I check the time on my phone and hurry to my feet, barely avoiding hitting my head on the low ceiling. I promised Grams I’d come have lunch with her at noon to give her an update on the attic progress. With my trusty spreadsheet, she can tell me which items to donate and which ones should go in storage.
My body begs me to head to the retirement center in these beautifully breezy shorts, but my pride won’t allow it. I shower, pull my wet hair back into a bun, and put on a short-sleeve button-up and a different pair of slacks. I leave my heels off on the drive over for obvious reasons.
Grams is already seated at a table with Deedee and a fewothers when I arrive with my bag of takeout from the Beach Break Bar & Grill. I pull my food out of the bag and glance at the trays around me. Grams’s looks picked at but mostly untouched.
“Not hungry?” I ask.
She lets out an impatient sound and sits back with her arms crossed.
I look to Deedee.
“She’s upset they don’t serve alcohol,” she explains.
I raise a brow and look at Grams.
“I didn’t make it to this age to have people depriving me of all life’s comforts. Or to be treated like a child.”
I’ll never admit it aloud, but I might side with Seaside Oasis on this one. The last thing Grams needs is something to make her more uninhibited. The woman is firmly in the hibited category. If Seaside Oasisdidoffer drinks, I wouldn’t put it past Grams to drink them dry just to put a dent in their pocketbook. And while I would normally applaud the stick-it-to-the-man approach, I can’t get behind the methods this time.
“Okay,” I say, “so you’re mad about no alcohol, but what about your food? It looks perfectly fine.”
“How can I properly enjoy baked salmon without a gin basil smash to go with it? They call it an oasis, but an oasis without good drinks is just a mirage.”
“Real catchy, Grams, but you have to eat.” She’s always had a big appetite, but her frame is already thin and wiry. I don’t want her wasting away and floating off on the island breeze.
“Do I?” Her eyes challenge me through those thick, black rims, and that streak of pink in her hair is the middle finger.
“What’s your plan? Starve yourself to get back at them?” I give a scoffing laugh as I arrange my food. When there’s no response, my eyes flick to her, and my smile evaporates. “Oh my gosh. Thatisyour plan. You’re going on a hunger strike?”
“They used to have alcohol here. Isn’t that right, Deedee?”
Deedee nods, helping herself to a large portion of salmonand rice. Grams elbows her, and Deedee looks stricken before setting down her fork and chewing what she managed to get to before being rudely reminded of her duty as Grams’s best friend.
“Why shouldn’t I get the same benefits as others did?” Grams reasons. “You can bet your bottom dollar they didn’t lower the fees when they got rid of the alcohol.”
“You can’t starve yourself, Grams. And you certainly can’t starve Deedee. Here”—I take Grams’s fork and scoop some salmon onto it, raising it to her lips—“eat, and I’ll have a chat with management.”
“You think these people respond tochats, Gigi? They’re dictators.”
“Then why live here?”
“Someone has to stand up to them,” she says.
I suppress a sigh. Grams has always been…passionate…but I think her old age has amplified that. When combined with the massive chip she has on her shoulder against the Palmers, well, this could get interesting.
“What do you all think?” I ask the others nearby for some reasonable responses.
“I miss my margaritas,” Marge Wentworth says.
“And my beer,” a man adds, a nostalgic look in his eye.
Welp, that didn’t work as I’d hoped.
“Can you eat some ofmyfood?” I push it toward Grams, but she shakes her head. I want to put her in time out, but she’s a grown woman. Besides, she’ll get hungry enough by dinner. It’s like dieting—you do it for a meal or two, then you trauma-binge.
“How’s the attic?” Grams spreads her napkin and uses it to cover her tray like it’s a dead body ready to be taken to the morgue.
“A mess,” I say, diving into my food in the hopes it’ll convince her to reconsider her choice. Dabbing my mouth with a napkin, I pull my laptop out of my briefcase and open it.There’s no room for it, so I pick up Grams’s tray and move it far down the table, watching as her eyes follow it.
