look that screamed, “Grandma!” was standing in a doorway grinning at me like a madwoman.

And last, Brock’s furnishings were, at a glance, approximately two point seven five steps up from the overall feel of his apartment complex. But at least the place appeared clean if not tidy and when I say “not tidy” I say this in the sense that it also reflected that Brock was a single man with a Harley Fat Boy and a beat up pickup truck that Martha was right about, it needed to be traded up and that trade up should have happened around a decade ago.

“Uh… hey,” I greeted.

“We’re a surprise, we know. We were on our way back from junior football league practice and we thought we’d stop by,” Fern said, coming further into the room and I saw she was holding a dishtowel. “We brought KFC because the kids had to eat. We didn’t know Slim was expecting company.”

“Um… okay,” I told her then added stupidly. “Cool.”

She made it to me and held out her hand. I took it and her fingers closed around mine then her other hand came up and closed around our clasped hands. As she did this, she looked into my eyes and did a Mom Scan which left me feeling mildly ill-at-ease considering the fact that I was pretty sure her blue eyes read all the words written on my soul and she knew I’d lied to my mother when I was ten and told her I didn’t try to shave my legs (when the nicks on them proved this to be false) and that I let Jimmy Moriarty get to second base at the homecoming dance my sophomore year in high school.

Then she released me from The Scan, let go of my hand, stepped back and luckily didn’t announce to the room I was a floozy who lied to her mother.

“They’re about to leave,” Brock stated to which Princess Ellie shouted, “No we’re not!

We’re watching Tangled! ”

And to this, Dylan (or Grady, it had not been pointed out which was which), shouted in return, “We’re not watching Tangled! We watched Tangled this weekend five times.” He swung his head to Laura and whined, “Mooooooom! I’m sick of Tangled! ”

“I’m not sick of Tangled, that movie is awesome,” I found my mouth (again) stupidly muttering.

“See! ” Ellie shrieked, gesturing to me with her popsicle off which flew a massive chunk of purple ice that plopped on the shag (yes, shag) carpet a foot away from Brock’s motorcycle boots. “Uncle Slim’s girlfriend wants to watch Tangled! ”


I didn’t exactly say that but then again, she was probably five and five year old girls heard what they wanted to hear. In fact, lots of fifty-five year old girls heard what they wanted to hear.

Fern rushed to the ice on the floor with her dishtowel while Laura scolded, “Ellie! Careful with that popsicle.”

“Do we have to watch Tangled? Do we? Do we? ” Dylan (or Grady) whined.

“Dylan, pipe down. We’re not watching anything. We’re going home and getting cleaned up for bed.”

“I don’t wanna go to bed!” Dylan and Ellie shouted in unison.

At this point, the front door opened and a tall, beer-gutted older man with dark hair shot with not a small amount of silver and silvery-gray eyes strolled in shouting, “Jesus H. Christ!

What’s the commotion?”

“Grandpa!” Ellie and Dylan screamed, Ellie tossing the popsicle aside only for it to land with a plop on Brock’s couch in her haste to scramble off said couch and race Dylan to hug the older gentleman’s legs. But when they did this, with the velocity and force they hit him, he went back two paces before they successfully latched on. Luckily, disaster was averted and he kept his feet.

I was rooted to the spot looking at a man whose somewhat withered good looks stated firmly he was Brock’s father as I felt the slap of attitude hit the room and heard Brock mutter under his breath, “Fuck.”

For once, the mood in the room didn’t come from Brock. When my head woodenly turned in the direction from whence it emanated I saw it was coming from Fern.

“Tell me he is not here,” she hissed.

Uh-oh.

“Mom –” Brock started.

“Slim, tell me… he… is not… here, ” she somewhat repeated with scary mini-pauses and equally scary emphasis.

Brock’s arm gave me a squeeze, my head tipped dazedly back to look up to him and when I caught his eyes, he immediately informed me, “This is why I’m never fuckin’ home.”

