Fifteen minutes later, Lila deputizes me for kitchen duty. At her insistence, I wear a white apron decorated with bumblebees while I mix sugar, vanilla, eggs, and melted butter.
“So, Banks,” she starts, her tone casual yet probing, “tell meabout this bodyguarding gig of yours. How does a young man like you end up doing something like that?”
Translation: Why do you want to protect others?
Because I couldn’t protect my mother from my liar of a father. While he never hit her, he manipulated her in other ways. He lied about everything. The least I can do is be the opposite of him.
Protect rather than deceive.
But that’s not the kind of story I share with everyone I meet. “I spent the last few years in private security, including cyber. Saw the market expanding and took a chance. Now this is a whole new level, running my own firm with my good friend, who’s my business partner.”
She nods thoughtfully, a mischievous spark in her eyes as she folds the flour, baking powder, and salt mixture carefully into the batter. “And how do you plan on keeping my granddaughter safe? Do you have any special skills up your sleeve?”
Unable to resist her charm, I smile. “I spent eight years in the Marines. First in MARSOC,” I say, and when she, understandably, tilts her head in question, I add, “Special forces for the Marines.”
“Like SEALs?”
I smile. “Well, we’re both Navy, but we’re Raiders. Which is cooler.”
“I don’t know. Seals are pretty cute,” she says with a smirk. “The animal, not the special forces guys…although, now that I think about it, they’re cute too.”
“My point exactly,” I say, then add, “and the last few years, I spent in intelligence.”
“Brains and brawn,” she says approvingly.
“Let’s hope so.”
She stops folding, fixing me with an intense gaze, not at all unlike her granddaughter’s. “Now tell me something. Why can’t I have a bodyguard? I’d ideally love a hot, swoony, older gentleman who can hold his own in the kitchen.”
“Then we should find you one.” I tilt my head toward my laptop as if I’m about to make a start on that project.
“Just kidding. I know self-defense, plus I have my ownmon cheriacross the ocean.” Her whole face lights up as she tells me about a man in Paris named Laurent. They FaceTime every day, play trivia games online, and binge TV shows together too. She’s hoping to see him there at the end of the summer. “We want to take pastry-making classes together in the sixth arrondissement.”
“That sounds lovely, Lila,” I say.
She sighs hopefully. “We’ll see if it works out for him to be my French bodyguard who bakes.” She nods toward the mixing bowl. “Try it. I plan to have pastry competitions with him. I need to beat him.”
I take the mixing spoon and sample some of the batter. It’s sweet and full of promise. “Delish.”
She arches a brow. “You really think so, or are you lying to get me to say nice things to my granddaughter about you?”
And I can see where Ripley gets it from—her skepticism. “Both.”
Lila’s quiet for a beat. She stares out the window at the fields of purple, the sun dipping low in the sky, Ripley off inthe distance working. “She’s my fearless girl. Full of energy too. I swear there’s nothing she won’t try to fix. Nothing she won’t try to do. She doesn’t stop,” she says, her tone full of maternal pride, but something wistful too. Like she wants Ripley to slow down perhaps.
As we watch, I wonder if Ripley needs to keep going all day long for some reason. I wonder what drives her. It’d be good for me to know her more, I reason. It’ll help me do my job, so I turn to Lila. “Who was that guy here earlier? The one who brought the books?”
“Are you worried about him? She won’t need to break out her self-defense moves for that man.”
I laugh. “I was just curious. And I’m glad to hear that—that she knows them and that she won’t have to use them.”
“He’s William O’Connor. He runs A Likely Story in town. Cute little bookshop. Nice young man.” Then she smiles, the kind that says she can see right through me. “Jealous?”
Where the hell did my poker face go with Ripley’s grandmother? I pride myself on being unreadable when I have to. Valiantly, I try to erase any emotions from my face. “Just curious.”
She pats my arm. “Sure. Of course.”
As we finish arranging the dough for the madeleines on trays, a voice carries from the other room, growing closer. “There’s no way I’m not eating dessert first tonight, Grandma, and you only have yourself to blame.”
