Stages of Grace

Anger



a strong feeling of displeasure and usually of antagonism

-Merriam Webster





Calm down, calm down. I feel the pulse of my blood pounding all over me. I try to catch my breath. How do people calm down? Count to ten? I count, and that doesn’t work. Maybe if I count backwards. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…I slowly catch my breath. I'm done with being nice. Now I’m angry. I grab my purse and head into the gas station to use the ATM. I don't plan to take any money out, but I want to check my balance before I try to use my card to pay for gas. I’m relieved when the balance is what I expect. I walk back out to the pump and start fueling up. It’s cold out so I wait in my car. To anyone else fueling at that station that morning, I appear to be having a very heated discussion alone. I scream at myself for being so stupid and letting Jon walk all over me these past months. When had I become such a wuss? My parents had raised me to have a backbone and here I was completely failing at it.

I decide to fill up my tank because there is no way I am going to let Jon take it again. As I sit in my car, I wonder how easy it would be to change the PIN number on my card. If Jon had taken money out of my wallet, what would stop him from trying to use my card at an ATM? Once my tank is full, I continue on to work. As I drive, I think about sending Jon a text to let him know I know what he did and to finally confront him about the dent. I’m angry I let that go. I finally realize I’m angry about a lot of things. This is just the final straw.

One thing I learn about anger is how energizing it feels. Adrenaline is pumping me up, and it bleeds into my driving. A car rudely, with no signal indication, cuts me off before a red light. I take deep breaths and talk myself out of ramming the a*shole driving the Ford. Instead, I coldly glare at the driver in front of me. I turn right as the other driver continues straight, and after I park, I laugh out loud when I see the same driver pull into my parking lot from a different entrance.

"Serves you right," I mumble. "You drove like an a*shole, and I still beat you. Ha!"

That small victory is enough to cheer me up and make me laugh, calming me a bit. I’m setting up the sign-in sheet when Nikita walks in.

"Good morning," I greet her happily.

Nikita looks at me for a beat. "You seem to be chipper this morning. What's going on?"

"I have been in a bit of a funk, haven’t I?"

"A bit…" Nikita deadpans, which makes me laugh.

"Yes, well, I'm done with that."

"I'm happy to hear that."

Nikita asks me a couple of times what has changed or what has been bothering me. I avoid the questions, not wanting to get that personal at work and tell Nikita that with the holidays and being sick I have just been missing my parents more. This isn’t completely untrue. It just doesn’t include the fact that I had decided I'm not going to let Jon walk all over me anymore. If Jon can’t accept some responsibility and start pulling his own weight, I'm done.

I’m still young, and while I currently do everything in my power to downplay my looks, I know I'm pretty. If Jon can’t handle being civil to me, I’m sure someone else will. Not that I want that, because even though I’m furious with Jon, I still love him and am hopeful that we can get past this. If we can’t get past it, I know that I won’t be happy walking on eggshells the rest of my life. I would rather die alone than accept the way Jon makes me feel any longer. Things are going to change. How much, depends on Jon.

Jon had never really seen me angry. With the exception of the last year, he had never given me a reason to be really angry. I spend most of the day wondering why I had not stood up to him from the start. That first morning he had yelled at me for waking him up, I should have gotten right in his face and screamed back. I think of the story of Ferdinand The Bull. I am a Taurus, born the end of April. I had always related to Ferdinand because it did take a lot to make me angry. Jon will get his first taste tonight.

I watch the clock more than normal, I used to lament going home but, now I cannot wait. In my mind I think of everything I have not said over the past year. When it’s time to go, I practically fly to my car. Crossing the river, I ask my parents to give me strength. I focus all of my attention on just how angry I am, not wanting to lose any momentum. After parking I race up the stairs. They’re slick as usual so after almost tumbling down them. I take a moment to relax and continue up them with more care.

After turning the lock, I fling open the door, making Jon jump as he sits in his armchair.

"What the hell?" he sputters.

"Yes! What the hell!"

Jon looks at me like I have grown two heads and doesn’t say anything.

I slam the door shut and drop my things next to it. I'm pleased that he's still sitting, and I'm standing. It makes me feel bigger than him. I also feel like I need to move around.

"What happened to the sixty dollars that was in my wallet, Jon?"

"That's what all of this is about?"

"Oh, I haven’t even started. Do you admit it? Did you take money out of my wallet?"

Jon doesn’t say anything, but his whole body is tense, and his fingers are flexing open and shut on the arms of the chair.

"Since you have nothing to say, I can only assume that, yes, you did take it."

Jon stands up now. "So you're throwing it in my face that you have money, and I don’t?

Is that what this is?"

I was not having it. "Don’t even go there. This is about you taking money without asking.

That's a big difference, because face it, we have bills to pay that I have to budget for."

"So I'm like a child getting an allowance. You want to control me."

"You have got to be freaking kidding me. I'm asking for two adults to have a conversation."

"Whatever." Jon makes to go pick up the car keys, but I grab them first and hold them behind my back. "Not going to happen. Let me be crystal clear about this. From this moment on, the only time you will be driving my car is when I say so."

"Is that so?"

"I'm done."

"You're done? What the f*ck does that mean?"

"I can't do this anymore."

"Can't do what? Us? That's real f*cking nice after everything we've been through."

"You don’t even act like you like me. Do you even want to be here?"

"Can you even understand the amount of stress I'm under?"

