LITMIR.BIZ

      “I meant to tell you, I met somebody interesting in the lingerie store earlier,” I said a little while later when we’d settled into a booth at the restaurant with our food. “Someone you know, too—Annabelle MacMillan?” I popped the lid off of my bowl of chicken noodle soup, hoping I wouldn’t splash any of the hot liquid anywhere. It had been a compromise, I knew; but when I’d gotten in line to order, I’d parroted the words that screamed through my head, opting for something that felt safe to eat in this restaurant that had somehow become unsafe.

      “She seems like a very nice lady. Said she used to come to Grammie for cakes anytime she threw a party,” I continued, trying to distract my own mind from the food—safe, unsafe, or otherwise.

      Grandpa paused, his hand poised in mid-dip with waffle fry still immersed in his ketchup. Obviously, the name registered.

      He nodded, then resumed his fry-to-mouth mission.

      I watched him closely, trying to gauge his oddly noncommittal reaction. Clearly, the man had no intention of elaborating.

      “Sounded like she’d known Grammie for a long time, too,” I continued, keeping a gimlet eye on his face. “She said her mama’d hired Grannie Rose to do her housekeeping for awhile.” I dipped a plastic spoon into my soup, hoping I sounded far more casual than I felt. Obviously, the suspicions I’d formed earlier weren’t totally off base. There was more to the story, and I was dying to hear it.

      More nodding. “She did,” he said finally, having stalled long enough to finished chewing and swallowing his waffle fry. “Didn’t do it for very long, though.” He reached for his sandwich.

      “I didn’t know Grannie Rose was ever anyone’s housekeeper,” I said, wondering if I was going to get much out of him. “I didn’t think she worked.”

      “She didn’t, except for that little while when your Grammie was a teenager, right before we met.” He poked a thick finger in between his sandwich bun and the fried chicken breast, lifting it just enough to satisfy himself that no one had gypped him of his two pickles.

      I raised an eyebrow. The man was not one for details. “Why did she work, then? Did she have to?”

      “She was saving money for a wedding,” he said, seconds before he sank his teeth into his sandwich.

      That certainly made sense, especially in those days. Lord knew my great-grandparents weren’t made of money. With ten mouths to feed, every penny was pinched within an inch of its life, so the idea of having enough to spare to pay for a wedding was a bit ludicrous.

      “Who was getting married?” I asked, finally closing my mouth around my first spoonful of thick broth and noodles.

      “Grammie.”

      I choked on my soup.

      Not, Grammie and me. Just, Grammie.

      Which meant that Grammie had been getting ready to get married to someone else.

       Who?

      This was something I’d definitely never heard about.

      “Should let your soup cool down a little before you start eating it,” he scolded, shaking his head.

      I coughed some more, trying to catch my breath.

      Seriously? He’d just dropped a bombshell like that, and he thought the reason I was choking on my soup was because it was hot?

      “It’s fine,” I said, finally finished with my coughing fit. “The soup’s fine,” I added, shaking my head. “I was just surprised, is all. I didn’t know Grammie had ever been engaged to anyone but you.” I paused. Maybe I’d misunderstood. “That is what you meant, isn’t it? That Grannie Rose was saving up for Grammie to marry someone who was…not you?”

      He nodded.

      “Who?” I probed, feeling as though I was pulling teeth.

      “George MacMillan.”