7. Davien

Chapter 7

Davien

Errol asked for the check.

This was awkward. I hated doing the dance of who should pay because one person often got offended and the process went on and on with both people saying, "No, it's my treat."

If I'd been thinking ahead, I would have fibbed and said I was going to use the restroom earlier and paid.

"That's kind of you but?—"

"Hey, I might not have a spare five hundred lying around, but I can pay for a meal at the local diner."

"Thank you. That was kind of you. I had fun."

"Me too."

I'd kept quiet about Grams since meeting her, but both I and my beast sensed something wrong. Her scent was off, and not because she hadn't bathed or changed her clothes. This was deep-seated… a health issue… but I wasn't a medical professional, so what could I say? Other than "I'm not human, and I can smell when someone is ill," I couldn't think of a way to broach the subject.

Engaging Errol in conversation about his grandmother might give me hints as to what was happening, but he clammed up when I mentioned her.

We stood outside the diner, both of us with our hands in our pockets, shuffling our feet. More awkwardness.

Why were first dates so weird?

"Do you have to go straight home, or would you like to come back to Grams's place? She loves company."

"Absolutely."

We fell into step, not talking, just pacing along the sidewalk in a comforting silence. I hoped Errol was experiencing it the same way.

"This is a nice neighborhood. Has Grams lived here long?"

"Since she was married in her early twenties."

She must've had neighbors that could look out for her, but Errol couldn't expect people living next door to act as caretakers. It was fortunate that Errol worked as a trainer at a nearby gym. He was freelance, so he made his own hours, and with Grams being poorly, his hours had been reduced.

When Errol opened the door, a voice singing off-key greeted us. I recognized the song. It was from an old movie, one my grandfather had loved because he watched it as a teen with his folks.

Following Errol, we walked into the kitchen. Grams was clutching a raw chicken by its wings and dancing around the table.

Is that hygienic? my unicorn asked.

Forget the chicken .

"Grams, what are you doing?"

She stopped and stared at Errol, her expression one of confusion.

"Darling, are you quite well?" She put a hand to his brow. "No fever."

"Grams, what?—?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm cooking."

Gods, this was worse than I imagined.

"Have you eaten?" Errol put an arm around her and attempted to pry the chicken away.

"No, silly." She jerked her chin at the chicken. "I'm cooking dinner." She drew in a deep breath. "Can't you smell it? Roast chicken with all the trimmings is your favorite."

Errol flashed me a glance that I interpreted as "I'm sorry."

"Roast chicken is my favorite too," I told her.

"Good. As long as you're both not starving, dinner will be ready in ninety minutes."

"Grams," Errol protested. "We just ate."

The older woman patted her grandson's tummy. "But you're a growing boy. You need energy for your football game on Saturday."

Errol's eyes filled with tears, and I jumped into the conversation. "That sounds amazing. Can I help you with anything? Peel the potatoes, perhaps?"

Grams patted my arm. "Thank you, dear, but you and Errol go and finish your homework." She tried shooing us out of the kitchen, but I needed to make sure she washed her hands.

Rubbing soap on my hands, I stuck them under the running water and sang, "This is the way we wash our hands, wash our hands…"

Grams squeed. "I always sing that to Errol because he gets so dirty playing in the sandbox."

With everyone's hands washed, I grabbed paper towels and patted the chicken, making sure to toss the towels in the garbage and wash my hands again. I turned on the electric oven to a high heat and crossed my fingers it would kill any bacteria. My folks used to rinse raw chicken in vinegar, but I'd since learned that safety experts agreed that was a no-no.

Errol didn't move as he stared at his grandmother and the chicken that I'd placed on a wooden chopping board. I steered him into the living room.

"Let her be. If it gets dropped on the floor, we'll think of something to divert her attention and trash it."

Luckily, the stovetop and oven were electric, ‘cause if they were gas, I would have insisted Errol disconnect it. "And if the food is raw, we can shuffle it around on our plate and pretend to eat. If it's cooked, you can have the leftovers tomorrow."

"She might cut herself." He peered around the corner with me at his side. Grams had already peeled and chopped the potatoes, so she'd bypassed that catastrophe.

"We can keep an eye on her from here."

Errol slumped into an armchair, and I sat beside him on the couch. There was a lot of banging and clanging from the kitchen, but Grams was getting an old battered oven dish out of a cupboard.

"I bet she's made this meal hundreds of times."

He nodded, his head turned toward his grandmother.

"I hope you're hungry." There was a pause as the over door slammed. "Does your little friend like green beans?"

It'd been a while since anyone had called me that—if ever—but I stood in the doorway and said I did. Again, I offered to help, but Grams said Errol and I could wash up.

That might take a while because the sink was rapidly filling with dirty dishes.

"Grams, how about I wash as we go and Errol can dry." There was no dishwasher, but if she agreed, it would get us both in the room with her.

"All right." Grams was busy preparing seasoning for the chicken, and for a moment, she gasped before running into what might have been a bedroom.

"Quick, let's season the bird." There was a bowl of limes on the table and a bulb of garlic on the countertop. I shoved them inside the bird and seasoned the skin.

Popping it in the oven, I filled a pot with water to parboil the potatoes. They'd cook quicker in the oven later, rather than putting them in raw.

"Now, where was I?" Grams flapped her hands and glanced around the kitchen.

"You're so organized, Grams." Errol kissed her. The chicken's cooking and so are the potatoes. Why don't you sit for a while, take a load off your feet, and we'll keep an eye on the food."

"Thank you, darling."

Errol got Grams squared away watching TV, and he and I prepped the green beans.

"What are you doing?" He giggled as I put the lid on the saucepan with the potatoes and shook it and my butt around the room.

"It roughens the edges of the potatoes, so when we roast them, the edges will brown and be nice and crispy."

Errol bopped around after me, and we laughed before we got the potatoes in the oven. I wondered if he got much of a chance to laugh these days.

The chicken was resting, the potatoes almost done, and the beans had been stir-fried with garlic when Grams walked in.

"I don't know how you do it, Grams. The dinner smells amazing."

"I can make this meal with my eyes closed." She inspected the chicken, and I hoped it met her approval.

"Why don't you sit?" Errol pulled out a chair at the table that he'd laid with rolls, plates, cutlery, napkins, and a vase of flowers he'd picked from the garden.

"Cooking is hungry work." Grams pulled apart a roll and stuffed half in her mouth.

I served up the food, and we sat down with her. I hoped she wouldn't notice our portions were very small.

"This is delicious. I surprise myself sometimes." Grams tucked into her meal.

I ate more than I thought I would, but we had a lively conversation about the neighbor's dog that kept digging a hole under the fence and coming into Grams's garden.

And after we'd eaten, Grams took out old photo albums and pointed out Errol at Halloween, looking as cute as a button in a little devil's costume, his first day of school, blowing out birthday candles, with his dog who lived to eighteen, and his college graduation day. Grams was in all the pics with him. She'd been a huge part of his life.

Grams yawned, and Errol suggested she get ready for bed. I washed up, and Errol stored all the leftovers in the fridge.

"Thank you so much. The meal was amazing. You can come and cook for us any time."

I might take him up on the offer.

"But then I'd owe you more than just money." He avoided my gaze, and Grams called out, saying she couldn't find her toothbrush.

"That damned dog must have stolen it."

I grabbed my phone, ready to say I was leaving, but Errol said he'd walk me out. Me avoiding a disaster in the kitchen wasn't something that needed a payback.

Though if he wanted to, I could think of a few things he could do.