“I’m holiday cheer, Bettie. Merry and bright.” Piercing green eyes fasten on mine as he wipes away one of my tears and offers a rueful smile. “Nobody saysholiday sassorholiday grouchiness. There’s especially no such thing asholiday revenge.”
“How wrong you are! You need to brush up on your Grinch trivia.”
He withdraws, expression clouding. His eyebrows slant down, lips pressing into a tight, white line. “The Grinch is everything I fight against. I can’t bring myself to finish any version of that film because he is such a personal affront to me.”
“Oh, wow. I really touched a nerve there.”
His face is scarlet. “The Grinch is to me what polka dots are to you.”
“I’ve never met anyone who hates the Grinch.”
“I don’t! I can’t possibly hate anything. But he’s terrible, Bettie. All the Whos wanted was to eat their roast beast and sing. They just wanted to celebrate. That’s all they wanted! I don’t understand why the cable network Freeform includes this insult to the holiday spirit in their Twenty-Five Days of Christmas lineup.”
“You’re absolutely right. He has no business being there.”
Hall either doesn’t notice my small grin, or he’s too relieved that I agree with him to care. He offers me his elbow again, still huffy. “No more talk of such revolting matters. Are you ready to go spend a week with your family? Remember, I’m right here with you. I won’t let them make you feel small.”
I loop my arm through his, touched by Hall’s firm solidarity. I’ve been envisioning our roles for this trip as Leader and Follower: I make the wishes and he grants them. But I can see now that this is a team project. Whatever happens, I’m not on my own. “Thank you.”
“Oh, right.” He snaps his fingers when we emerge from the trees so that six suitcases appear in the middle of the driveway. A horn honks, Athena’s sleek black car swerving angrily around them.
She leans out the driver’s-side window. “Do you mind?”
“No!” I yell back. I can’t wait to wow her within an inch of her life when she sees how excellent my life has become. She’ll feel so desperately inadequate.
Speaking of inadequacy. “Now, when we get inside here,” Imurmur, yanking down Hall’s collar so that I know he’s paying attention, “no fawning over my grandma, capisce?”
Hall’s brow furrows in torment. “But—”
“None,” I growl.
“What constitutes fawning?”
“No knitting her face onto your sweaters. She’d enjoy it too much. And don’t tell her you’ve seen all her movies, or she’ll beinsufferable. Don’t you dare tell her she looks the same age as her daughter, either. People do that all the time, and she loathes them for it. Even though she sometimes corners them into saying so.” I wave my hand. “She’s a wicked old witch. My point is—”
Offended on my grandmother’s behalf, he divests me of my suitcases and marches resolutely forward. I hope nobody is watching through the windows to see that a couple of the roller suitcases are rolling along of their own volition. “Don’t worry, Bettie, this’ll be great. You’re going to spend a lovely week with your family. You’re going to learn the true meaning of Christmas, which is different for every person, by the way.Andyou’re going to replenish your holiday spirit. That’s the reason I’m here.”
“The reason you’re here is to make me look spectacular. But don’t do anything magical in front of other people without my go-ahead. They’ll either have a heart attack and die or they’ll dissect your brain and sell it to scientists.”
Hall shudders. Which might also have something to do with the tombstones that Grandma has chosen as lawn ornaments. They’re foam props from movies and soap operas in which her characters were killed off, a souvenir tradition that began as “Ha ha, look at my gravestones, how delightfully macabre” but has since grown into commentary about what sort of roles are offeredto women, especially aging ones.Timemagazine did a two-page spread on Grandma (she was pictured holding a scythe) and all the fictional women buried in her yard.
We should have prepared more rigorously for this. Now that our charade is about to begin, I’m breaking out in a sweat. “Remember to be the perfect boyfriend. You have to make me look good, okay? Don’t go talking about your exes.”
“That’s an easy one, as I don’t have any exes. I’ve never been a boyfriend before. To build a Perfect Boyfriend Profile, I can reference the Fifty Best Romances of All Time as listed onjust a movie lovin chick dot com.” He begins ticking them off on his fingers.“Moonstruck. Love and Basketball. Moulin Rouge! The Photograph. Monsoon Wedding. The Princess Bride. Hope Floats. Slumdog Millionaire. To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.”Extra fingers begin sprouting from his hand.“Like Water for Chocolate. The Shape of Water.”
“Maybe not that one. I don’t want you acting like a fish in there.”
“If Beale Street Could Talk,” he goes on.“His Girl Friday.”
I soften involuntarily. “That’s my favorite.”
“Yeah?” He looks at me intently. Leans in an inch, and rumbles in a deep voice that would give Cary Grant a run for his money,“What did I treat you like, a water buffalo?”
A slow smile creeps across my face. “You’ve seen it.”
“I’ve seen them all. I love movies very, very much.”
“Me, too.”