"The stress you're under? The stress you're under? What do you do all day? When was the last time you applied anywhere? I got my head bit off because I sent your resume someplace."

"I was only mad because you didn’t tell me about it."

"And how much sense does that make? To get mad at someone for trying to help you?"

"I don’t have to listen to this." Jon grabs his coat and keys then walks out the door.

I stand there panting, my chest rising and falling as I breathe out my nose. Finally, speaking up for myself feels so liberating. So why do I feel like crying? The whole exchange had just been so overwhelmingly emotional. For a moment I pity him, out there in the cold. That feeling lasts only long enough for me to remind myself that I have to sit out there in the cold every morning while my car warms up. There is no way I will ever do that again. In fact, I have every intention of being as loud as humanly possible the next morning.

What if he doesn’t come back? I sit at our small table and wonder how I'll feel if that happens. As angry as I am, I do still love him. It’s clear that I have been denying that there was anything wrong with his behavior for a long time. What scares me about the whole situation is it’s out of my hands to a certain extent. It's Jon who needs to change, not me. Not that I'm innocent. I had knowingly enabled Jon. I thought it would help, but it's clear that it hasn't.

On the off chance Jon will try and take my wallet or keys, I hide them in a kitchen cabinet where I store my mother's old Kitchenaid mixer. My stomach is too messed up to eat anything. I go back and forth between relief in blowing up to being nervous that I may have gone too far. The adrenaline wears off, and I go to sleep. At some point overnight, I hear Jon come home and climb into bed. When my alarm clock goes off the next morning, I get ready for work. I’m not being loud on purpose, but I’m also not trying to be very quiet either. Part of me stays coiled like a cobra, waiting to strike, willing Jon to say something. He doesn’t.

It almost feels like a missed opportunity to release more of my pent up aggression on him. There is so much that remains unsaid. Most importantly, him saying he's sorry. Retrieving my keys and wallet from the cabinet, I hurry down the stairs to warm up my car. I loudly come back into the apartment. Jon is either still asleep or pretending to be. If he keeps taking off, we will never fix what’s wrong, and our conversation from last night is not over.

I’m irritable on my drive in. It's like every person on the road is driving like an idiot. I'm tired of it, tired of everything. I am tired of the cars that pull out even though they see me coming. How do they know I will slow down? What if I don't slow down? I hate the cars that drive five miles under the speed limit until you try to pass them. I hate the cars that don’t use their turn signals. What am I? Psychic?

I have always been easygoing and mild-mannered, but it’s as though a switch of some sort has been flipped. I have no patience for anyone around me, starting with Jon and now including my co-workers and the patients. I count to ten to control myself more that day than I ever have in my life. By the end of the day, it’s no longer working, and I snap at Nikita for something. The injured look on her face makes me feel awful so I immediately apologize. I have to get a hold of myself. Instead of counting to ten, I start counting backwards from one hundred.

I feel the pressure of not having to deal with anyone evaporate the second I am in my car. Just like that morning, it seems like the other commuters are purposely trying to aggravate me. I consider road raging on the Lexus that isn’t paying attention and honk my horn to let him know the light has changed to green. Counting from one hundred isn’t working either. By the time I pull into my parking spot, my body is humming with energy. Great time to finish my conversation with Jon. I am actually looking forward to laying into him. Jon is in the kitchen making dinner when I walk in, not in his beloved armchair.

"Hello, Jon."

"How was your day?"

"Just great," I huff sarcastically.

"Ahhh…"

"We need to talk."

"I know."

He knows? I breathe in and out of my nose, short bursts of air that almost feel heated. It’s nice that he knows and just took off while we were mid conversation yesterday. Is he just going to do the same thing today?

Jon watches, he hesitates "Grace?"

Not able to hold myself together, I scream. "I am so mad right now!"

"Why? Did something happen?"

Wrong question, mister. "I've been holding everything in for so long about what you have been doing and how you have been making me feel and how ashamed I am at myself that I never said anything. I just let you. I let you put me down, and I felt bad when I annoyed you, and I made myself feel like it was me, like I was the problem. Like if I did something you would be nice again. I did everything I could think of just for you to be nice to me. How sad is that? How pathetic am I? And what did you do? You take my car and go God knows where with God knows who and you dent it. You dented my car! How did that happen? Were you ever going to say anything to me?"

Jon stares at me open mouthed, his wooden spoon frozen midair since he had been about to stir something on the stovetop. I put my hand on the back of one of the chairs of our small table to hold myself up. I feel short of breath, as though I had spoken that entire stream of words without stopping to breathe. I drop my head to look at the ground while my heart stops thumping. After a couple moments, I look back up at Jon who still looks dumbstruck.

And there is that feeling again, anger. "Say something!"

"I…I…I…"

"You what?"

"God, Grace. Calm down—"

I cut him off, bringing up the hand that had been clenching the back of the chair to point at him. "Don’t tell me to calm down. I am so f*cking sick of your shit."

I was never much of a cusser. In fact, that’s part of the reason it really bothers me when Jon cusses at me. Jon looks dazed as he raises both hands, palms out. I lower my hand and pace randomly around our front room. I want to hit something. I come close to punching the wall but do not want to hurt my hand or have to explain any damage to the landlord. Jon takes whatever he is cooking off the stove and follows me into the front room. I look out the window to the courtyard below. Jon is standing a few feet to my side.

