Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.” I put my hand over his. “Just let me crush you at one game of Scrabble, and then we can go.”
Mr. Gowan was thrilled to see Pierce. His eyes lit up and welled. “Well, I never—hello.”
“Hi, Mr. G,” I said, patting his shoulder. “I told you I’d stop by today, remember?”
“Yes, but it’s especially nice to see you. I’ve had one of those days.” He sat forward and dug his cane into the Persian rug as he attempted to stand to greet us.
“No, no, don’t get up.” Pierce bowed to shake the older man’s hand, carefully stepping around the oxygen tank beside his wheelchair. “I can’t stay long, but Lo mentioned he was coming to visit you and I…just wanted to see how you were doing.”
Enid let out a happy squeal and insisted on making tea. She served it on the game table by the window with a plate of homemade cookies, gave strict instructions to call her if needed, and retired into the kitchen.
We inquired after Mr. Gowan’s health, commiserating over his sudden albeit short hospital stay while sipping tea and nibbling cookies like obnoxiously polite acquaintances. Mr. G hadn’t called me dah-ling once, I hadn’t shared a single tidbit of store gossip, and Pierce was sitting so tall in his chair he looked like he had a stick up his ass.
When I thought I might OD on civility and deferential cordiality, I pushed my cup aside and hopped to my feet. “Where’s your Scrabble board?”
Twenty minutes later, Pierce and I pushed our teas aside and uncorked a bottle of Pinot at Mr. G’s insistence. We were in the midst of a three-way heated battle, liberally tossing F-bombs over the tile board, grumbling over too many vowels or too many consonants. Alcohol was required.
I sipped my wine as I studied the board. The best strategy was to utilize the double-and-triple letter and word slots. The player who drew letters worth more points and used them wisely usually did very well. I used to play all the time with my grandmother, and I played Words with Friends occasionally with Bran, so I considered myself a worthy opponent to someone like Mr. G, who’d been a Scrabble guru for decades.
Pierce, on the other hand…
“What the fuck kind of word is ‘quo’? No one walks around saying quo,” he argued, growling at the board.
“Status quo?” I counted my points, raking my bottom lip between my teeth. “Let’s see…that’s ten for the Q, one for U and O, times three. Thirty-six.”
“Well done, dah-ling,” Mr. G said, sliding his tiles into place with shaky fingers. “Twenty points for me.”
“Double letter. Nice job.”
Pierce slumped dramatically in his seat and sprang up like a jack-in-the-box a moment later. “What is cinq?”
“It means five,” Mr. G and I replied in unison.
“In French. Not in English. What version of this game are you two playing?”
I fixed him with a patient look. “No sour grapes. It’s poor form to pout when you’re losing.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not pouting. I don’t pout. I’m asking a legit question. Cinq isn’t a Scrabble word. I call foul.”
“Look it up, doll.” Mr. Gowan tapped Pierce’s cell lying between them on the table. “Go on.”
“Fine, I will.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Mr. G and I shared looks that morphed into matching megawatt grins.
This was…fun. Our polite repartee had devolved as we played. Pierce dazzled us with words like ledger and raven, only to be disappointed when he only earned the minimal amount of points. We explained, he fumed, we joked, and he retaliated with the word dildo. Mr. G almost spit his tea out.
The old man’s laughter sounded brittle and wheezy, but thankfully, didn’t result in a coughing jag. However, it did break the ice.
We weren’t overly polite now. We weren’t walking on eggshells, hoping to avoid trigger subjects. For the first time since they’d met, Mr. G and Pierce seemed completely at ease with each other.
It was so…nice.
I won the first game, Mr. G won the second, and yeah, Pierce came in last both times.
“Game three?” I asked, cocking my head.
“Not tonight. I need to study the dictionary before I play with you two sharks again,” he huffed, topping off our wine glasses.
“Oh, we should play for money next time,” I enthused.
Mr. Gowan nodded. “That’s a fabulous idea. Low stakes, of course. Nothing to break the bank. David and I used to do that with gin rummy. We’d each put ten dollars in the pot and add a dollar per point or—no, that can’t be right. That would be far too much money.”
I dumped our letters into the pouch and put the board away, sneaking a sideways glance at the older man. “Did you play games a lot?”
“Every night. We’d sit right here.” He thumped the table and gazed out the window into the dark. “I’ve redecorated many rooms in this house over the years, erasing colors, textures, and smells that made me melancholy. This room used to have blue-and-white striped wallpaper, thick navy curtains, and nautical-themed treasures—flags, antique compasses, seashells—that sort of thing. In the spring, the hydrangeas would bloom in a riot of pink. It was a lovely contrast. We commented on it often while sitting at this very game table. But this was the only thing I kept. In this room anyway. Memories are…a funny thing.”