Chapter One
"Jules, I gotta go. I'm almost there."
"Okay, but call me later. Moving away doesn't mean you get to stop being my friend. And hey, if you run into any hot guys at your new school, I expect you to send me one."
I laugh. "I don't think I could afford the shipping."
Pulling up to the farmhouse, I see Grams hurrying out, motioning me where to park.
"Talk to ya later, Jules."
"Yeah, bye. Tell your grandma hi for me."
"I will."
Jules has never met Grams but I've told her all about her, like how my grandma is very prim and proper and old-fashioned. I've never seen her wear pants, only dresses, and her hair is always perfect. She gets up early to wash it and set it in curlers so by the time you see her at breakfast it looks like she just left the salon.
"Welcome to your new home," she says with a smile as I get out of the car. She comes over and gives me a hug. "It's so good having you here." She gives me a squeeze before letting me go.
"You sure you want me as a roommate?" I kid. "It's not too late to change your mind."
"Don't be silly. I've been looking forward to this for months." She claps her hands together. "We're going to have such a good time!"
I smile, happy she's so excited about us living together. I'm still not sure how it'll go but I love my grandma and didn't get to see her much growing up so I'm looking forward to spending more time with her. My only concern is that we might butt heads now and then. My grandma has strong opinions and she isn't afraid to share them. If she doesn't approve of how I'm dressed or what I'm doing, she'll be sure to tell me.
"Let's get your things," Grams says.
"Why don't you give me a quick tour first? Then I'll unpack the car."
A loud crashing noise startles me. It sounded like it came from the neighbor's garage.
Grams sighs and shakes her head. "You might as well get used to it. I've told him to keep the noise down but he doesn't listen." She glances at the neighbor's house, a two-story farmhouse that looks similar to ours except it's painted a light blue and ours is white. "I even called the police on him but they told me there's nothing they can do. They said it's not loud enough to be considered a disturbance, which is complete nonsense. Obviously it's a disturbance. It scared you half to death!"
Grams moved here a few months ago and has complained nonstop about her neighbor, a retired man around her age who gets under her skin more than anyone I know. Everything he does seems to annoy her.
"I wasn't scared, just startled." I look over at the open garage. "What's he doing in there?"
"That's not Walter. It's his grandson. Some derelict that just showed up one day and has been working in that garage day and night. I'm at my wit's end with the noise, and according to the police, there's nothing I can do about it."
"Maybe I could talk to him."
"Absolutely not!" She shudders at the idea. "I don't want you getting anywhere near that boy."
"Why? What's wrong with him?"
"Well, for one, he doesn't have a job. He just putzes around the garage all day. I don't want you associating with a deadbeat like him."
"Maybe he's between jobs. Have you talked to him? Asked him what he's doing here?"
"I've said hello, simply to be polite. Other than that, no, we haven't spoken, but just looking at him I can tell he's no good."
"How can you tell?"
She leans toward me and lowers her voice. "He has a tattoo. Probably more than one."
I laugh. "Grams, having a tattoo doesn't make someone a deadbeat."
She huffs. "A proper gentleman doesn't mark up his body with ink. Doing so is a sign that he has no regards for his appearance and no plans to ever pursue a professional career."
"That's not—" I stop because I know I won't win this argument. Grams will argue her point forever if she has to and I'm not about to spend my time doing that. I'm only here for two years and I don't want those two years to be spent arguing.
She shoots a dirty look at the neighbor's house as we hear an engine struggling to start.
"Come inside. I'll show you around." She walks quickly to the door and we go inside.
The house was originally owned by my grandma's sister but she died last year. She left it to my grandma, who was planning to sell it until I found out I'd be attending graduate school in a town just a few miles from here. She offered to let me stay in the house for free, then suggested we live here together, saying it would give her time to fix up the house to be sold. She also liked that she'd be getting a break from the retirement community she lives at in Florida. She said the people there gossip constantly and she was tired of it, although I'm pretty sure she partakes in the gossip herself.
"My sister's decor is not at all my style," she says, "but it's not worth changing, given that I won't be here long."
The furniture in the living room is worn out and dated, the sofa a pastel flowery print that was probably popular in the Eighties. That's when her sister bought the place and it looks like she hasn't updated it since. Shiny mint green lamps sit on either side of the sofa on tables that look like they're made out of logs. They're rustic and kinda cool but don't really fit with the shiny lamps and flowery couch.
"Her husband made those," Grams says, noticing me looking at the tables. "He made the coffee table too. And the dining room table, the china hutch, the upstairs dressers."
"I didn't know he was so good at woodworking."
"He wasn't trained in it. It was just a hobby of his." She picks a crocheted blanket off the couch and folds it into a neat and tidy square. "My sister liked to crochet."
"It's a beautiful blanket," I say, noticing the bright colors and intricate design. "Do you know how to crochet?"
"I do, and I used to love doing it, but I stopped years ago." She sets the blanket down. "People nowadays don't like such things. They're considered old-fashioned."
"Not to me. I'd love a blanket like that."
She motions to it. "It's all yours. In fact, you could have most anything here. I don't have room at home so everything will be sold, unless you or your mother want it."
Glancing around the living room, I see cow figurines scattered here and there and old teapots on a shelf.
"The teapots are cute," I say, walking over to look at them.
"She collected teapots. She and I would have tea parties when we were young."
The phone rings. It's the landline phone. Grams has a cellphone but rarely uses it.
"It's probably your mother," she says, "making sure you got here safe. Would you like to answer it?"
"I just talked to her. You can answer it. I'll go get my stuff."
As she answers the phone, I go back outside to my car. There's music coming from the neighbor's garage. It's classic rock and one of my favorite songs is playing. I'm tempted to go over there and introduce myself but Grams would have a fit if I did.