Keeping my body facing the window, I look at him out of the corner of my eyes. "You talk."

Jon sits in his armchair. He drops his head into his hands and runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head and nervously tapping one foot. He looks over at me a couple of times, trying to meet my gaze, but I keep my eyes on a small bird sitting on the back of a bench. While I wait for Jon to speak, I wonder how the little bird is faring out in the cold. Part of me wants to rush outside to save it. Instead, I watch as it flies somewhere out of sight. Jon still hasn’t said anything so I clear my throat as I wait for him to get to it.

He sighs before straightening back up. "I'll admit I've made some mistakes."

I mouth the word “some.”

"I just am under so much stress, and yes, I may not have handled it well."

I mouth the word “may.”

"I just don’t know how to deal with this and…"

He seems to have lost his train of thought at that point so I turn, crossing my arms over my chest. "You may have made some mistakes? Do you really feel that way? Please, by all means, tell me what you have been doing otherwise, and I'd still really love to hear what happened to my car."

Jon stands, moving closer to me and tells me that the night the dent happened he had been over at someone’s house. I don’t recognize the name. Another person there that night had backed into my car as they were leaving. Since the damage had been minimal, he had told the girl not to worry about it. Girl, I thought. Interesting.

"It was really thoughtful of you to not be worried about the dent in my car that I'm going to have to pay money for at some point to get fixed."

"If it's that big of a deal I'll pay to have it fixed—" he begins.

I have to stop him, incredulous. "With what money, Jon?"

He shrugs. Thought so. As he stands there, I look at him as if it’s for the first time. He seems almost smaller, with his shoulders pulled inward. I am repulsed. I sink down onto the sofa and turn away from him. Jon stays where he is, as if waiting for me to tell him what to do next. All I can think is: do I still love him? This is unexpected. Needing space from Jon, I tell him I'm not hungry and just need to lie down. I avoid touching him as I squeeze past him and go to our room.

I place my car keys and purse in an empty shoebox on the floor of the closet, still not trusting Jon. Then I change into pajamas and stretch out on our bed. I don’t mean to fall asleep but am so drained from the day that I have little choice. An hour before my alarm normally goes off, I wake up starving. I feel guilty for a moment when I see the leftovers from the meal Jon had made the night before in the fridge. Then I remember the cinnamon rolls I had made, and the mess I had to clean up. Yep, no longer feeling guilty.

I make myself scrambled eggs and toast, washing them down with milk. Then I go back into our room to turn off my alarm before getting ready for work like normal. This morning, I put on make-up. Not much, just concealer under my eyes and mascara. I also braid my hair instead of pulling it back into my usual tight bun. I want to feel good about myself again. It amazes me how now, even though I am no longer taking extreme care to be quiet, that Jon has not said one word. All of those times he had railed at me in the past seem to be a lie now.

On my drive into work, I spend more time thinking about Jon's behavior over the last year. It’s almost clear to me that he was trying to make me feel bad about myself. Did it have something to do with control? I just cannot understand the thought process behind doing that to someone you loved. For so long I had absolved Jon of any responsibility in my unhappiness. Now I wonder if he is the main cause of it.

At work, I do my best to remain calm with everyone I work with. It‘s easier than the day before even though there are some close moments where I think about snapping. Once is at lunch. I’m reading a book as I sit in the break room. Two of the nurses who work in my office hover in the doorway and gossip. Can’t they see I am on break? And reading? How inconsiderate. The counting backwards by ones is not working so I start counting backwards, this time by sevens. One hundred, ninety-three, eighty-six, seventy-eight, no, nine, seventy-two…

This way, I avoid having any reasons to talk to human resources. I need this job and am not going to let my bad mood affect it. I have never been this angry for this long, and I’m not certain how to make the feeling go away. I assumed laying into Jon would have worked, but if anything, now that I’ve unleashed on him a couple times, it’s made it harder not to do that every time I’m around him. There is no way I want to emulate the way he has treated me so I do my best to keep most of my possible outbursts to myself.

I’m not successful all of the time. One weekend morning, after Jon finishes his breakfast, he puts the plate and silverware in the sink without washing them. I am sitting on the sofa watching TV when I see him do this and explode. I ask if he assumed that I am his maid and that he had another thing coming if he actually thinks I will clean up after him ever again. In fact, I go on that he should be cleaning up after me as a way to pull his own weight. Once he is done with his dishes, he can go ahead and take care of the laundry. Downstairs, of course. I still do not trust Jon with my car keys.

Even though there is an improvement in our relationship, it seems false. When I get home from work, Jon tells me about all of the places he applied. I never check, but I always wonder if he is lying, or at the least exaggerating. A few times, Jon attempts to initiate intimacy between us. I kiss him but nothing more. I cannot get that image of him in our front room with his shoulders shrugged inward out of my mind. It repulsed me then and still does now. Jon does not press me, though, which I am grateful for and concerned about all at the same time.

I'm still angry. I have counted backwards by sevens so many times I now have the numbers memorized and need to start using a different number: eleven. I become hyper aware of wherever Jon is in relation to me in our apartment. If we are both in the front room watching TV, I can feel myself becoming annoyed at the way he is breathing. Why does he have to breathe so loudly? Is he congested? God, that noise! Why doesn’t he just blow his nose? And the way he walks around the apartment. Does he have to walk on his heels? Yet, if he walks quietly, I get equally annoyed, wondering if he’s doing it on purpose to sneak up on me.

