Page 34 of The Darkest Chase
Right now, I can’t even decide if I’ll go camping with Micah to find out what he wants to show me.
I’m also nowhere closer to an answer by the time I make it home.
Grandpa’s waiting up for me like usual. I can tell before I cross the street to the shop.
The light in the window over the storefront is on, and when I slip into the narrow alley between our shop and the building next door, where the private outside entrance to the upstairs waits, I instantly feel safer.
The light’s on over the door, its golden glow filling the dark crevices of night.
The kitchen upstairs is just as warm, too.
I let myself in and climb the narrow stairs behind the workshop to our loft.
My grandfather sits at the raw wood kitchen table, cradling a mug of tea, his eyes almost disappearing under the thick grey bushes of his eyebrows. There’s a half-eaten loaf of banana bread in front of him, courtesy of the bakery next door.
Mrs. Brodsky stops in practically every night when I’m not around, bringing him goodies. Last year, when I asked her to check in on him, she jumped at the chance when he reminds her so much of her own deceased father. She didn’t even ask about his condition.
As far as she knows, I’m just asking for help to keep an old man company. Not to check in to make sure he hasn’t abruptly lost another piece of his mind and started the place on fire—though Grandpa’s never been anywhere near that reckless and absent-minded.
I hope—I pray—that sort of worry is a long way off.
Still, better safe than sorry.
Coming home instantly brightens my evening.
Everything in this kitchen was handcrafted by him, from the dining set to the wood countertops and giant butcher-block island. It’s all white ash, carefully selected and shaped and artificially aged. Every deceptively simple piece is a quiet testament to untold hours of meticulous craftsmanship.
I stop and sigh, hoping I’ll be a tenth as good as he is someday.
There’s a second mug of tea sitting across from him, still steaming. It’s like he can tell when I’m coming back.
I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the peg by the door, then settle in across from him and curl my hands against the ceramic for warmth.
“Hey, Grandpa,” I say.
“Hey, yourself. Late night, sweetheart?” He gives me a long, searching look and sips his tea, smacking his lips.
“I was meeting a friend.” I shrug flippantly. “Why’d you wait up for me so long? Mrs. Brodsky must’ve left an hour ago.”
“Yeah, well.” He stops there.
He worries about me a lot, I think.
But one reason I love him is because he’s never tried to tell me how to live my life, even knowing how careful I have to be.
We’re partners, and he trusts me to take care of myself.
So it’s not like him to be waiting.
But tonight, I’m glad he is.
Because right now the homey warmth of this kitchen, surrounded by the sweet smell of hot herbal tea and the ever-present scent of sawdust, feels like something I didn’t know I needed.
It grounds me again.
Makes me feel like I can figure this mess out, if I just sit down and take my time and really think it through.
“Guess I couldn’t wait to see my granddaughter. Is that a crime now?” He snorts, but his eyes are shrewd over his mug. “You went up to the big house today.”