People always called Sorrell “Little Miss Red” for the calf-length cloak she wore outdoors. The hooded garment was made with wool her grandmother gave her, dyed a red rivaled only by the autumn leaves swirling around her feet.
Grandma was one of the few who lived out in the woods, her small cabin a reminder of a time when the town stretched up the river instead of clustering around the railroad tracks. If she looked hard enough, Sorrell could make out the bricks of an old chimney in the underbrush and the glint of smashed windows sparkling in the branches of the young pines.
So lost in thought was she, that she didn’t see the young man until he was directly in front of her. “Where are you going, Sorrell?” he tipped his hat to her.
“Just visiting Grandma,” she held up her basket of cookies. He stepped off the path, a gesture that was as unnecessary as it was deferential. Even after she passed him, she continued thinking about him. Caleb was his name. He was very polite and well-mannered, but his dark eyes gave him a hungry look, as if he would devour her. Distracted by her thoughts, she almost missed the overgrown rabbit-trail that led to Grandma’s front door.
Smoke drifted out of the cottage’s patchwork chimney and wildflowers grew in window planters. “Accogliente,” as her father would say. Sorrell repeated the word in English, “Cozy.” The path wound its way up to a freshly painted green door. Sorrell opened the door without knocking, sitting on the bench near the entryway to unlace her boots. “Grandma,” she padded into the kitchen in stocking feet, “Grandma?”
“In the bedroom,” a voice responded.
“Are you sick?” Sorrell placed her basket on the table and headed down the hall, “You sound . . . hoarse.” Grandma did not respond. Sorrell pushed open the bedroom door, her concern blossoming into flowers of worry at the scene in front of her. The lamps were unlit, curtains drawn, and Grandma lay tucked in her bed, covered up to the brim of her nightcap.
“Come closer, child,” Grandma rasped.
Sorrell waited for her vision to adjust to the dim light before she approached the bed. Pulling the covers down, she placed a hand on Granny’s forehead. The skin was much firmer than she expected, and the eyes that drank in her image were not Grandma’s; they were the eyes of a wolf. The wolf looked at her with a gaze so overwhelming, and yet so familiar, that she simultaneously thought it was, and simply could not be Caleb. Unaccustomed to seeing him attired in a woman’s nightgown, Sorrell said the first thing that came to her mind, “Grandma, what big, hungry eyes you have today.”
“The better to see you with, my dear,” Caleb sat up, the nightcap sliding off his dark curls.
“Grandma, what big ears you have,” Sorrell teased, wanting to see how long he would continue the farce.
“The better to hear you with, my dear,” he grabbed her as he spoke, pulling her into bed with him.
“Grandma,” Sorrell touched her index finger to his mouth, “what soft lips you have.”
“The better to kiss you with, my dear,” Caleb kissed her lightly, almost experimentally. Somewhere in the house, a door opened, and he paused.
“Mrs. Rossi? It’s Fred, the handyman,” a voice called out. There was a thud as Fred shut the front door, “Oh, and it looks like Little Miss Red is here too.”
There was the tread of boots in the hall, then a lit lamp was raised, blinding the two in Grandma’s bed.
“I can’t believe you, Caleb Pio. Just wait ‘til I tell your mother. You’re not too old to be bent across her knee,” Grandma shook her head, her cheeks red with indignation.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Rossi,” Caleb stared at the floorboards, “I shouldn’t have locked you in the root cellar.”
“Well, that’s half of an apology,” she folded her arms across her chest.
“Sorry for . . . wearing your nightgown?” Caleb tried. Granny shook her head. “For sleeping in your bed?” he tried again. Another head shake. “For kissing . . .” Sorrell joined in the head shaking, adding hand movements for emphasis.
“For what?” Grandma stopped shaking her head.
“To tell the truth, Mrs. Rossi, I fancy your Granddaughter and tried to kiss her,” Caleb took a deep breath and held it, like he was plunging into water.
Fred chuckled and Granny shot him a sour look. “Sorry Mrs. Rossi,” the handyman picked up his axe, “It just reminds me of when I was young.” Fred stood, “Best be off to chop your firewood.”
After he left the room, Grandma turned to Sorrell, “And you, didn’t you wonder where I was?”
“I-I did,” Sorrell could feel her ears heat up, “I was looking for you.” It wasn’t entirely untrue, she had just been slightly distracted from her search for a few moments. A few moments where her lips had brushed against Caleb’s, and few moments of a kiss more delicious than a summer-ripe strawberry.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
I've been sick again, so yet again, blogging has been taking second place to sleeping.
But it's Valentine's Day this week and the perfect time to trot out this piece of romantic nonsense I wrote awhile ago. My biggest problem with Valentine's Day is what is done to perfectly innocent chocolate every year for the sake of this holiday. Everyone knows that the only thing that belongs in chocolate is peanut butter. Not liqueur. Not white creamy weirdness. And definitely NOT cherries.
But I digress.
