Somewhere Between the Depths

Chapter Two

Nora

"You girls going to lollygag all day, or you coming in for breakfast?" Annie questions, wiping her hands on her apron while she stares up wistfully at the rainstorm. Without another word, she heads back inside, screen door slamming behind her.

I grab one of my bags from the backseat and one of Lydia's many Chanel suitcases1. She stalks off toward the porch without so much as asking if she can help. Fucking brat. I clear my throat loudly to get her attention, and she turns just in time to see me accidentally drop her expensive suitcase right into the mud at my feet. "Oops."

She sucks in a breath, but I brush past her into the house before her rant can reach me. One tantrum avoided. I catch the screen door, so it doesn't slam, knowing the only one allowed to slam it was Pop and he's been dead for some time. Anyone else is gunning for an ass-whipping. Shrugging out of my leather jacket, I hang it on the old-fashioned coat rack near the front door, and let my eyes scan the entry hall, sighing as nostalgia overwhelms me. Black and white photos of my Gran and Pop when they were young adorn the walls, the handsome shot of my Pop in his Military uniform above the entry table which holds their wedding photo and a vase of wildflowers. I walk toward it, running my finger over the glass when the smell of authentic southern cooking hits me.

"Smells good, Gran." I remark as I step into the warmth of the kitchen, trying to keep my cool even though seeing Gran again for the first time in almost fifteen years was making my heart squeeze painfully. 

She has her back to me, stirring something on the stove. She sets her spoon down gently and when she turns toward me her face is full of nothing but pure love. She crosses the kitchen, looking up at me as she cradles my cheek in her palm. It's like no time has passed between us, like I'm just a little girl again running inside for a popsicle on a hot summer day. I swear I can hear the old coffee maker grinding away, and Pop tinkering beneath the sink while old country music fills the kitchen. 

"Let me look at you." She murmurs, a genuine smile has the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling.

I tower over Gran now, a thought that has me smirking. Gran was small, or petite as she says, but she was mightier than men three times her size. She tsks at my few visible arm tattoos and lip piercings like I figured she would, but not a single negative word leaves her mouth, the love and acceptance in her gaze never wavers. Pulling me in, she wraps me into one of those extra special grandma hugs. The ones you never want to pull away from. I lean into it, holding onto her like a lifeline in a storm. I didn't realize how badly I truly needed her until she had me in her arms and now the dam in my chest cracked right now the middle, threatening to break at the first sign of genuine affection. When was the last time I was touched so gently by someone that really loved me? But even as the question crossed my mind, I knew it hadn't been since my last visit to this house. 

"Come on, honey. I know you must be starving after all that driving." Gran pats my back, ushering me over to the table.

She insists on fixing my plate, which has me cringing internally. I can't stand people waiting on me, not that anyone in California had ever offered. I'm itching to take the plate from her, to do it myself, but she will have none of my crap. Gran sets the plate before me, my mouth instantly watering at all my favorites. Biscuits and gravy, fried eggs, grits and bacon. All southern staples and I dig in immediately, my eyes closing from the pure bliss on my tongue. Gran just chuckles at me as she sets a steaming cup of black coffee above my plate. I smile appreciatively at her, unable to form words for stuffing my face.

"Where's your sister?" Gran asks, but just before I force myself to answer, I hear Lydia bitching out on the porch. I bite my lip to hold in my laugh. I'm guessing after multiple trips around the porch, she's figured out there's no semblance of internet or cell connection to be found. She comes grumbling into the house, the screen door slamming obnoxiously behind her.