He owned the bakery down the street from Timeless Threads and would bring Grams fresh pastries every morning. On the first Friday of every month, he’d take her into the city to see the latest exhibition at the gallery his grandson owns.
I’m convinced one of the reasons Grams came here was to be closer to him. A month after he moved in, she started talking about needing a change of scenery and being around more people her age.
Florence rolls her eyes. “Hell if I know. Those two are on and off more than a faulty light switch. They’re as bad as Earl and Ethel, just two decades older.” She shifts in her chair, easing the pressure off her bad hip. “It’s a good thing Willis’s room is down the hall, so I’m spared the sound effects of their reconciliation after a particularly heated argument.”
“You wouldn’t be able to hear them with your hearing aids off anyway,” I quip.
She gives me a playful smack. “That smart mouth of yours is going to land you in big trouble one of these days, missy.”
I stifle a humorless laugh. It’s a little too late for that—on more than one count. If sparring with Heath hadn’t been so addictive, I wouldn’t have been tempted to let my attraction to him take root, which led us to falling into bed together, and subsequently, to a baby on the way.
“Should have known I’d find you two huddled up, no doubt gossiping about some scandal or another.”
I glance up to see Grams approaching, her cane clicking on the hardwood floors.
She’s nearly eighty-five, but you’d never guess it. Her strawberry-blond hair falls in chin-length curls, and she’s wearing a floral midi-dress cinched at the waist, paired with a classic gold watch.
“Who, us?” I motion with my hand between Florence and me. “Never.”
Grams levels me with a pointed look. “So that pearl earring on Florence’s ear is just a generous gift with no strings attached?”
“Naturally,” I beam. “We’re tight like that, aren’t we, old bat?”
Florence pats my cheek. “Bless your delusional heart.”
“Come on, dear,” Grams says, taking my hand. “The chair yoga class just ended, and Florence can’t miss her front-row seat to watch the ladies fight over where the old geezers will sit on their way to dinner. At least one set of dentures alwaysaccidentallyends up in the trash.”
“This place is better than my soap operas—cheating husbands, love triangles being dismantled over soggy tuna casserole, and someone getting whisked away to the hospitalafter taking too much Viagra,” Florence exclaims as she clips the second earring to her other ear.
“Enjoy the show,” I say, standing and waving goodbye. “See you next time.”
She smirks. “Only if you show up with more than your snarky attitude.”
As the residents begin lining up outside the dining area, Grams links her arm through mine, and we stroll down the hall, away from the crowd.
When I visit, she prefers to eat in her room, so we’re not interrupted by the usual stream of distractions and unsolicited advice from people I barely know.
She glances over at me, concern flickering in her eyes. “Are you feeling all right, dear?”
I give her hand a squeeze. “I’m good. Just a little tired.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Her fingers tighten around mine. “I had a spot by the window facing the front entrance during yoga class, and I spotted you sitting on a bench for over fifteen minutes before you came in. You were checking your phone every few minutes, and we both know what that means.”
“It was only a slight drop in my blood sugar,” I rush to explain. “I had some applesauce and waited for it to level out. I’m fine, I promise.”
It’s a good thing she’s never been interested in getting a cell phone, or she’d obsessively track my numbers in real time. It was bad enough when she reviewed my written log when I was younger and fixated on every minor change she thought might be problematic.
She already has enough to deal with between her high blood pressure and arthritis. My diabetes shouldn’t be another thing she has to worry about.
Grams stops mid-stride, forcing another resident to sidestep around us to pass. “Charlie, is there something you aren’t telling me?”
She’s always been able to read me like a book, and as much as I want to tell her the truth, I can’t—not yet. If she found out I was pregnant and thinking about doing this alone, she’d move back in with me in a heartbeat, and I can’t let her do that. Not just because of her health but because she’s finally living for herself again, and I refuse to take that away from her.
I mask my apprehension with a practiced smile. “I’ve just been thinking about how amazing you are. You raised my mom alone, then turned around and raised me too, and somehow made it look easy.”