Well, that answered one question. If Brock was never home he didn’t need a fabulous pad.

“Heya, Laurie, honey, heya, Slim, heya Grady,” Brock’s father greeted with smiles.

“Hey Grandpa,” Grady returned.

“Hey there, Dad,” Laura said hesitantly, her manner watchful.

Brock’s father’s look became cautious when he muttered, “Hey Fern.”

“Cob,” she bit off, clearly deciding not to go with the option of leaping forward and scratching out his eyes as this would scar her grandchildren for life but I could tell she was hanging onto that control by a thread.

Then Brock’s father’s gaze hit me, his head tipped to the side and his eyes flashed back and forth between his son and me about seven times before said, “Uh… hey there, little lady.”

“Dad, this is Tess,” Brock introduced.

“She’s Uncle Slim’s girlfriend!” Ellie shouted, her fingers curled into Cob Lucas’s pants, her back arched at an impossible angle, her grape popsicle-stained mouth smiling huge up at her grandfather.

He looked down at her, put a big hand gentle on her head and asked softly, “Is she, my Ellie?”

“Yeah!” Ellie cried. “And she wears pretty shoes and she’s gonna watch Tangled with me right now! ”

Cob’s eyes came to me, they were curious, searching even but, like he looked at Fern, hesitant as he muttered, “That’s fantastic, sweetheart.”


Into this conversation, Fern asked acidly, “There a reason you’re here, Cob?”

“Well, actually,” his eyes moved from Fern to Brock to me and back again, “yeah.”

“I’ll bet there is,” she mumbled bitingly.

I caught sight of Laura bugging her eyes out at Brock and with that I decided to take action.

I slid out from under Brock’s arm then leaned and carefully took the dishtowel out of Fern’s hand. Then I walked to the couch and grabbed the bag of snickerdoodles at the same time I swiped up the popsicle and announced, “All right kids, in this bag are bakery fresh snickerdoodles I made at my shop for your uncle. Whoever gets to the kitchen and gets their hands and mouths clean gets a cookie. Who’s with me?”

Dylan and Ellie instantly abandoned their grandfather and raced to the kitchen, Ellie hindered by here clickety-clack, plastic, little girl high heels nearly taking a header twice.

Grady got to his feet eyeing the bag and his mother, clearly weighing cookies versus hanging with the adults in a tense situation and, not surprisingly, cookies won out so he sauntered after his brother and sister. I followed them and didn’t look back as I was confronted with a kitchen Fern obviously just cleaned and shut the swinging door behind me.

Then I set about hiding nine of the dozen snickerdoodles (Brock’s favorite) and setting out the other three at the same time supervising cleaning up three tired, wound up kids.

When they were clean and sitting at Brock’s scarred, wooden kitchen table eating cookies and sucking back milk from glasses I’d poured, Grady, the oldest (my guess, Ellie around four or five, Dylan around six or seven and Grady around eight or nine) informed me,

“Grandma isn’t Grandpa’s biggest fan.”

Hmm. How did I respond to that?

“Well, sometimes things get complicated with adults,” I told him lamely.

Grady kept the information flowing. “Dad isn’t his biggest fan either. Dad says he’s a douchebag.”

I pressed my lips together to stop the giggle escaping then I said, “Douchebag isn’t a really nice word but, that said, your father is entitled to his opinion.”

Grady kept speaking. “Uncle Slim puts up with him but I think he does it for Mom and Aunt Jill ‘cause they like ‘im but Uncle Levi thinks he’s a douchebag too. I heard him and Uncle Slim talkin’ when Uncle Slim told Uncle Levi to cool it about Grandpa because it was bothering Aunt Jill but Uncle Levi said that Grandpa never paid child report and he had a bunch of girlfriends other than Grandma so he didn’t owe him anything and neither did Aunt Jill.”

Apparently, Grady had a mind like a sponge though he got one thing wrong. Child report I was guessing was child support and I was also guessing having a father that didn’t pay it and played around on your Mom was not good.