Still…
Nora and Brooklyn were all for it, and if I just say yes, maybe Charles can stop worrying about me and his grandson and start noticing the pretty older woman in his book club.
“Yes, I’m single,” I concede.
“My grandson has a good heart and a decent job, and he can talk about books all night long,” Charles says. “I just know you’d hit it off.”
But what’s wrong with him? I wonder, if he’s so wonderful and yet his dating life is restricted to getting hooked up with the local librarian he’s never even met.
“Okay,” I say, making a snap decision before I can talk myself out of it. I’ve got nothing to do this weekend but work, and I told myself after graduation that I wanted to be more adventurous, to figure out what I truly want in life. Well, this was adventurous, all right.
“Really?” Charles seems taken aback, like he never really expected to win this argument. Then a broad smile takes over his face and he claps his hands. “Excellent. I’ll let Chuck know.”
Oh boy, what have I done?
Nora and Brooklyn will to have a field day when they find out. But it’s done—I’m doing it.
“Tell him he can pick me up at my place after my shift on Friday,” I say, “if he’s game.”
“Oh, I’ll make sure he is, Cookie,” Charles says. I write down my address, then he takes another seed cake and saunters out, pleased as hell with himself.
2
Chuck
“Gramps?”
The house is quiet even though my grandfather’s prized vintage Jag is in the driveway, and for a second, I worry. He’s getting older, and I don’t get over here as often as I’d like.
“Gramps!” I call again, setting down the load of groceries I’m carrying on the kitchen counter.
“What’s all this shouting about?” My grandfather, the eminent Charles McArthur, asks, appearing in the doorway from the back yard. He’s got a pair of gardening shears in one hand and his crisp button-up shirt is rolled up to the elbows. Seventy-two years old and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him dressed down.
“You out there pruning Grandma’s roses again?” I ask. “I can always hire a gardener–”
“Over my dead body, Chucky boy,” he says, and I smile. Grandma Carol has been gone ten years, but you wouldn’t know it to look at the flower garden in the back yard. And Grandpa won’t let anyone touch it—not even me.
I put my hands up in a surrendering gesture. “You got it.” Then I turn to the groceries I brought in. “I got everything on your list, and I picked up your prescriptions,” I tell him. “Plus I bought steaks—I figured we could get out the grill for dinner tonight.”
“Not that I’m complaining, exactly, but what’s a strapping young lad like yourself doing spending his evenings with an old fart like me?” Grandpa asks, coming over to help unload the groceries.
I laugh.
We both know he does not think of himself as an old fart, and that he gets out more often than I do. My life is all about work—selling the best luxury real estate properties in the Seattle area and pushing my award-winning brokerage to greater heights. Add in networking events and a visit or two each week to make sure the man who raised me is doing okay for himself, and I don’t have time for much else.
“What’s an old fart like you doing driving that ’58 Jaguar around town?” I shoot back. “You should keep it in the garage. That’s what you got the Lexus for.”
“But then I couldn’t enjoy the Jaguar,” he answers. He comes over and sets a heavy hand on my shoulder, forcing me to stop what I’m doing. “Chuck, how many times do I have to remind you that life is about the here and now, not some mythical destination?”
That’s easy to say when you’re retired, with a successful literary career behind you, after you’ve fallen for the love of your life and raised a family and you’ve got nothing better to do than to live in the moment. Not so much when you still have something to prove.
“I’ll try to remember that, Gramps,” I promise, half-hearted, then pull a couple steaks out of the grocery bag. “Medium rare?”
“You got it,” he answers.
I go outside to prep the grill, and my grandfather wanders out after me with a couple of ice-cold beers. While we wait for the steaks to cook, he asks me what I’ve been reading lately and I tell him about the book on my bedside table about the psychology of effective selling.
Gramps lets out an exaggerated yawn, then asks, “When’s the last time you read a good work of fiction? You know, something that appealed to your emotions, not just your intellect?”
Emotions… nope, no time for those either.
“It’s been a while,” I admit. I used to pour through books of all genres, all the time. Now I’m lucky if I get through more than five pages every night before I conk out.