Evelyn smiled, despite herself. “Touché.”
He sat up and then stood and dusted off his pants. “Well, friend, I’ll let you finish your letter. What do you say to grabbing a cup of coffee one day?”
“I say I’m already in enough trouble and don’t need more.”
“Hah. I don’t need any either. Suppose I’ll see you around, then.”
“I suppose so. Goodbye, Fred.”
He tipped an imaginary hat at her. “Evelyn.” And he walked away. She wasn’t watching when he turned to glance back at her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
My grandmother’s face lit up when I showed her the photograph. “Wherever did you get this?” I told her the story of finding it in Lina’s shop. “Well, that explains a lot. Lipe must have been in love with me first.”
I rolled my eyes. “How did you get that from a picture?”
“You don’t take—or keep—a picture like that of someone you don’t like. It explains why he didn’t seem to want me and Tony to be together.”
Or he figured out you weren’t going to be able to stay together, I thought. “What happened to him?”
“It was a terrible tragedy. There was a fire on a cargo ship, and twenty or so men went out to try to rescue the crew. Lipe and three others didn’t come back. Joe’s mother was only two.” She shook her head. “What else did you do with Joe today?”
I told her about the fried clams, and my grandmother closed her eyes, savoring the taste of the memory. “Brewster’s alone is worth the trip.”
“Mom said it made her want to get in the car and come up.”
“She’s not invited.” She reached across the kitchen table and put a gnarled hand on top of mine. “This is our trip.”
I found myself smiling. It felt good to be wanted instead of being the prodigal daughter, returned home after her failure of a marriage to live off her parents while trying to build up the courage to return to the world.
I also realized I desperately wanted to know more about this place. When I was little, she’d told me stories about growing up in Hereford, but they were all anecdotes about her ridiculous family, and I often confused them with my mother’s battered copies of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and the All-of-a-Kind Family books, as well as the movie Avalon. Now, her tales were so blurry with age that I couldn’t remember which were real and which I had seen elsewhere.
“What happened to the cottage?” I asked.
“I told you. That woman sold it.”
“But why didn’t the rest of you buy it?”
She sighed. “She sold it without telling me. And Bernie and Margaret . . .” She trailed off.
“Bernie and Margaret?”
She clapped her hands once. “They’re gone now. Leave them be.” After rising with an effort, she made her way to the kitchen cabinets, which she began opening and closing, one by one.
I came to help her. “What are you looking for?”
“This.” She pulled a vodka bottle from a cabinet and waved it triumphantly.
I tried to take it from her, but she had an impressively strong grip on the bottle. “Mom said you’re not allowed to drink.”
Her eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. “Your mother,” she said icily, “isn’t here and doesn’t get to tell me what to do.”
“But your medications—your heart—”
“My heart is fine, and I haven’t died yet, have I?” She took two glasses down and poured a healthy splash of vodka into each one, then went to the refrigerator, where she pulled out the orange juice. “And if you’re going to be all nosy, you’d best have a drink with me while you do it.”
I tried to stay firm, but she thrust one of the glasses into my hand, then made her way to the front porch, leaving me little choice but to follow.
She was unusually quiet as she sipped her cocktail.
“Grandma?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Are you okay?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I—we didn’t come up here for you to die or something, did we?”
She laughed. “Where did you get such a morbid streak?” She took another drink. “No, darling, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. And even when I do, don’t you think I’m ever leaving you. I’m going to be that little devil sitting on your shoulder telling you to get into more trouble. You always worried too much about what other people thought to have any fun. That’s one of your problems.”