While Jon is no longer snapping at me, I feel no renewed affection for him. I no longer feel like my head will be bitten off out of nowhere but we do not feel like a couple either. We still sleep in the same bed, but we go to sleep at different times, so we aren’t ever both in bed and awake at the same time. Even around the apartment we seem to gravitate away from each other. I wonder if the only reason Jon is even still there is because he has nowhere else to go. That’s not true, though. He could always move back home or since Jon has always been everyone's best friend he probably has plenty of people that would let him stay with them. What is keeping him here? Is it me?

I am not sure if I love him anymore. I am also sure that we will never go back to what we were. Too much has happened since then. Depending on my mood, I consider asking him to leave, but the idea of being all alone scares me. We have been together for over three years, and most of that had been good. I drive back and forth from work trying to decide what to do over and over again. I imagine the freedom of no longer supporting Jon, of being single again. What stops me is basically how unconfrontational I am. Those blow-ups with Jon had been nurtured within me for a year.

I had finally admitted I was angry and wasn’t going to allow Jon to kick me around anymore. Considering how long it finally took me to stand up for myself, how long will it take me to build up the courage to ask him to leave? We basically ignore the holidays this year. No decorations, no parties, no gifts. I am thrilled when it’s all over. It’s pointless to pretend to be happy. But if I’m not going to leave Jon, this will be my new life. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days like this but am hesitant about changing anything. I keep most of what I am feeling inside. Some days I feel really nostalgic, reminiscing over happier days. This feeling usually goes one of two ways; sadness over what we have lost and anger that we allowed it to happen in the first place.

It’s so strange to look at Jon when I think about the days I was so madly in love with him. I still remember so vividly how just the sight of him could make my heart beat wildly in my chest. It is so different now when I look at him. Jon is softer around the waist. Sitting around the apartment did that to him. He never smiles anymore, and his eyes, which had once been so captivating, are dull now. Sometimes I try to imagine the last year from his perspective. I can just never understand why if he had been hurting emotionally instead of coming to me for help he had chosen to instead intimidate me.

It’s difficult for me to feel sympathetic towards him when his cruel actions and indifference are still so fresh in my mind. I cannot imagine him touching me romantically again. One day we are both in the kitchen at the same time, and his hand accidentally almost brushes against mine. I jerk my hand back and clutch it to my chest as though the contact had burned me. I do not feel sorrow when I see his wounded reaction. He made me this way. Jon keeps a careful distance after that.

Jon applies for jobs with renewed vigor. I had been certain for so long that he would never find something that it comes as a shock to me when he does. The pay is much less than the job he had lost, but in this economy, he considers himself lucky to have gotten it at all. He works in a warehouse stocking long haul trucks for delivery. This job is very different from the white collar jobs he is used to. The perks are that it’s located on a bus line so it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t have a car, and he only really needs to buy a pair of sturdy steel-toed boots. The other clothes he has are fine.

Our morning routine ends up being similar to what it was in the past. Instead of walking over to kiss him in the morning to let him know the shower is free, I just shout it. Jon breaks out the coffee machine for a couple of cups in the morning. Somehow I can't really drink it anymore, I can't go back to how we were and don’t know if I want to start it again. Since it’s still very cold in the morning, I drive Jon to the bus stop near our building. As he’s getting out of my car one morning, Jon pauses as if he is going to tell me something but then just shakes his head and closes the door. I wonder what he was about to say.

The heavy lifting and little time for rest at Jon's new job make him a walking zombie for the first couple of months that he works there. He walks home from the bus stop and showers before crashing, too tired for dinner most nights. One night, Jon is so exhausted that he falls asleep on the bus and has to take another bus back to our house. I enjoy the feeling of coming home to an empty house, and Jon is so tired when he is home he sleeps most of the time he’s there. With the exception of some money for the bus and lunches, Jon gives his entire first paycheck to me. With the next he pays to have a friend fix the dent on my car.

I watch as his attitude and body change with his new job. He smiles more, loses weight, and builds muscle. Seeing him look as he had in the past is harder for me than I expect it to be. It hurts to see him that way and know I don’t love him anymore. I’m not sure how Jon feels and wonder if he will leave now that he has a job and a means to support himself. I almost expect it and then don’t understand why he hasn’t. During the year of his unemployment, Jon seemed to outright dislike me. Now he just seems pensive, never making a move to talk to me or is so neutral when he does that it is impossible for me to gauge what he might be thinking.

This new routine goes on for months. Jon becomes accustomed to the demands of his new job and is able to remain conscious past dinner time. He does not make as much as I do, but he is able to pay half of our rent which makes me feel like I can save again. We never had joint accounts. That’s one thing my mother had been adamant about when we moved in together. She thought that was something we should wait to do until after we were married. While Jon was unemployed, it had not mattered much to me, but now that I am saving, I’m happy that Jon is not privy to the amount I’m able to put away.

We share cooking duties, flipping every other night and whoever doesn’t cook, cleans. I may use more pans than I need from time to time. I’m still angry. Even after all of this time and even though things are so much better, Jon has never really apologized to me. I hold on to the pain and the shame he made me feel almost as a method of protecting myself from caring for him again. I don’t think I will ever be able to put into words exactly how permanently he has hurt me. When he speaks to me, if he speaks to me, all I can hear is the roar of him not saying he is sorry.

