“Yeah,” my father said. “Patsy tells me you’ve been over there all afternoon.
If you were in the mood for home improvement projects, why didn’t you just say so?”
My father was just joking around, but I don’t think my grandfather took it that way.
He helped himself to a cheese-stuffed potato and said, “Pass the salt, won’t you, Bryce?”
So there was this definite tension between my father and my grandfather,
but I think if Dad had dropped the subject right then, the vibe would’ve vanished.
Dad didn’t drop it, though. Instead, he said, “So why’s the girl the one who’s finally doing something about their place?”
My grandfather salted his potato very carefully, then looked across the table at me.
Ah-oh, I thought. Ah-oh. In a flash I knew those stupid eggs were not behind me.
Two years of sneaking them in the trash, two years of avoiding discussion of Juli and her eggs and her chickens
and her early-morning visits, and for what? Granddad knew, I could see it in his eyes.
In a matter of seconds he’d crack open the truth, and I’d be as good as fried.
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