Calamity Jayne Heads West Read Free Page A

a thing, Gram,” I assured her. “You’ve got a lovely figure for a woman of your . . . er, stature,” I finished. “Just lovely.”
    Osteoporosis had robbed my gammy of several inches, and her brittle bones had snapped at the wrist and ankle in the past. She’d moved in with my folks several years ago after the fall, but had improved though weight training and calcium supplements. It was then she’d decided she’d done her time under the watchful eye of my mother and moved back to her home—the double-wide trailer she’d given to me. It was right around Halloween. I know. Scary.
    “Besides,” I added. “Remember what you said about Helene Dixon when she had breast surgery? You said if she tried to run, she’d blacken her own eyes.”
    “The ol’ fool. She oughta known better,” Gram mut-tered, rebuttoning her blouse while I took a deep breath of relief.
    I continued surveying my clothing. Shorts and tank tops for the cruise were no problem. It was the wed-ding and related functions, and pool-side apparel that had me stymied.
    “Maybe Taylor has something you could borrow,” Gram suggested, not for the first time. I had the unla-dylike uncouthness to snort.
    “Taylor the twig?” I said. “Yeah. Right. I might be able to get one-half of one leg in a pair of her slacks—and I’d have to grease up with petroleum jelly to standa fighting chance,” I told her. “And you know our taste in clothes is worlds apart.” Sadly, as my sister and I of-ten were ourselves.
    Two years younger than me, Taylor looks kind of like a younger version of Catherine Zeta Jones. On the dean’s list at the University of Iowa for two years study-ing psychology, she up and quit at the end of her sec-ond year. Now she works at my Uncle Frank’s Dairee Freeze and lives at home while she decides for sure what direction she wants to take with her life. Okay, okay. I know that sounds an awful lot like a personal history I’d be up close and personal with, but I swear to you Taylor and I are nothing alike. The gulf in our relationship is like a little chasm you might know as the Grand Canyon.
    “I wish I could figger out why you and your sister don’t get along,” my gramma said with a disgusted look at me. Or maybe it was at my closet. “Why, my sis-ter was my best friend when we were girls. Still is,” she added.
    This one got my attention. Growing up, my grandma and her older sister’s bickering had made for some in-teresting family reunions.
    “What about the time when you were ten and Great Aunt Eunice chased you around the town square with a pair of pinking shears trying to give you a haircut?” I said. “And there was that time she said you took after her with a ball bat.” At Gram’s expression I added, “It was a plastic wiffleball bat like you said, right?”
    “Schoolgirl high jinks,” Gram said, turning her back on my closet, apparently coming to the conclusion that my wardrobe was a lost cause. Like I hadn’t warned her.
    “What about the time you got into a deviled egg fight at the church potluck?” I asked.
    “More youthful shenanigans,” she said.
    “It was last spring.”
    “Eunice knows I’ve got her back,” Gram said. “Any time she needs me, all she has to do is pick up the phone and call. You know. Like that song says.”
    “Which song?” I asked.
    “That one about a bridge over water,” she said, heading toward the door and the way she’d come in.
    “I thought that song was about drugs,” I said.
    “Exactly.” Gram shuffled out of the room.
    I shook my head.
    Go west, young woman! Go west!
    I wondered if I could exchange my airline ticket for a less dangerous destination. You know, like the Bermuda Triangle.

CHAPTER TWO
    An hour later I’d given up on packing for the mo-ment, showered and headed to the newspaper office to finish up a few things before I left for my very first vacation in way too long. I parked my ol’ not-so-reliable Reliant in the small lot behind the