Chapter 24
Publix cake: ordered. I almost went with the cake Mom would’ve chosen—a tasteful vanilla buttercream, white with a colorful border of confetti-like dollops of frosting.
Instead, I ordered a dark-blue cake adorned with planets.
Probably meant for little boys who love the solar system, but equally fitting for a telescope-loving grandpa.
I muddle through work on Friday, too upset about the return to office email to really focus.
I mostly work on the house while periodically checking my laptop for messages.
Having internet at Pebble Cottage has been great for my productivity—house-related productivity, that is.
I’ve pulled up the carpet in one of the bedrooms already.
After this, I need to focus on the backyard.
The party is the day after tomorrow. I still need to get decorations, but the guest list is shaping up.
Angela and all of Gramps’s other friends called me to RSVP yes, except one guy who’s getting a colonoscopy that day. I did not ask any follow-up questions.
There’s one person I wish I had invited. I still could, even though it’s super last-minute and he probably already has plans.
It seems a little off the wall to invite Daniel to a family party.
Do I really want to expose him to my parents and extended family?
They’re… a lot. But on the other hand, he offered to drive Gramps to appointments, and he’s never even met him.
So maybe he should. And maybe I’m just looking for excuses to invite him.
I table that thought for now. It’s almost dinnertime, and I want to get back to the condo. I feel like I’ve been neglecting Gramps the last few days.
It’s such a gorgeous evening that I drive back up Gulf Boulevard with the top down.
The air is balmy and briny. The sky spans endlessly blue in every direction, and as I drive and sing along to the radio, zipping past palm trees, I experience a moment of pure disbelief that this is where I live.
Only for a few weeks, but still. Compared with my life back home—the well-worn walks around my overcast neighborhood—this is paradise.
People dream all their lives of retiring to a place like this, and here I am.
Pulling into Sandy Shores, I’m waved in by the parking lot attendant, and I smile and wave back at him.
If this were a movie, I would cheerfully call out, “Hey, Carl, looking good! That CrossFit is paying off!” But I haven’t moved that far out of my introvert shell yet, and I probably never will.
Also, I have no idea what his name is. I do, however, pass by one of the friends I invited to Gramps’s birthday party as I stride across the grassy lawn.
“Hi, Tom!” I call as he walks in the other direction with a swim towel over his shoulder.
“Evening, Mallory.”
This puts a little spring in my step. See, I practically am living in a movie now.
Or an episode of Gilmore Girls . Upstairs, I greet Gramps, who’s listening to classical music out on the balcony, and then start on dinner prep.
My laptop is open on the counter beside me, but it’s blessedly quiet—no pings or emails.
I follow a recipe I found in an old, well-loved recipe box of Lottie’s. I can just barely make out her scrawl on the index card titled CINCINNATI CHILI , but I figured I might have better luck with Lottie’s tried-and-true recipes than random ones I find on the internet.
Half an hour later, we sit down to eat. Gramps digs into his steaming bowl of chili served over spaghetti and takes several large bites without stopping, which I take as a good sign.
“How is it?” I ask. Cooking for someone else has given me an unexpected respect for my mom’s cooking—she may not be the world’s greatest chef, but cooking for other people is hard.
“Delicious,” he says with his mouth full.
“It’s Lottie’s recipe.”
“Oh.” He looks down at his bowl in surprise. “So it is.” He twirls more spaghetti around his fork and then adds, as though realizing he’d been remiss, “It’s just the way she always made it.”
I smile to myself. I know he was just being polite, but it’s still nice to hear.
We eat in silence for a minute, and then I ask something that’s been on my mind. “Hey Gramps, what do you want for your birthday?”
“Cake,” he says decisively.
“I mean, yeah, there will be cake. I meant for a present.”
“Oh!” The question seems to take him by surprise. “You know, Mallory, we old men don’t typically expect a gift on birthdays.”
“Why not?”
“That’s a young man’s game. Or a young boy’s game, rather.”
“Everyone gets presents on their birthday. Didn’t Lottie get you gifts?”
“Yes, she did. Every birthday and every Hanukkah. But everyone else stopped buying me birthday gifts ages ago. After all”—he gestures around to the condo at large—“what do you get the man who has everything?”
I smile at this. “Okay, well, what did Lottie used to get you? What were some of your favorite birthday presents ever?”