To me, it’s a sign of weakness that he cannot admit what he did was wrong. As though not drawing any attention to it will make it like it had never happened. That he thinks I will somehow forget. That’s where he is wrong. I will never forget.

~*~

I am in the kitchen making dinner when Jon walks in one day from work. Jon checks our mail on the way home each day since he passes the bank of mailboxes on the other side of our building on his way back from the bus stop. I tense as he approaches me but then realize he is just handing me an envelope. Taking it from him, I see it is from the funeral home I had used for my parents. I am accustomed to receiving something from them, maybe quarterly, normally advertising specials on burial plots. Never too early to plan for the inevitable, I suppose. This envelope is different from all of the others, though. It is shaped liked a Hallmark card instead of the longer, thinner envelopes I received in the past.

Absentmindedly, I open the envelope and see that inside is another envelope addressed to me on behalf of the funeral home from a Kate Smith in Tampa, Florida. Smith was my mother's maiden name, but it is also such a common name it could be nothing. Curious, I turn the flame of the stovetop to simmer and sit at our small table before opening the card. Jon watches me, his brows furrowed. I shrug as I open the card, gasping as I read its contents. Jon sits next to me as I pause to look up at him with wide eyes before continuing to read.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Wait, let me finish."

I finish reading the card and immediately read it again. I drum my fingers across my lower lip as my eyes skim the page. Finally, I delicately set the card down next to me, looking up at Jon as I still drum my fingers across my lower lip. Incapable of speech, I push the card in his direction. I watch Jon's reaction to the card, seeing him look up to meet my eyes at the same place I had done the same.

"Are you going to call her?"

"I guess. I'm still just trying to wrap my brain around it."

"I'll finish dinner. Just take your time."

"You don’t have to." I move to stand but Jon shakes his head and goes to the kitchen.

I toy with the corner of the card, worrying it until the different layers of paper are exposed. The card is from my grandmother, my mother's mother. The grandmother I have spent my entire life thinking is dead. Her letter. Kate Smith. I practice saying that name in my mind. The letter from Kate Smith says that she had only learned of my parents’ deaths last year. She had attempted to locate me afterward without success when she had found their obituaries and from that was able to find the address of the funeral home. She sent the card with the hope that the funeral home would still have my contact information and would forward the card to me.

A grandmother. All this time I thought I was alone in the world. Why would my mom keep this from me? The letter includes Kate Smith's telephone number. I cannot imagine calling her. What would I say? It's all too much to process. Thinking of it just makes me think of my mother and how desperately I wish she was still here. My mind is a jumble of conflicting emotions and questions all coming back to: why hadn’t my mother ever told me that my grandmother was still alive? Were there other secrets she had kept from me?

Growing up, I always envied my classmates with grandparents. My dad's parents had died before I was born, and from what my mother told me, I was a toddler when her parents had passed away. I never questioned it. Why should I? It is so surreal to be accepting the fact that all that time it had been a lie. I could have had a relationship with my grandmother. Why had my mother kept that from me? What had happened to make her lie to me?

Jon brings a plate of food over to me. I look up surprised, blushing when I admit I'm not hungry anymore. Jon doesn’t seem upset. He just puts it in the microwave for me in case I change my mind later on. I just cannot decide what to do. Call my grandmother or… I can’t imagine not calling her. I just don't know if I can handle calling her today. This is just all so sudden. I rise quickly, thinking of something. Rushing past where Jon sits eating his dinner, I crouch down to look at the bottom shelf of our bookcase where we had stored my parents’ old photo albums. Not sure which one I am thinking of, I pull three out and bring them back over to the table.

Combing through them, I find what I’m looking for: a faded Polaroid of my mother standing stiffly next my grandmother, on the front porch of a house I don’t recognize. It’s the only picture of Kate Smith I’ve ever seen. My mother looks to be about fifteen years old. I try to remember where my mother had grown up, somewhere on the East coast, maybe Pennsylvania. I look closely at the woman who is my grandmother. In the picture, she has Mary Tyler Moore hair and is wearing a simple dress with a large floral pattern on it. Her arms rest on the shoulders of my mother, and they both seem uncomfortable, my mother wearing her fake smile.

Jon walks over to look at the picture. "Are you going to call her?"

"I guess. I just don’t know what to say. Do I tell her I thought she was dead?"

"She might already assume that. It’s not like you tried to find her for the funeral."

Jon makes a good point. For the first time since my mother's death, I feel almost angry at her. I always thought we were so close. Why had she kept this from me?

"I'm calling her." I get up to get my phone out of my purse.

"Do you want me to stay in here?"

"Sure," I reply as I type the number into my phone and hit the call button.

I chew on the edge of my left index finger. There is a small tear in my nail that I meant to file down. My heart pounds with the first two rings. By the third ring, when there is still no answer, I calm down. Then someone answers.

"Hello?"

I take a deep breath "Hello. Is Kate Smith there?"

"Speaking. Who is this?"

"Grace Abbott."

"Who?"

"Um, Grace Abbott," I say louder and grimace at Jon.

"Grace?"

"Yes, I am Grace." I say.

"I want you to come to Florida."

"Excuse me?" I look up at Jon, shocked.

"I'm an old lady, and I want to meet you. I'll pay for the ticket."

"I have a job," I argue.

"Do they give vacations?" she questions.

"Yes, of course." I sink into my chair.