I've been mostly working on writing my serial murder mystery, Murder in the Ferns. So, hint hint. Check it out. There's a link on the side bar. Or, if you're super lazy, you can click here.
Grandma was one of the few who lived out in the woods, her small cabin a reminder of a time when the town stretched up the river instead of clustering around the railroad tracks. If she looked hard enough, Sorrell could make out the bricks of an old chimney in the underbrush and the glint of smashed windows sparkling in the branches of the young pines.
So lost in thought was she, that she didn’t see the young man until he was directly in front of her. “Where are you going, Sorrell?” he tipped his hat to her.
“Just visiting Grandma,” she held up her basket of cookies. He stepped off the path, a gesture that was as unnecessary as it was deferential. Even after she passed him, she continued thinking about him. Caleb was his name. He was very polite and well-mannered, but his dark eyes gave him a hungry look, as if he would devour her. Distracted by her thoughts, she almost missed the overgrown rabbit-trail that led to Grandma’s front door.
Smoke drifted out of the cottage’s patchwork chimney and wildflowers grew in window planters. “Accogliente,” as her father would say. Sorrell repeated the word in English, “Cozy.” The path wound its way up to a freshly painted green door. Sorrell opened the door without knocking, sitting on the bench near the entryway to unlace her boots. “Grandma,” she padded into the kitchen in stocking feet, “Grandma?”
“In the bedroom,” a voice responded.
“Are you sick?” Sorrell placed her basket on the table and headed down the hall, “You sound . . . hoarse.” Grandma did not respond. Sorrell pushed open the bedroom door, her concern blossoming into flowers of worry at the scene in front of her. The lamps were unlit, curtains drawn, and Grandma lay tucked in her bed, covered up to the brim of her nightcap.
“Come closer, child,” Grandma rasped.
Sorrell waited for her vision to adjust to the dim light before she approached the bed. Pulling the covers down, she placed a hand on Granny’s forehead. The skin was much firmer than she expected, and the eyes that drank in her image were not Grandma’s; they were the eyes of a wolf. The wolf looked at her with a gaze so overwhelming, and yet so familiar, that she simultaneously thought it was, and simply could not be Caleb. Unaccustomed to seeing him attired in a woman’s nightgown, Sorrell said the first thing that came to her mind, “Grandma, what big, hungry eyes you have today.”
“The better to see you with, my dear,” Caleb sat up, the nightcap sliding off his dark curls.
“Grandma, what big ears you have,” Sorrell teased, wanting to see how long he would continue the farce.
“The better to hear you with, my dear,” he grabbed her as he spoke, pulling her into bed with him.
“Grandma,” Sorrell touched her index finger to his mouth, “what soft lips you have.”
“The better to kiss you with, my dear,” Caleb kissed her lightly, almost experimentally. Somewhere in the house, a door opened, and he paused.
“Mrs. Rossi? It’s Fred, the handyman,” a voice called out. There was a thud as Fred shut the front door, “Oh, and it looks like Little Miss Red is here too.”
There was the tread of boots in the hall, then a lit lamp was raised, blinding the two in Grandma’s bed.
•••••••••••••••••••
“I can’t believe you, Caleb Pio. Just wait ‘til I tell your mother. You’re not too old to be bent across her knee,” Grandma shook her head, her cheeks red with indignation.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Rossi,” Caleb stared at the floorboards, “I shouldn’t have locked you in the root cellar.”
“Well, that’s half of an apology,” she folded her arms across her chest.
“Sorry for . . . wearing your nightgown?” Caleb tried. Granny shook her head. “For sleeping in your bed?” he tried again. Another head shake. “For kissing . . .” Sorrell joined in the head shaking, adding hand movements for emphasis.
“For what?” Grandma stopped shaking her head.
“To tell the truth, Mrs. Rossi, I fancy your Granddaughter and tried to kiss her,” Caleb took a deep breath and held it, like he was plunging into water.
Fred chuckled and Granny shot him a sour look. “Sorry Mrs. Rossi,” the handyman picked up his axe, “It just reminds me of when I was young.” Fred stood, “Best be off to chop your firewood.”
After he left the room, Grandma turned to Sorrell, “And you, didn’t you wonder where I was?”
“I-I did,” Sorrell could feel her ears heat up, “I was looking for you.” It wasn’t entirely untrue, she had just been slightly distracted from her search for a few moments. A few moments where her lips had brushed against Caleb’s, and few moments of a kiss more delicious than a summer-ripe strawberry.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
I've been sick again, so yet again, blogging has been taking second place to sleeping.
But it's Valentine's Day this week and the perfect time to trot out this piece of romantic nonsense I wrote awhile ago. My biggest problem with Valentine's Day is what is done to perfectly innocent chocolate every year for the sake of this holiday. Everyone knows that the only thing that belongs in chocolate is peanut butter. Not liqueur. Not white creamy weirdness. And definitely NOT cherries.
But I digress.
I've been mostly working on writing my serial murder mystery, Murder in the Ferns. So, hint hint. Check it out. There's a link on the side bar. Or, if you're super lazy, you can click here.