She'd said ditto because that was the mannerly thing to say. But did she actually miss him? In the type of way that deducted enjoyment from her day? No. Dating long distance got a bad rap, but to her surprise she'd found she liked it.
She lowered in the tub, warm water lapping her collarbones.
She'd met Chaz at a perfume convention. They'd struck up a friendship that they'd continued through texts and phone calls. After three months of that, he'd asked if he could come for a visit to see if there was the potential for more between them. She'd said sure.
During that visit five months ago, she'd felt just enough chemistry with Chaz to move him out of the friend zone into the boyfriend zone. Her attraction to him buzzed along at a pleasant level. It wasn't so overpowering that it scrambled her brain, which was nice. She could relax around Chaz. She could think. Plus, he lived in New York, which meant she always had things on her calendar—her getaways there, his trips here—to look forward to.
Together, she and Chaz had admired the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Visited every floor of Macy’s two-million-square-foot flagship store. Sampled the places that claimed the city's best bagels and pizza. Bought discounted tickets for Broadway shows just hours before curtain time.
When Chaz came to Maine, they hiked. Packed picnics. Went out on her rowboat. Shared meals at expensive restaurants that she never ate at except when he was picking up the tab.
The dynamic between them was simple and relaxed. Simple and relaxed was all she had the mental capacity to deal with. In her dating life, anythingotherthan light felt too hard.
When she and Chaz were apart, her thoughts were free to focus on her perfumes, her business, and the welfare of her family. Truthfully, she preferred to focus on those things. So her relationship with Chaz gave her the best of both worlds. A boyfriendandthe autonomy to concentrate on her priorities.
The soapy water unloosened stress deep inside her and she closed her eyes in order to better concentrate on the sensations.
Her phone pinged a few more times but she was too relaxed now to check it. Besides, her thoughts were already tugging back toward Jude Camden.
Jude would never have stripped off his shirt at the gym, not even for a quick selfie, if it meant violating a rule.
* * *
When Gemma entered her great-grandmother's room two days later, three generations of redheaded female relatives greeted her with, “Gemma!” in unison.
“Everyone!”
Today was her great-grandma Gracie's one hundred and second birthday. Thus, Gemma hugged Gracie first. Nowadays, Gracie secured her hair in a loose bun on top of her head that was almost entirely silver, with just a hint of soft red to it. Gracie's embrace smelled of rose body powder and felt like soft, pillowy skin.
After Gracie, the DNA pendulum had swung toward brash with Gracie's daughter Colette. Colette's hug smelled like grass clippings and felt like sinew. At seventy-five, she still made her living playing poker. She had short, puffy hair tinted a peach color never naturally found on a human head. She was a straight-talking, hard-drinking woman with a heart of gold who'd been serving as her husband's caregiver for a decade.
The DNA pendulum had swung toward timidity with Colette's daughter Simone, Gemma's mother. Mom had always been gentle and uncertain. Following Dad's arrest, she'd plunged into a season of such extreme stress and heartache that she'd suffered a stroke.
Simone had been just forty-eight at the time, which hadn't stopped the stroke from doing vicious damage. Gemma had spent several days in her mother's hospital room, terrified that she was about to lose both parents in one brutal chapter. Her father to prison, her mother to the stroke. Had that happened, she'd have been the only one left to parent her younger brothers.
God had brought Mom through, but she'd required language, physical, and occupational therapy for years. She'd eventually resumed her job as a secretary at Bayview's Visitor's Bureau. But, to this day, she had difficulty concentrating, spoke slowly, walked with a cane, and tired easily. She didn't pay much attention to her left side and so sometimes bumped into walls or failed to see obstacles in her path.
Mom's hug smelled like pears and felt like slender limbs. She'd styled her reddish-auburn hair into bangs, then blow-dried the rest straight to her shoulders.
After Mom, the DNA pendulum had come to rest right back where it had started with Gemma, who was basically a clone, she’d been told, of what Gracie's personality had been in Gracie's younger years.
“Let's head out!” Colette boomed. “I'm ready for birthday brunch.”
The older ladies positioned their purse straps over their arms. Then Gemma assisted Gracie and Colette assisted Simone as they made their way toward the exit of Marigold Manor, Gracie's long-term-care facility.
Gemma's transportation was a Vespa, so whenever they rode together, they piled into Colette's car and Gemma served as their de facto chauffeur. Gracie had flunked her bid to renew her license back in 2012, Colette drove too fast for the others' taste, and Simone drove too fearfully for the others' taste.
Gemma was perfectly comfortable behind the wheel. It was her pride, not her nerves, that took a hit when they went places as a group because Colette's car was an embarrassment on wheels. Grandma Colette had allowed a local company to wrap her ten-year-old Ford Fusion in advertising in exchange for seventy-five bucks a month. Both sides were emblazoned with images of a juicy orange cut in half, a Vodka bottle, and a cocktail-in-a-can named Orange Thunder. The slogan urged customers to, “Get your citrusy buzz on!”
Yes, they'd ended their slogan with a preposition. Hard to say what was worse, that or the giant, cartoonish images.
Once they'd helped Gracie and Colette into the car, Gemma steered Orange Thunder to a historic church that had been converted into a restaurant named Faith Foods. Here, they served breakfast until two in the afternoon five days a week. The pews and stage were gone. In their place stood tables covered in white butcher paper and bouquets of fresh flowers.
A teenage hostess greeted them with, “Welcome to our congregation of food!” and showed them to their table. “Are you all related?” she asked when they were seated.
They smiled en masse and Gemma sensed their shared pleasure. Redheads of four generations caused a stir wherever they went, and they all relished the attention. There were variations between them—Colette proudly the heaviest and Simone proudly the thinnest—but they did resemble one another.
“You betcha,” Colette answered. “This is my mom, daughter, granddaughter.” She pointed them out.