"It's settled then. When can you come?"

This is probably the oddest conversation I have ever had. Did she just say it was settled? Of course I want to meet her. I do. I just don’t know if now is the right time, but she says she is old. Could this be my only opportunity?

"I don’t know. I'd have to talk to my boss."

"Let me know when you do."

"Okay."

"Okay. Bye now."

"Um, bye?" I look down at my phone to see my grandmother has hung up.

I look over at Jon. "I just talked to my grandmother."

"And?"

"She wants to fly me to Florida to meet her."

His eyes widen. "Really? Are you going to go?"

I shrug. "I guess so. Maybe I should research her first to make sure she isn’t a psychopath."

"How long would you go for?"

"I have to talk to my office manager. I'm not even sure how much free time I have available."

~*~

A week later, I'm on a plane to Tampa, Florida. I managed to get a week off and am more nervous than I have ever been about anything my whole life. I am not much of a traveler. From dealing with security to my cramped flight and then a layover in Atlanta, I am exhausted by the time I land in Tampa. My grandmother is sending a friend to pick me up as she no longer drives. I make my way to baggage claim and feel a bit odd introducing myself to the guy holding a sign with my name on it. He’s cute, unnervingly cute. He can’t be much older than me. This is my grandmother's friend?

"Ah, hi," I say giving him a little wave. "I'm Grace."

"Hi" he reaches out his hand. "I'm Ryan."

Holy crap! Is that an accent?

"Err, welcome to Tampa."

"Thanks" I blush, trying to place his accent.

"Alright. Let’s see if we can locate your luggage," he says, directing me to the carousel for my flight.

Once I point out my bag, Ryan quickly retrieves it and pulls it for me, leading me out towards the parking lot. Stepping outside of the sliding doors, I have to pause for a moment to take in the temperature change. It had been sleeting when I left Cleveland. Here it was gorgeous and sunny. Ryan is a couple steps ahead of me, and seeing I am not behind him, turns to look back at me.

His face mirrors my wide grin."Beautiful, isn’t it?"

"It is." I agree.

"God awful humid in the summer. You’ve come for a stay at just the right time."

I nod excitedly and follow him, mentally trying to remember if I packed enough shorts. Ryan has a longer stride than I do, so I have to hurry to keep up with him as he weaves his way through the parking deck. I wonder how he knows my grandmother. He kind of looks like a surfer. Do they surf in Florida? I'm trying to figure out in my head if there are even waves on this side of the panhandle. Is there a difference since it is the Gulf of Mexico and not the Atlantic? I am so distracted that I come very close to walking right into Ryan, not noticing he has stopped. Ryan is opening the back of his Wrangler. He looks back at me, his brown hair falling into his green eyes, to reach for my carryon bag.

"Well, hullo there," Ryan grins. He clearly hadn't expected me to be as close as I am.

I flush, quickly handing him my bag before going up front and getting in.

"And we're off" Ryan jokes, starting the car.

The windows are down so I pull a clip from my purse to keep my hair out of my face. This is my first time in Florida. I spend most of our drive looking out the window. The only place I have ever seen a palm tree before this was on TV or in a book. It feels tropical. I am used to congestion, but the traffic here seems so different from back home. Every other car is a Cadillac or a Lincoln, some driven by little old ladies who can barely see over the steering wheel. As we drive, Ryan tells me how he knows my grandmother. He is her next door neighbor.

"Mind if I pop into the dairy?"

"The what?" It sounded like he said diary.

"Um, the store. I just need a loaf of bread."

"Sure. I'll just wait in the car."

Ryan pulls into a Circle K. I have never heard anyone call a gas station a dairy before. He walks out not long after with bread and a quart of milk. Then we are off again. He turns into a gated neighborhood and I admire the Spanish-style ranch houses we pass. After turning onto a cul-de-sac, Ryan parks in front of a pretty little house with a yellow mailbox. I am still not sure if I’m ready to meet the grandmother I never knew I had but figure I have made it this far. It would be silly to turn back now. I walk around to the back of Ryan's car to help him with my bags. Ryan passes me my carryon while he pulls my big bag. I follow him up the drive.

Ryan walks right in the front door, booming "Kate! Where are you? I've got Grace."

My grandmother's house smells like a can of lavender air freshener, a nice smell but not the real thing. The first room is a sitting room that looks like no one ever sits in. My parents had a room like that when I was growing up, the room I was never allowed to play in unless we had company, and then it wasn’t to play in but to sit politely while the grownups talked. The sitting room leads into a pretty little kitchen with a breakfast nook that opens onto a screened-in outdoor room with a pool.

"The lanai," I hear. I recognize the voice from our phone calls.

I follow Ryan out on to the pool deck.

"How lovely," I smile, looking around.

"What was that? Come closer so I can get a look at you." My grandmother is seated at a bistro table by the pool.

I approach her, not certain if I am expected to hug her or not, this being the first time we have met. My grandmother looks me up and down. I attempt to smooth the wrinkles from my slacks before pulling the clip from my hair in an attempt to look more presentable.

"You look like your mother, only her hair was brown, not blonde. You must have gotten that from your father. Come closer so I can see your eyes better."

I shoot a panicked look at Ryan, making him laugh before lowering my face to be closer to my grandmother's.

"Your mother's eyes were brown. You must have gotten your blue ones from your father as well."

