“What was she like?”
I try to imagine summing up my grandmother in an easy word or phrase. The idea is almost hysterical.
She was a firecracker. The best adventurer. The best homemade pie baker and the dirtiest joke teller I’ve ever met. It’s impossible to condense her life and all that she was into one statement.
“Well, she was a lot of things,” I say slowly. “She owned a bookstore and managed a bank. But then she got into real estate after her father died, and she inherited a lot of money.” I stand and stretch my arms over my head. “She bought houses and sold them. She had a huge rental portfolio. One day, she broke down on the outside of town, and a homeless man changed her tire. It changed something in her. Soon after, she started a charity in town called Shelters for Savannah and donated all of her rentals to the cause.”
“Wow.” Blaire’s eyes go wide. “You meant it when you called her a powerhouse.”
I nod. “She was generous and kind, but make no mistake about it, she wasn’t weak. And when anyone misjudged her, she made them regret it.”
I walk around the sofa to burn some energy that showed up out of nowhere. Blaire watches me but doesn’t move except to pull her legs up under her again.
“What was her name?” she asks.
“Annabelle Hickman. She was my mother’s mother.”
“This room is your ode to Annabelle.”
My heart tugs at the sound of her name. “It is, I guess.”
“May I ask what happened to her?”
“She went in for a routine surgery and died on the table. There was a heart problem that went undetected.” I grip the back of the sofa. “Her husband, my grandfather, died before I was born.”
Blaire grips the armrest. Her lips turn down. “I’m sure she’s very proud of you. You know that, right?”
I give her a shrug in lieu of words because the truth is, I hope she would be proud of me. She always said her grandchildren were her most important contributions to the world. I’d hate to think she’d be disappointed in the life I’ve chosen.
But I don’t say that.
Blaire seems to understand my need not to elaborate beyond the physical gesture.
She takes a long breath. “You still have your dad’s parents, right?”
“We have Gramps. Gramma passed away a few years ago.”
I walk around the sofa and sit down again.
The breeze kicks up and rocks the French doors back and forth. They somehow swing in time with the crackling of the fire.
“What about you?” I ask.
“I just have my nana.”
She shrugs as if it’s no big deal. I’d believe it, too, if there wasn’t a brief shot of pain in her beautiful blue eyes.
“You’ve told me a little about her,” I say. “She sounds like a powerhouse too.”
“Oh, most definitely. She had to be to put up with us like she has—especially Peck and Machlan. She’s practically raised them.”
“Who is Peck?”
“My cousin. His mother is a real gem,” she says in disgust. “But Nana raised Mach too because …” She takes a deep breath and holds it for a long couple of seconds before blowing it out. “Our parents died in a boating accident many years ago. Machlan was still a teenager.”
My heart breaks at the look on her face. Not because it’s sad, but because it’s trying really hard not to be.
I wonder if she’s always this buttoned up about it, or if she allows herself to display the pain she has to be feeling.Losing your parents?Shit. I don’t know how I’d survive. But I do know I’d be unable to hold it together like that.
