Page 66 of The Wedding Gift
Chapter 7
Greta came through the door like a Category 5 tornado. “Get your drunk arse up and go get in the car. You’re comin’ home with me right now, girl. There ain’t no way you are sleeping in a lawn chair all night.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m barely buzzed, and I’m perfectly fine sleeping right here,” Becca argued.
Greta pointed toward the door. The expression on her face said that she wasn’t about to repeat herself and she wasn’t taking no for an answer. Becca slowly got to her feet and stumbled that way. She didn’t have the energy to fight with her grandmother, especially when the odds were against her. Not once in all of her twenty-eight years had she won an argument with her grandmother.
When they were in the car and on the way home, Greta glanced over at her and said, “What in the hell happened?”
“Nothing,” Becca growled. “And I’m going home with you, so you win.”
“Don’t you sass me, Rebecca McKay,” Greta told her. “I told you that spending time with that cowboy would prove if you should be with him or not, one way or the other. Evidently, it’s not.”
“Yep,” Becca agreed.
“If he can’t trust you, then you don’t have a foundation to build on anyway, so it’s best to end it before it even gets started,” Greta said as she parked in front of her house.
“Yep,” Becca said a second time. “Whoa! Wait a minute. Him trustme? Evidently, he called you because you came to get me, but it wasn’tmewho’s…” She paused and glared at her grandmother.
“I know what I said, and it’s exactly what I meant. You should have stood up for him when Lacy came bursting in accusing him of something that he says couldn’t be true. Bloody hell, Becca. That woman’s like a doorknob on a public loo. Everyone has given it a turn with her, and if he said he hasn’t been with her in more than six months, then why didn’t you believe him?”
Greta parked in the drive, got out of the car and marched up to the porch. She didn’t even turn around to see if Becca was all right. Becca sat there a couple of minutes; then sheslung the door open, got out, slammed it shut, and stomped to the porch, carrying guilt on her shoulders like a heavy blanket in the middle of a July heat wave. She went straight to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and met Greta in the hallway when she came out.
“You can be mad at me, but that don’t make me wrong.” Greta picked up the kittens and carried them to her bedroom.
“No, but I don’t have to like it.” Becca muttered as she closed her bedroom door. She dropped her dress and underwear on the floor, kicked off her sandals, realized that her feet were dirty, and padded back to the bathroom.
She stood under the warm shower for several minutes, letting the spray beat down on her back. Her grandmother was right. Becca should have popped up on her feet, glared down at Lacy, and then showed her to the door. “Hindsight, and all that shit,” she said as she stepped out and picked up a towel.
When she got back to her bedroom, she pulled on a pair of underpants and her lucky sleep shirt, fell into bed, and practically passed out. When she opened her eyes, the sun coming through her window was attempting to burn holes in them. With a moan, she buried her face in the pillow. Her head felt like rock music was blasting away with the bass turned all the way up. She couldn’t remember the last timeshe’d had a hangover and vowed never to touch watermelon wine again if this was the price she had to pay for it.
She crawled out of bed, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and stumbled into the kitchen with her hand over her forehead.
Greta poured her a cup of hot tea and set it before her. “Drink this while I make you a good Irish breakfast to cure that wine hangover.”
“I couldn’t eat a bite of food,” Becca groaned. “I don’t get drunk. I don’t have hangovers. And on wine, Grammie? Have I lost my Irish wings?”
“No, darlin’, not until you have a morning like this after good Irish whiskey. Austin has figured out a few secrets, like how to make her top-shelf wine more potent. Did y’all drink a whole bottle?” Greta asked.
Becca held up two fingers.
“Bloody hell, Becca. No wonder you werefluthered! Me and the girls share a bottle and all four of us get downright giggly.” Greta set about making breakfast for two. “’Tis a good Irish breakfast you need, and another cup of tea, and then you’ll be ready to go to work.”
“Grammie!” Becca groaned. “Not a full Irish breakfast. I’m just two steps away from heading for the bathroom right now.”
“When you eat every bite of what I’m making, you willbe cured. The black pudding, beans, and fried tomatoes are already done. Do you know how much trouble it is to get good black pudding in this part of the world? I have to go all the way to Saint Jo to get it, so you won’t be wastin’ a bite of it. Do you hear me?” Greta shook an egg turner at Becca.
“Yes, ma’am,” Becca groaned.
“I just need to finish up the bacon, sausage, and eggs. Then I’ll pop the toast in the machine, and you can begin to eat,” Greta said. “Besides, I’ve been starving for a breakfast like this. I love it even when I don’t have a watermelon wine hangover.”
Becca sipped her tea and hoped that she would be able to get a few bites down. Black pudding wasn’t something she enjoyed even when she was sober, but if Grammie said it would cure her aching head, she would force it down.
“Have you thought about what an opportunity you missed last night?” Greta asked as she put half a dozen pieces of bacon into the skillet.
“I can’t think at all,” Becca answered. “My head hurts too bad.”
“Then drink some more tea,” Greta told her.