“I feel like this deserves a toast,” Greg says.
“Hear hear!” Christine chimes in, linking her arm through mine as he tops us all off, and the three of us raise our Dixie cups aloft.
“To popping balloons,” Christine says, her eyes shining at me.
I squeeze her arm and tap my cup to theirs. “To popping balloons.”
Chapter 19
What’s the difference between a twenty-eight-year-old single woman and a ninety-year-old widow?
About three weeks.
It’s the joke I crack to anyone who asks how I’m faring at Gran’s, and while my tongue may be firmly planted in cheek, there’s more truth to it than I’d prefer to admit. I’ve only been living with her for a few weeks and I’ve basically turned into an old biddy.
Don’t get me wrong—Gran is an excellent roommate. Top-notch, really. She’s quiet, goes to bed early, doesn’t smoke or steal my clothes. She’s an excellent TV binge buddy. She’s also the least demanding landlord I’ve ever had, since, you know, I’m not paying rent. What’s not to love?
But in the span of just a few short weeks, I’ve noticed some alarming personality changes. I make comments like “It’s getting late” around six p.m. I’ve started craving the disgusting Lipton iced tea packets she stirs into everything. Complaining about the cold dominates an increasing number of my adult conversations. I catch myself wearing house slippers to shuffle out to the mailbox. Oh, and let’s not forget I’m now a cat lady.
Our nonstop togetherness does result in some amusing diversions, though. Once I filled her in on all the retro-inspired pranks I pulled on Jack—and as punishment for not including her in the con to begin with—she devises a fifties-style boot camp and puts me through my paces. She teaches me how to make a proper old-fashioned, down to expressing the orange peel. She back-combs my hair to new heights and makes me sport a bouffant to Sunday Mass. She barks at me like a drill sergeant until I can flawlessly re-create winged eyeliner. We watch more of those Old Hollywood movies and she schools me on celebrity scandals of the golden age until I could write a dissertation on Elizabeth Taylor’s tumultuous love life. We laugh ourselves silly trying to mimic the Transatlantic accent and rapid-fire speaking style used by rom-com power couple Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. We raid her closet, which is so chock-full of vintage gems that I can’t believe Nat and I wasted our time treasure-hunting through the city instead of coming straight to the source. Some pieces are so breathtaking I can hardly bring myself to touch them, but Gran insists I model each one while she regales me with glamorous tales of where, when, and with whom she wore them.
It’s a gift, I realize, to be her caretaker, to be living inside this pocket of time with her. Behind every article of clothing, piece of jewelry, faded photograph, and antique knickknack is a story, a memory, a priceless piece of family lore I’d never know otherwise. And as positive as her prognosis is, her stroke’s served as a grim reminder that once Gran is gone, she’s gone—and she’ll take all her memories with her.
Which is why I’m shamelessly mining those memories for my book.
“Okay, so.” I reposition myself on Gran’s bed, crisscrossing my legs beneath me and settling my computer on my lap. She’s propped up against the pillows, Pyewacket dozing in a puffy ball between us, tail occasionally flicking my way as if to remind me who’s really in charge here. “I’m trying to show how my heroine is transforming. She’s grudgingly adapting to her new world and starting to see both the culture and our hero in a new light, but I don’t want her to lose herself in the process. I need to show her personal growth—while keeping her likable, of course.”
Gran quirks a brow.
“Romance readers are much more judgmental about the heroine than the hero,” I explain. “Basically, they’ll excuse any bad behavior from him, but not from her. So she’s allowed to have flaws, but they can’t be too egregious. She can be strong and independent, but not too opinionated, or readers will say she’s obnoxious and unlikable. It’s a whole thing, don’t even get me started.”
“So you’re saying she should be smart and capable, but in a nonthreatening way? Huh. Never heard that one before.” We share a knowing eye roll.
“I guess I just don’t want it to come across like she’s sacrificing her true self for him, you know?” I say, twisting my hair up into a messy bun and sticking a pen through it. “I want the reader to root for her.”
She nods, pondering that as she pets a softly purring Pyewacket. “I think you’re still looking at this the wrong way, like anything you do for a man means you’re losing part of yourself. A big part of relationships is sacrifice, of course, but it doesn’t have to diminish you. For example . . .”
I nod eagerly, fingers poised and ready atop my keyboard, and she smirks.
“For example, I used to touch up my makeup before your grandpa got home from work. I didn’t do it because I was afraid for him to see me without it, or because I thought he wanted me to look a certain way. I did it because I wanted him to know he was the worth the effort.” Her eyes soften, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. “And I didn’t view making him dinner as an imposition or an expectation; I did it because I wanted him to be excited to come home to me at night. I wanted him to feel as taken care of as he always made me feel.”
As she recounts the memories, she gets a dreamy, far-off look in her eyes, some color returning to her cheeks. “He did things for me, too, of course. He made me coffee every morning. He always let me pick the movie. He even read the books I liked so we could talk about them. If I wanted to leave a party, he’d make himself out to be the antisocial one, or invent some embarrassing story, like he had the runs.” She chuckles to herself, absentmindedly fingering the wedding ring she’s never taken off. “Every Saturday morning, he would run some errand with the boys—getting the car washed, going to the hardware store, whatever—just to give me some quiet time by myself. And they’d always come home with flowers.”
Just watching her reminisce, seeing the joy the memories still bring her, is enough to make my eyes well up. Aw hell, not again. I set my computer aside, leaning over to grab a tissue from the box on her nightstand.
“Oh sweetie, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you,” she says, worry bracketing her eyes. I think my parents must have called some secret family meeting about me, because I’ve started to recognize everyone’s identical looks of concern, their unflagging commitment to cheerfulness in my presence. And I get it, I suppose—I’ve been so weepy these past few weeks, I feel permanently waterlogged. I’m a blubbering Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give, only instead of looking out on a stunning Hamptons shoreline, I’m squatting in Gran’s guest bedroom.
“You just lived such an incredible love story,” I say, swiping at my tears. “I feel so far from that.”
She clucks her tongue in dissent. “I don’t think it’s as far away as you think it is.”
I groan through my sniffling. “Oh, come on.”