"I did." Somehow, being told my own parents’ appearances is annoying me. Doesn’t she realize I am fully aware that my mother had brown hair and eyes? And my father had blonde hair and green, not blue, eyes.

"Well, you're a pretty little thing. Don’t you think so, Ryan? Isn’t my granddaughter pretty?"

I look at my feet, turning red. How embarrassing.

"You have a lovely granddaughter, Miss Kate. I'll be off so you two can get acquainted." He turns to me, "It was great to meet you, and I hope you enjoy your visit. I'll put your cases in the guest room on my way out." I blush.

"Thank you Ryan. You are a sweetheart" Kate gushes.

"Anything for my favorite lady."

After Ryan leaves, I sit on the other side of Kate. There is a plate of sliced cheese and crackers on the table and a pitcher of lemonade. I help myself as I wonder how to ask my grandmother what had happened between my mother and her. I am conscious to not fill my plate. I don’t want to seem like I’m gorging myself, but I’m not sure when or what we will be having for dinner. It is mid-afternoon, and my grandmother is old. Don’t older people like to eat early and be in bed by eight?

"Is it alright if I make a phone call? I just want to let my, ah, well, Jon know that I made it here safely."

"Of course."

I stand and walk over to the other end of the pool and sit on a deck chair. Jon is still at work and doesn’t answer when I call. I leave him a quick message letting him know I am fine. After I hang up I realize I did not tell him I love him. I sit for a moment, trying to recall the last time I had. It has been some time. Shaking that thought from my head, I walk back over to my grandmother.

"Everything alright, dear?"

"Yes. I just left a message."

"Well, that's nice."

We spend the remainder of the afternoon like that, in silence. It’s not an uncomfortable silence. I just have so many questions and am not sure how to ask them. I know I am here to meet my grandmother, and clearly, we have accomplished that. What else does she want with me for a week? Once we finish the food on the table, she gets up and begins stacking the plates and silverware. I notice the cane beside her. When Kate goes to turn with the plates in one hand, cane in the other, I stop her.

"Here, let me carry these."

"Oh, alright. Just follow me."

Standing and using a cane, my grandmother seems shorter than she had in the photo I have of her. Is that osteoporosis? Otherwise, she is on the slim side on top, while somewhat bottom heavy. Her hair is much shorter than in the picture, a silver curled coif. The clothes she wears remind me of the scrubs I wear at work: simple blue elastic pants and a printed top. I set the small tower of plates on the kitchen counter and begin rinsing the crumbs off of them before loading them into the dishwasher. Someday, I would love to have a dishwasher of my own. Kate leans up against the counter, watching me work.

When I finish, I turn to look at her. "What would you like to do now?"

"I'd like to have a bit of a lie down if it's okay with you. You're welcome to explore the house or swim in the pool. It’s heated."

"Oh, thank you. Which way is the room I'm staying in?"

"Your room is the last one down that hall," she says, pointing past the kitchen. "Now if you need anything my room is on the other side of the living room."

We go our separate ways. I slow down to look at the photos on the wall of the hallway. They’re of my mother as a young girl. There are also photos of a young man. I wonder who he is. In the pictures they seem close. There is one staged professional one where he sits with my mother and grandmother in matching sweaters. Do I have an uncle I never knew of as well? This all seems so strange. I continue down the hall to my room, passing a pale blue bathroom on my right before coming to my room.

I lean on the doorway before going in. It may be the prettiest spare room I have ever seen. The walls are papered with a pale, butter shade striped print. In the center of the room is a queen-sized bed with cream comforter and an antique white metal frame. The bed has a rounded look that gives hint that it's a featherbed. There is a mass of pillows at the head: four plump standard pillows behind maybe five decorative pillows, each one different. A mismatched pair of white tables are on either side of the bed, each with matching glass lamps. In the corner is a comfy looking gray armchair with a cream crocheted blanket draped across the back. Next to the chair is an oversized ornate white dresser with a mirror top. An antique tortoise shell brush and hand mirror surrounded by various perfume bottles sit on top of the dresser. My suitcase is lying on top of a bench at the end on the bed.

Pushing myself off of the doorframe, I walk into the room and begin unpacking my things. There is a small closet off to the side with free hangers and the top two drawers of the dresser are empty. Not knowing what to pack, I had possibly over packed. I just didn’t know what to expect and wanted to have multiple options. I brought two sundresses and a more formal sheath-style dress. The sundresses traveled well. The sheath dress would need to be ironed if I actually want to wear it. Next I hang the dress shirts and slacks I had packed. My other clothes could go in the dresser.

I use the top drawer for my underclothes, one bathing suit, and socks. I open the next drawer to unpack t-shirts, shorts and capris. I set my toiletry bag on the dresser and extra shoes I packed in the free space beneath it. Placing my carryon inside of my larger suitcase, I store them on the floor of the closet. Before shutting the door, I look at my clothes, hoping they aren’t too out of style. It has been ages since I bought anything new. I think about going for a swim but suddenly feel beat from all of my traveling and can’t help but curl up on the fluffy looking bed.

It’s dark outside when I blink open my eyes. I look around, not certain where I am or where to find a light switch. My hand fumbles up and down the glass lamp closest to me until I find its switch on the cord. Once the light is on, I reach for my phone to see what time it is: nine o'clock. I wonder where my grandmother is and if she’s annoyed I have slept through dinner. I go to the bathroom to freshen up before heading towards the kitchen. Nearing the kitchen, I hear voices; I flush when I recognize the one with an accent.

