Following the Rules (The Script Club 1)

Gran was my mom’s mom. And trust me, you would never know. They couldn’t have been more different if they tried. They didn’t even look alike. Mom was tall and thin with long, dark hair and green eyes. Gran was short and plump. Her white hair was cut in a severe bob that framed her heart-shaped face. Mom wore lab coats daily. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her in a dress. Gran might wear a housecoat in the morning, but she dressed to impress after her third cup of coffee…even if her “outing” was a trip to the market. According to Gran, signature style mattered. Hers included red lipstick, chunky pearls, and Chanel No. 5.

My mom, on the other hand, was a serious scientist who spoke in a clipped, concise manner. She had a great sense of humor, but it took her a while to warm up to people while Gran made friends wherever she went. She couldn’t walk down the aisle at the grocery store without chatting with the produce guy or the young mom corralling her kids. She didn’t try to relate to anyone or say what she thought they wanted to hear. Nope. She let it all out. Much to my mother’s dismay.

Dad and I thought she was pretty damn funny. Heck, she made Mom laugh too. But we also worried that she hadn’t quite processed her new living situation. I tried to make a point of coming by to visit her a few times a week. My parents had important jobs with odd hours, and I didn’t like the idea of Gran being alone so much. Thus the side trip home.

I grabbed the packet of cigarettes and an apple from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter before joining her on the deck outside. She raised her coffee mug in a toast and took a sip then set it on the round zinc-topped patio table, and slowly lowered herself onto her favorite cushioned chair.

“Let the record show I’m against the practice of inhaling nicotine, but since you won’t be swayed, here you go.” I handed over the packet and flopped onto the chair next to hers.

“Noted, Christopher Robin. And what, pray tell, are you doing here? I thought you were moving.”

I chomped my apple and nodded. “I am. I wanted to pick up a couple of things before I head back to the house. When are you going to visit me?”

She lit a cigarette and cocked her wrist movie-star style as she blew a plume of smoke. “I’ll have to check my very busy calendar, darling. But I’m sure I can squeeze in an hour after you settle in. Tell me all about it. You know I love those old houses by the Rose Bowl. I lived on Orange Grove when I was a girl. It was the biggest house on the street with a grand old oak tree and a tire swing hanging from the thickest branch. I remember swinging my legs so high that the neighbor boy claimed he could see my knickers. Damn pervert.”

I snickered. “Wasn’t that Grandpa?”

“Yes.” She turned to me with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I liked him the day I met him. I kissed him that day too. A peck on the cheek and it was quite the scandal. My poor mother had the vapors for weeks on end afterward. I secretly loved ruffling her feathers.”

“Secretly?”

“Perhaps not so secretly,” she conceded, waggling her brows playfully. “What about you, Christopher Robin? Have a smoke and tell me all about the scandals you’ve been stirring up lately.”

I pushed her cigarettes away, crossed my arms, and blurted, “I kissed my employer. Who also happens to be my friend’s brother. Naturally, I had to quit. How’s that for a scandal? Well, it’s never going to be a real scandal ’cause I’ll never tell a soul…except you.”

Gran’s grin spread like wildfire. The twinkle in her eyes had a girlish gleam that erased decades in an instant and gave a brief glimpse at the lovely young woman she must have been years ago.

“You don’t say,” she drawled. “Tell me everything, you rascal. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

“There’s nothing to tell. It was the same old story. I got nervous and made a fool of myself.”

“I see. And what did your friend say?”

“Nothing. I didn’t tell him, and I never will.” I replied primly. “I really hope this never comes up. I wouldn’t know how to handle it.”

“You’ll say, ‘I’m sorry I kissed your brother, but I couldn’t resist. He’s a dream.’ ” She set her cigarette in the ashtray and folded her hands regally. Her posture was in stark contrast to the naughty spark in her gaze.

“That will never happen,” I assured her, rolling my eyes.

“Hmm. So, was it a nice kiss?”