Chapter Seven
Seven
It’s a gorgeous seventy degrees and the pale blue sky is streaked with wispy white clouds, so I drop the top on the Mercedes, and Grand and I drive south on the aptly named Gulf Boulevard enjoying the salt breeze that riffles our hair and caresses our cheeks.
Our destination is historic Corey Avenue on St. Pete Beach, where Grand has gone with Myra. It’s peppered with shops and restaurants and extremely pale-skinned people (the word “albino” springs to mind) who have apparently not yet found the beach and painfully red crusty-skinned people who have.
I stop thinking about the skin abuse of strangers when we step into Annabel’s, where we have an absolute blast putting together a “Florida wardrobe” for Grand. Rebecca, our saleswoman, opens a dressing room, shows us around the store, then steps back, available but experienced enough not to spoil our fun.
Soon the dressing room is packed with capris, flowing linen pants, breezy tops, sundresses, gauzy jackets, brightly colored dusters, and adorable short summer-weight sweaters.
Grand loves bright whites and vibrant colors so we focus on abstract patterns and florals drenched with color until her dressing room looks like an art installation.
“Is it my imagination,” Grand asks, twirling in front of a three-way mirror, “or is everything absolutely perfect?”
“Everything is absolutely perfect. On you ,” I agree, looking at the bulging rack of “keepers.” “Now all we need are a few accessories.”
Minutes later, Grand is choosing from handbags, sandals, scarves, and bold costume jewelry that Rebecca and I deliver to the dressing room.
“Oh, Grand! You look like a forties pinup girl,” I say as she steps out of the fitting room mimicking a model on a catwalk in a sleek black swimsuit with a full-length mesh coverup and adorable kitten-heeled sandals. A wide-brimmed straw hat and oversized sunglasses complete the look.
By the time we’re done, Grand and I are giddy—they don’t call it retail therapy for nothing—and Rebecca looks happy, too, which I’m guessing means she works on commission.
In fact, we buy so many things that it takes me, Grand, and the glowing saleswoman to carry and stow everything in my trunk.
“I probably don’t even need to have my winter clothes shipped down,” Grand muses as we drive back up to Treasure Island.
“Probably not,” I agree. “But you might keep a few things—for when you come up to Atlanta to visit or when we go to New York in the fall.” Grand has been taking me and my sisters, Francis (Frankie) and Melissa (Mel)—Did I mention my father kept hoping for a boy?—on a yearly “girls trip” up to New York City, where she once studied art, since we were kids. While there, we hit museums, stores, and restaurants. We also see as many Broadway shows as we can fit in. (Yes, we sometimes do a matinee and an evening performance the same day because that’s the way we roll.)
“Good point,” Grand concedes as we park at the Treasure Island Publix, where we choose a variety of freshly baked cookies for tonight’s potluck mixer.
· · ·
At six on the dot, Grand puts on one of her new multi-hued pants outfits topped by a bright turquoise sweater, and we take our drinks (one pina colada and one vodka tonic—I’ll let you guess which belongs to whom) and the box of bakery cookies to the pool, where people are already mingling. At eighty-three, Grand is not the oldest attendee, but she’s also not the youngest. There are lots of welcoming smiles as we set down our drinks and place the open box of cookies with the other desserts. We’ve just affixed our name tags to our chests when Myra arrives.
With spiky silver hair, hazel green eyes, and a cushiony body encased in a Hawaiian print kaftan, Myra’s an inch or two over five feet, which puts her and Grand at eye level. Her chin is firm, and her nose is slightly too large for her face, but her smile and air of good humor make her sum even more attractive than her parts.
She gives Grand a hug and offers me a cheery smile. “It’s great to meet you, Sydney,” she says. “I’m so glad you’re able to stay on for a while.”
“Thanks, it’s great to meet you, too,” I say as the three of us clink glasses. “The complex is beautiful and I’m already in love with Grand’s view. How long have you lived here?”
“As your grandmother may have told you, my family used to vacation down here when I was a child and so did hers. We met out on St. Pete Beach—I think we built a sandcastle together for the first time when we were five or six—and, I don’t know, something just clicked. We’ve been friends ever since.”
“That’s right.” Grand takes over the story. “Myra and I were in each other’s weddings. And over the years your grandfather and her husband, David, also became close friends. The four of us had a lot of wonderful times down here together.”
“That we did,” Myra agrees. “I moved down full-time after David died. It’s been close to fifteen years now.”
Both Myra’s and Grand’s eyes tear up.
Myra is the first to shake it off. “Come on, it’s time for you to meet some folks.”
We sip and nibble and follow in Myra’s wake as she makes introductions. “This is Donna and her husband, Grady. They’re in the building on the other side of yours. And this is Cheri, the president of the HOA. This is her husband, Mike.”
“Welcome to Casas de Flores, Lillian,” Cheri says. “We’re very glad to have you in the neighborhood. We’ll make sure you have a directory, and don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any questions at all.”
