Secrets in a Still Life, Kari Ganske [best fiction books to read .TXT] 📗

I gave her a look. If Nana K agreed, there would be no begging off. Mom absolutely got her stubbornness from her mother.

I watched with dismay and amusement as all of Nana K's wrinkles rearranged themselves into a bright smile. The thick lenses of her tortoiseshell cat-eye glasses magnified her hazel eyes.

"Fabulous idea," Nana K said. "We can take my car so we can all go."

I sighed. No cheesecake for me.

Chapter 12

Our unlikely trio piled into Nana K's pale-pink Mercedes. She already had the convertible top down and the babushka tied back around her head by the time I managed to get myself and my crutches in the front seat.

"There are extra scarves in the glove box. Buckle up, ladies, this baby likes to go fast." Nana K ground the gears into first and took off like a shot down the road.

"I didn't even give you an address!" I shouted over the wind.

"I know the perfect place," Nana K shouted back in her raspy voice. We sped through town—stop signs seemed to be optional—and ended up on the other side of the reservoir near the Bachman's Orchard and Farmer's Market. I pried my white-knuckled fingers from their death grip on the door handle as we screeched to a halt in the driveway. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw Colleen looked as shell-shocked as I felt.

"Why are we here?" I asked. "Hungry for a road snack?"

I wouldn't put it past my grandmother to detour miles out of the way because she craved a piece of Anita Bachman's famous apple pie. My stomach grumbled. Apple pie wasn't my grandmother's homemade cheesecake, but it would be a fine consolation prize.

"Two birds, one stone," Nana K said. "I happen to know on good authority that Bobby Bachman has a room to let in the loft of the barn. He's been saving it for his wayward son, Tony. But everyone knows Tony does not want to take over the family business. Not that he'd be any good at it anyway. So the beautiful space is sitting there empty, collecting hay dust and cobwebs."

"Sounds charming," I mumbled, hobbling on my crutches after my grandmother. For an octogenarian, she sure was spry.

Colleen stayed by my side as Nana K bustled along ahead of us. "Was this place on your list?" she asked me under her breath. I wasn't sure if Colleen was trying to keep her voice down or if it was leftover anxiety from the car ride here. My heart still pounded from the near-death experience by the Scoop, There It Is intersection. Did Nana K even see that stop sign?

"Nope," I answered her. "Wasn't even listed on any of the websites I looked at. I'll just wait for an opportune moment, make an apology, and steer Nana K toward the pies. I mean, how does she even think I'm going to be able to look at a loft with a bum ankle?"

"No kidding," Colleen chuckled. "You can barely climb a ladder on a good day."

By the time we caught up to Nana K, she'd already cornered Bobby Bachman and his mother, known to everyone under the age of 60 as Mrs. Anita, at the back of the market space where they were restocking fresh-picked strawberries from their fields.

"No, no. Don't give me that nonsense about Tony. We all know he isn't coming back anytime soon," Nana K was saying.

I gave Mrs. Anita an "I'm sorry" look. Anita Bachman, only a few years younger than Nana K, smiled back.

"You're letting that place sit empty when you could be renting it. For money. And Alex is as quiet as a mouse. You'll never even know she's here. You might even convince her into taking some professional photos of this place. Your advertising could use some sprucing up," Nana K continued, unabashed.

"Nana!" I admonished. "I'm sure their advertising is fine."

Nana K shook her head and hitched a thumb at Bobby. "Bobby here takes the photos with his phone and uploads them right to the website. Without any filters. I know; I follow them on Instagram."

"She's not wrong," Mrs. Anita said. She turned to her son. "That loft has been sitting unused for quite a while. No reason we can't rent it out while we wait for Tony to make up his mind."

Maybe this could work. If there was the threat of eviction at any moment, then there wouldn't be a long-term lease. Which meant I wasn't pressured into staying in Piney Ridge.

I said, "I'm looking for some short-term lease options anyway, so that isn't a deterrent."

"Why are we standing around gabbing? Let's go look at the space, then," Nana K said. She grabbed Mrs. Anita by the elbow and marched her out the door.

"Your gramma looking for a job?" Bobby asked as we followed the two matriarchs. "She could sell a glass of water to a drowning man."

Instead of a ladder, like I imagined, a sturdy set of wooden stairs with an elegantly crafted handrail led from the outside of the well-kept barn to a door on the second level. With Colleen's help, I managed to hop up the steps without spraining another ankle. Bobby pushed the door open to reveal what in New York would be considered a studio apartment. Except this was nothing like I would have found in New York.

The space dwarfed the one-bedroom apartment I'd shared with Rick. The exposed rafters of the barn ceiling added to the spacious, open feeling. It was longer than it was wide—running about half the width of the barn below, but beautifully renovated. More log cabin than stinky, old barn, which was the image floating through my mind when Nana K described it. And, to my delight, not a cobweb to be