Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Chapter Three

It's been two weeks, and even if I had gotten around to making a to-do list, very few things would be checked off. The car is emptied, but the majority of my things remain in giant yellow trash bags in the corner of my room. They look like lumpy, fat cartoon chickens roosting. Luckily for me, Gramps can't make it up the stairs and Laura the housekeeper hasn't ratted me out.

Yet.

If she finds my growing collection of empty liquor bottles squirreled away inside nests of sweaters that no longer seem practical, that could change. There's not a doubt in my mind that she reports to Aunt Karen, and between that and whatever Mrs. Walters has already told her, I'm sure my aunt and uncle have had some colorful discussions regarding my choices.

I'm not an alcoholic or anything; I've only been toying with the idea of developing a drinking problem. I don't want to come out to the family and the town until I'm sure that's the direction I want to go. It's nice to fall asleep without hours of tossing and turning, and the vodka erases the endless loop of obsessing over all of the ways I surely drove David away. That's all.

"Gramps! You want a zucchini muffin?" I shout from the doorway to the kitchen, hating that this is how we have to communicate but loving spending my days with someone who makes me feel as though I'm not a loser.

Not that he never has anything to say about my sloth, but Gramps has a way.

"Did you make them?"

"No, Laura."

"Then yes."

"Nice, Gramps. Real nice. Maybe I'll learn how to cook, since I have all this free time on my hands."

I toss two of the muffins in the microwave; when they're warm I slice them in half and butter them before joining him in the living room. We ate dinner several hours ago and now the Lawrence Welk Show is on, which I swear is only beamed into the houses of people over the age of eighty, because I never saw it on the Guide in my apartment, ever.

"That interview is tomorrow, Gracie-baby. Make sure you get there on time."

"So, ten minutes early?"

He nods, chewing on his muffin in a thoughtful manner. "On time is late, that's right."

Protests burble up, insist on having a voice, even though getting out of the house can't be the worst thing in the world. I can't wallow in my shame and misery forever. But, mature or not, having the interview and interaction forced on me digs in my heels. "I'm overqualified for that job, you know. I'm an archivist, not a librarian."

"Not a job for a librarian," he grunts in response, not looking toward me. "Assistant-type thing. Cleaning, reshelving, maybe reading to the kiddies a couple times a week."

That makes me smile. It reminds me of when he and I used to press our noses against each other until our eyes watered, waiting for the other person to pull away first. He's used to winning, but I'm not a little kid anymore.

But for some reason, this news makes me feel better as well as worse. Maybe because it won't be like pretending things are hunky-dory. It's pretty much announcing my surrender to the world, like when men wear sweatpants in public.

It feels right.

"What time?"

"Nine-thirty. You remember where it is?"

"Yeah, Gramps. There's one stoplight in this town, and I've been over every inch of Heron Creek in my bare feet. I think I'll be fine."

"Can never tell with you these days, Gracie-baby. You sleep more than a drugged bear in the dead of winter, and don't think I can't smell you feeling sorry for yourself all the way down here." Now he does catch my gaze, his pale blue gaze sympathetic but stern. "Time to saddle up and ride again."