Grand smiles. “Thank you. I’m very happy to be joining the community. Myra’s told me great things. And this is my granddaughter, Syd—”
“Oh my God, it’s Cassie Everheart!” A reed thin, out-of-breath woman speed-walks toward us. “I certainly hope there’s no alcohol in that drink when you’re barely out of rehab,” the woman says as she nears. Her eyes are overbright, and her cheeks are flushed.
I cringe and try not to panic as I remember what happened at Harley’s when people insisted on believing I was Cassie Everheart.
“Helen,” Myra says, taking the woman’s arm. “This is my good friend Lillian—she just bought the Spectors’ place.”
Grand smiles and says hello.
“And this is Lillian’s granddaughter Sydney.”
“I just don’t understand how you could have lost it over a man like that,” Helen says on a sigh.
I cringe again, but I can’t really step away because we seem to be drawing a crowd. It takes every ounce of my acting experience to hold on to my smile.
“I’m not Cassie, you know,” I say to Helen and the group that’s forming. “She’s just the character I play…played.”
“Such a shame,” someone else chimes in. “I guess not everyone can handle the stress of police work.”
“I’m not Cassie,” I say again. “And I’m not a police detective. I’m an actress.” Or at least I was.
Grand takes my arm and gives it a gentle squeeze. But the look in her eyes tells me she’s trying not to laugh.
“You know, Belinda.” An elderly gentleman turns to a nearby woman. “Maybe Cassie here could help you find your iPhone.”
Grand guffaws. I can’t decide whether to laugh or to cry.
“I’m pretty sure that’s what Belinda’s Find My iPhone app is for, Floyd,” Myra says with a shake of her head. A slight eye roll follows.
If Grand weren’t holding my arm, I would flee the scene right now—but in a sedate, ladylike manner. It’s Myra who eases us out of the group and leads us toward the pool, where a lone, silver-haired man stands.
I brace myself, but he says only, “I thought you were wonderful in that role. I cannot understand what those writers were thinking.”
I fall a little bit in love with him for that, but his eyes are on my grandmother.
“Hello, Brian,” Myra says. “I’d like you to meet my longtime friend Lillian Wilde. She just bought the Spectors’ place. And this, of course, is her granddaughter Sydney.”
“Ladies,” Myra continues, “ this is Brian Boyer.”
“Ah,” Brian says. “It’s lovely to meet you both. I must say I enjoyed Murder 101 tremendously up until they created that ridiculous ending for poor Cassie. But I have no doubt you’ll find an even more challenging role, Sydney.”
He takes Grand’s hand. “I’ve always admired your unit, Lillian. The view is gorgeous. Will you be here part- or full-time?”
“I plan on making this my full-time home.” Grand smiles.
For a moment, I think he’s going to lift Grand’s hand and kiss it. And given the way she’s smiling back at him, he might even get away with it.
“Tell me where you’ve come from,” he says.
Grand blossoms under his attention. “Atlanta,” she replies, a bit of a Southern accent finding its way into her voice. Her eyelashes flutter in a decidedly un-Grand-like way. “My home there will be going on the market soon.”
“Do you golf, Lillian?” Brian asks.
“Why, yes. Yes, I do. Or, I guess I should say, I used to. It’s been a while.”
I shoot my grandmother a look of surprise. She hasn’t set foot on a golf course since my grandfather died.
“I’m not sure if you’ve had a chance yet to check it out, but there’s a par 3 next door. It’s just a community course but there’s a putting green and a driving range. It’s a great place to get one’s game back. There’s also a playground and picnic area for grand- and great-grandkids as well as tennis and pickleball courts.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I know the golf pro there. I’d be glad to introduce you. Or if you prefer, I’d be glad to go play a round with you and help ease you back into the game.”
I’ve never heard golf sound quite so seductive before, but Grand says only, “That’s very kind of you.” Her smile is so bright, it takes me a moment to realize she has not committed or declined. Who is this woman and what has she done with my grandmother?
“Right, then.” Myra excuses the three of us and we move on.
“ That ,” I say when we’re out of earshot, “is an extremely attractive man.”
Grand blushes, which is yet another thing I’ve never seen her do.
“That he is,” Myra agrees. “He’s been a widower for almost a decade. I’ve seen lots of women here set their cap for him, but I’ve never seen him show that kind of interest before.”
Grand blushes again. “I’m sure he was just being friendly.”
“He certainly was, Grand. But I’m with Myra, he was definitely flirting with you.” I’m still trying to absorb it. I’ve never seen Grand flirt with anyone but my grandfather, and it’s more than a little disturbing.
We finish making the rounds with Myra, and even though I’m still surprised by the number of people who can’t seem to separate me from the fictional Cassie and the fact that she should not be drinking alcohol, I’m glad that Grand is going to be a part of this community.
It’s 9:00 p.m. by the time Myra, Grand, and I leave the mixer. When we reach her town house, Myra hugs us both good night and heads into her place. When we get to Grand’s, we wander out onto the balcony and watch the occasional boat cruise by with its running lights reflecting off the dark water.
The three palms behind Grand’s unit sway slightly in the breeze.
“I already love it here,” Grand says softly. “I hope your mother will come to understand. For the first time since your grandfather died, I feel like I can breathe again.”