“How you been?” he asks, skipping over my lack of vocabulary.
“Good. You?”
“Not too bad. Charlotte owns this place now. How long are you in town for?”
“Just passing through on our way to Montreal for a wedding.”
“Marines?” he asks.
“Hell no,” Mitch blurts out. “Army. Huah!”
The battle cry is lost on Krew. He looks at me, smiles, and says, “You should call Lottie.” He scribbles on his notepad and hands the piece of paper to me. “She would really love to hear from you, and I think you’d definitely like to see her.”
“Okay, I will.” Krew takes my order and then leaves us be.
“You never told me about this Lottie,” Mitch says.
I stare down at the piece of paper with her name scrawled over a set of numbers. I never told anyone about her because there wasn’t much to tell. We were young, she was hot, and paid attention to me. She never cared that I didn’t have a family, and neither had her family. Which, if I remember correctly, is massive.
“I only knew her and her family for a few months.”
“You gonna call her?”
Again, I look at her name. This time I smile. “Yeah, I have nothing to lose by saying hi.”
Chapter Two
Charlotte
When most people have a day off, they do their cleaning or run errands. Me, I go to my grandparents, Gentry and Arlyne Carmichael, to sit on their deck or curl up on their sofa. I could do both things at home, but there’s something about being with my grandma that centers me. She’s my best friend, my confidant. Right now, we’re in her kitchen. It’s her favorite place to be. I’m watching her prepare dinner for tonight—homemade buttermilk fried chicken—a recipe she learned from her grandmother. It’s my grandpa’s favorite. Mine too. And I’m listening to her rant about the women in her knitting club. Every week, she has something new to tell me, and I think deep down, this is one reason I come here on my days off.
“Anyway,” she says, bringing my attention back to her. “Gertrude is dating Margaret’s husband.”
My mouth drops open. Not only at the fact that my grandma drops this bomb and somehow doesn’t miss a beat when it comes to dipping the piece of chicken into the buttermilk, but also how Gertrude is openly having an affair with her friend’s husband.
“Did Margaret stab Gertrude with her knitting needles?”
Grandma chuckles. “Elaine almost did. Trudy was so flippant about the whole thing. Honestly, I wasn’t paying attention to their bickering until she blurted out that she and Todd have been sleeping together. I swear, it was like we were back in high school.”
“You didn’t go to high school with them,” I say, fearful that her memory could be fading away. Ginger, my best friend, her grandfather has dementia, and the stories she tells me are heartbreaking.
Grandma pauses, and my heart drops. Did I just remind her of this fact? She turns and starts to place her milk and flour-covered hands on her hips but seems to think better of it. “Child, I’m aware I didn’t go to school with anyone who lives here. I may be old, but I’m far from senile. These women act the same way the girls in high school did when the cute popular boy asked them out. They’re all after one thing, this generation of mine, and that is security and comfort.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”
She cuts me off with a wave of her hand and turns her back toward me. I feel dumb for even saying what I said. I stand and go to her, standing hip to hip with her. “I love you the most,” I tell her. It’s the truth. She’s always been my advocate, the one to stand up to my parents when they felt I brought shame to the family. The relationship I have with my grandma isn’t like the one she has with my siblings or cousins. They’ve commented on this many times, how I’m the favorite. I tell them it’s because I named my daughter after our grandmother. I’ve given her a namesake. But they don’t believe me. It’s fine. My grandfather favors my brother and my baby cousin, Birdie. Although, Birdie is far from a baby anymore.
“I love you too,” she tells me. “And I appreciate you looking out for me, but my mind is as sharp as a tack.” She brushes my hair away from my face and then cups my cheek. “I promise.”
Somehow, she knows how much I need her. We have a large, close-knit family, but even in a family like mine, there is always someone, or a few someones who won’t always agree with a decision you make. My grandmother is the most objective one out of everyone and also the most vocal. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have an opinion though, and isn’t afraid to let you know what she thinks or how she feels.
I wash my hands and begin to help her finish preparing tonight’s dinner. Arla, my nine-year-old daughter, and I will join my grandparents this evening. Arla spends most of her weekends here, at my parents, or brother Trey’s house, so I can run Lottie’s. Between the ski lodge and the marina, Holyoak barely has an off-season. The summertime lake goers turn into skiers, and the skiers turn into leaf peepers. For those of us in town who own businesses, we enjoy the constant tourism.
After we finish the chicken, my grandma takes out the ingredients to make her homemade cornbread and suggests I start working on dessert. “What is it?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “You tell me.”
I turn away, so she doesn’t see me smile. Everything I know about cooking and baking I’ve learned from her. At Lottie’s, we strive to give our customers a homecooked meal. Of course, all the beer my cousins encouraged me to install isn’t hurting. The people who come from all over seem to enjoy the-mile-long bar. The twins, Krew and Kiel, wanted the bar to wrap around the entire restaurant, which my grandfather vehemently objected to. My great-grandfather bought the building where Lottie’s is many moons ago and turned it into a restaurant. My grandfather inherited it, and he handed the restaurant to me about five years ago. I don’t own it outright, but it’s mine, and I can do whatever I want with it. My grandpa’s idea was to change the name to Lottie’s, and my idea to completely renovate and change the menu. I like to think my changes allow us to thrive.
Above the stove, my Grandma keeps all of the cookbooks she’s collected over the years. I finally find the one I’m looking for, a Betty Crocker cookbook from the 1950s. Inside, there is a tattered recipe for apple cinnamon strudel, my grandma’s favorite. I pull the book from its spot and set it on the noodle board, adorned with my grandparent's last name—Carmichael. I flip through, looking at some of the recipes in there, hoping something will catch my eye until I get to the worn-out piece of paper that has been taped over and over again. Long ago, I asked my grandma why she doesn’t just buy a new Betty Crocker cookbook, and she said the recipes aren’t the same, that the essence of cooking has changed over the years. “Everyone is always looking for a shortcut. No one wants to take the time to make a full meal anymore,” is what she tells me when I bring it up. She’s right. Quick meals are nice. Arla and I often practice the grab and go lifestyle. But I also appreciate a homecooked meal, especially if I’ve made it all from scratch. There is something satisfying about sitting down and seeing all your hard work pay off.