Betty smiled. “That’s a much better word than difficult, I think.”
I looked around the room, at the canopy bed, her mother’s mother’s, if memory served correct. Granny’s housecoat hung over the edge. I walked over and lifted it up, her familiar floral perfume filling my nostrils, a flood of memories washing over my brain all at once. “Nah,” I said. “Granny would’ve liked difficult. Always preferred to call a spade a spade. Besides, I think she took some pride in her, well, her demeanor. Nobody, pardon my French, screwed with Granny.”
Betty’s laughter flew out from her pursed lips as if a dam had suddenly burst. “No, Trip. That’s for sure. Not and lived to tell about it.”
I nodded. She wasn’t speaking out of turn. Again, I looked around. All was as it had been the last time I was in the
