Grip Trilogy Box Set

Her assessing glance bounces between Bristol’s face and mine, and then drifts down to our joined hands.

“We didn’t care.” Her shoulders lift as if to say c’est la vie. “We knew. We loved. We did what we wanted to do.”

She casts a wistful look around the enclosed patio. “This place, our home, was our last project together.”

“Project?” Bristol asks.

“Yes, I was a designer and he was an architect.” She laughs quietly as if at a memory just for her. “We moved here when prices were much lower. Best investment we ever made.”

“So you designed and decorated this place?” I ask. It’s gorgeous and modern; I never would have imagined the owners designed it themselves.

“We did. We even gutted this rooftop greenhouse and made it more functional.” She leans into us, lowers her voice, and points one bony finger up. “We replaced all the glass, tinted—you can see out, but no one can see in. Comes in handy.” She waggles her brows. “I’m sure you can guess why we did that considering your time studying the paint in the powder room earlier.”

Something between a horrified gasp and surprised laughter pops out of Bristol’s mouth at Mrs. O’Malley’s boldness. I’ve already seen this side of the roguish old lady, so my reaction is a little milder than Bristol’s. She ignores Bristol’s embarrassed response and waves her hand toward the table in the corner.

“We’d have our evening meals there with candles and the view of the city.” A breathy laugh. “We’d dance out here for the longest time, song after song, and then we’d . . .”

Her words wait on her lips while she swallows, a telling blush rising on the parchment skin of her cheeks.

“Those were good times,” she says, her voice softer, reflective.

“We love this place, Mrs. O’Malley.” Bristol’s voice is quiet and her eyes careful at the obvious emotion in the older woman. “We’d love to lease it, if you’d accept our offer, and we’d love to meet Mr. O’Malley.”

“That won’t be possible.” Tears well in Mrs. O’Malley’s eyes before she blinks and swipes ruthlessly at her wet lashes. “He’s . . . in a facility in Connecticut. Alzheimer’s.”

Time freezes, and even Bristol’s fingers in mine feel cold, affected by the frigid stasis. Pain saturates Mrs. O’Malley’s eyes again.

“He chose the facility before . . .” She clears her throat. “Before he couldn’t make those choices for himself anymore. I have an apartment near him, so that’s why we’re leasing our home.”

Fond memories collect in the watery eyes cataloguing the overstuffed outdoor furniture, the small dining table, the plants lining the periphery of the space.

“I can’t bear to sell it yet.” The shaky line of her mouth firms, and obstinacy overtakes any sign of weakness. “And I insist on it remaining just as it is, at least until he’s . . .”

My hand tightens around Bristol’s as Mrs. O’Malley struggles with the word she doesn’t say aloud but that still intrudes on her stubborn silence.

Gone. Once he’s gone.

“I’m so sorry.” Bristol touches her hand. “How long have you been together?”

The pain shifts on Mrs. O’Malley’s face, making room for some- thing younger, fresher, an echo of past hope.

“Fifty years.” She laughs, passing a glance between my face and Bristol’s. “Longer than you’ve been alive. I knew he was it for me the first day I met him, and he knew, too. We were married a month later.”

“That’s beautiful.” Bristol leans into me a little deeper, a soft smile on her lips. The tightness of Mrs. O’Malley’s expression eases and she looks back to me.

“Don’t waste time when you know it’s real,” she says.

I think back to our discussion before Bristol joined us. There’s nothing stopping me from asking Bristol to marry me, certainly no obstacle in my heart. We haven’t been together that long, but I don’t care about that. I knew Bristol was the one years before she even gave me a shot.

“Fifty years.” Mrs. O’Malley lowers her lashes, blinking rapidly. “And it still isn’t enough. Anything that ended would never be enough for a love like ours. A love like ours is only satisfied by forever.”

She looks back up with eyes still shadowed by sadness, but direct and sure.

“Don’t feel sorry for us, for me,” Mrs. O’Malley says. “We have a great love. Emotion tells you about lov

e, but hard times prove it. How can you know something is great unless it’s tested? Until then, it’s just an assumption. It’s a question, but life has a way of answering.”

I’m still absorbing the things she said, considering the great love I feel for Bristol. I wonder when ours will be tested, but I have no doubt we can withstand anything life throws at us.