“Ever?” He leans back in his chair thoughtfully, hands folded over his stomach. “Let’s see. Last year Lottie got me a porcelain bowl for my shaving soap.”
I feel my eyebrows flick up quizzically, and Gramps chuckles. “It might not sound like much, but I use it every day. And it was the last birthday present she ever got me. So I’ll never forget it.”
“Of course,” I say quietly.
“Other than that, let’s think. There have been ties. Many, many ties. I only ever wear ties to weddings, or to conferences back in my working days. Most of them I’ve never had occasion to wear.”
“So you’re telling me I shouldn’t get you a tie.”
He shakes his head and takes a sip of iced tea.
“When I was thirteen, my aunt Mills got me a bicycle. A cherry-red Schwinn Phantom. She was a spinster with no children of her own, so she doted on us quite a bit.” He smiles dreamily, and I refrain from calling out his use of the word “spinster.” “I rode that bike for years. Gave it to a neighbor kid when I went off to university.”
“Sounds like the perfect gift.”
“It was. Other than that, my birthdays included a lot of sports equipment, books, and clothing. My mother was always giving me shirts and socks. We only got new clothes once or twice a year.”
I suppress a shudder at the thought.
“Although…” Gramps continues, sitting up straighter and holding up one finger. “There was one year—my ninth birthday—that my mother got me something entirely different.”
“What was it?”
“It was—” He breaks off, grinning widely, and suddenly stands. “Wait here.”
Very mysterious. I finish my chili, wondering if he’s going to bring back some ancient, beloved telescope or maybe a wristwatch. When he returns five minutes later, however, he’s holding an old photograph. He carefully moves my bowl aside and sets the picture down in front of me.
I gasp. It’s the most precious thing I’ve ever seen.
Smiling up at me in black and white is Gramps as a young boy, his face beaming and dimpled, a cap perched on top of thick black hair.
He’s sitting on a stoop with one arm around a dog.
The dog’s tongue is hanging out happily, his head cocked to one side, dark eyes glittering.
His fur looks wiry and light, although I can’t tell what color it was from the black-and-white photograph.
He has the sweetest black nose and perfect floppy ears.
“Waldo,” Gramps says.
“Your mom got you this dog for your birthday?” I’m getting emotional, and I’ve never even been a huge dog person. The picture is just so cute; Gramps and the dog both look so happy.
He nods. “I wanted a dog my whole life, and she thought, at nine, I was finally responsible enough. Or that’s what she told me.
Now that I’m old, I can’t imagine a nine-year-old being responsible for anything.
But I sure loved Waldo. We did everything together.
He slept on the foot of my bed.” He pauses, his eyes distant and nostalgic, and then laughs fondly.
“His favorite toy was this great big stick he found in the woods one day. He insisted on bringing it home, carried it around everywhere.”
“How long did you have him for? How… how old was he?”
“Eh.” Gramps waves a hand and looks away, like it’s unimportant. “About a year later, Waldo chewed up one of my dad’s shoes.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. “And?”
“And”—he raises both hands as though it’s obvious—“my dad got rid of him. Gave him away.”
I feel my mouth drop open in horror. “Gave him away just for chewing up a shoe?”
“Back then, a shoe wasn’t just a shoe. It was your only pair of shoes until the soles fell off. And besides, that was my dad’s nature. He was the paterfamilias, it was his house. No one ever dared to argue with him.”
It’s so sad, I can barely believe it.
“Did you ever get another dog?”
Wordlessly, he shakes his head.
“Why not?”
“Lottie never wanted a pet. She preferred a clean house.”
Lottie! You never let the man have a dog?
“Well, you could get one now!”
Gramps laughs. “I think those days are behind me, Mallory.”
“The days of what? Loving another creature? Having someone around to keep you company?”
“And giving that creature baths, lugging him or her to the vet?”
“We could get you a small one. One that doesn’t need much grooming.”
“Waldo was small. That was one of the reasons my mom chose him.” He pauses. “And what about exercise? Dogs need that. I’m too old.”
“Gramps. You know perfectly well that you’re supposed to be taking a walk every day. A dog would make sure you don’t forget.”
He brings our empty bowls to the dishwasher. “Look. Forget what I said. Just get me a tie for my birthday.”
But it doesn’t escape my notice that, instead of putting the photo of Waldo back in its album, he carefully hangs it on the fridge with a seashell magnet.