It sounds as though they are by the pool. I head that way and peek through the doorway.

"Ah, it's Sleeping Beauty, awakened from her slumber." Ryan catches my eye and raises his beer in my direction.

My grandmother laughs and turns towards me. "Grace, come sit. Are you hungry? Let me get you some food."

"I can get it. Please, you don’t have to get up."

"Oh, don’t be silly." she pats me on my arm as she moves past me. "Go sit."

I bob my head and sit in the free chair between my grandmother's seat and Ryan's. As I get closer, I realize Ryan is shirtless with a towel wrapped around his waist and still damp hair. I have to tell myself not to stare more than once. A body like that and an accent? Maybe I should visit more often.

"Um, I noticed you, ah, have an accent, um, but I couldn’t place it."

"Oh, right. I'm a Kiwi."

I snort. "A what?"

Ryan laughs at my reaction, running his hand through his hair. "Not the fruit. I'm from New Zealand. It’s—"

"I know where New Zealand is." I cut him off. "I've just never met anyone from there."

"Didn’t mean to imply you didn’t. Most people assume I'm Australian."

"Never met anyone from there either, but I did see those crocodile movies."

This makes Ryan laugh again, which makes me feel a little silly. My grandmother walks back in with my plate, and I rise to take it from her, thanking her. A filet of tilapia on rice surrounded by steamed carrots and green beans. She pours me a glass of white wine to go with it. I groan in appreciation at my first bite. This may be the best thing I have ever eaten.

"Your Gran is a wonderful cook." Ryan smiles at my reaction.

I blush. I didn’t realize he heard me. Meanwhile, my grandmother is telling him to hush. I listen to them chat as I quietly eat. This is commonplace for them. Ryan comes to have dinner with Kate most nights, sometimes taking a dip in her pool. He rents the house next door, and it doesn’t have a pool. In exchange for pool use and home cooked meals, Ryan keeps her company and takes care of her landscaping. I can tell my grandmother adores him. I am hungrier than I think and finish my plate in no time. I wave off help from Kate and get up to rinse my plate and put it in the dishwasher.

When I come back out, I notice she has refilled my wineglass. I am not much of a drinker and already feel a bit tipsy from the first glass. That doesn’t stop me from drinking it. I am on vacation.

Peering up at Ryan, I ask. "Why did you move to the U.S?"

"Guess I've got a bit of an adventurer in me and wanted to travel. I had been bumming around from place to place with some friends and came across a business opportunity here so I stayed."

"Ohhh. Where have you been?"

"All over Asia, Hawaii, then South Africa, Brazil, California, Puerto Rico, before settling here."

"This is the first time I've been outside of Ohio," I say, looking down.

"Do you want to travel?" Kate asks me.

"I really don’t know. Airplanes kind of make me nervous, but I would like to go see some places, maybe Paris or Dublin."

After another thirty minutes of talking, Ryan stands to leave, admitting he has an early day the next day.

"What do you do?" I ask.

"I run a water sports rental in St. Pete. Jet skis, kayaks, and fishing boats for charter. I'm taking a small group fishing in the gulf tomorrow."

"What fun. I love the water!"

"Would you like me to take you out while you're here?"

"I don’t know. I've never actually done any of those things before."

"You'll be in good hands with me."

I inhale, my eyes widening. Ryan clears his throat and looks down.

"What a wonderful idea," Kate says clapping, looking back and forth at us. "Ryan, what day works best for you?"

"Ahh, I'd have to check the calendar. Maybe the day after tomorrow." He looks at me, giving me a half smile.

"That sounds like a date," Kate says, patting me on the arm.

"A date? I, ah, have a, well, live with Jon. You see there—"

"Shhh, sweetheart. I meant like date on the calendar," Kate says, looking somewhat mischievously at me.

All I want to do is disappear. Ryan seems to be holding back a smile and leaves through the screen door, walking barefoot to his house. Kate laughs as my eyes are glued to his back as he walks away. He looks back right before walking out of view, and I quickly look away, wondering if he saw me watching him. Kate stands up, saying she is going to turn in. I follow her back into the house. As I walk back to my room, I think of all of the questions I have for my grandmother. Maybe tomorrow, after a good night of sleep, I will have an opportunity to find out what happened between her and my mom.

~*~

The next morning, I awake to the smell of coffee. I push myself up onto my elbows and deeply inhale. God, that smells amazing, good enough to start drinking coffee again. I take a moment to decide what to do. On one hand, I could go get some coffee, and I do really want some but, on the other hand, this may be the most comfortable bed I have ever slept in, and it feels like a disservice to leave it. I snuggle back under the covers only to give up, not being able to ignore nature’s call. I head straight to the bathroom. Checking myself out in the mirror, I pull my hair back into a messy bun at my nape. I had slept in an old pair of scrub pants and a concert tee. Off in search of coffee, I pad barefoot to the kitchen.

Kate is at the counter cutting a grapefruit in half. Raising one half, she asks if I want any.

"Sure." I peer at the coffeemaker. It looks fancy, and I can’t tell if it is done yet. "Coffee ready?"

"It is," Kate says, pulling a cup down from a cabinet and handing it to me.

I pour myself a cup and hold it right under my nose to smell. Nothing like the smell of fresh coffee. Sometimes I wonder what I prefer: the smell or the taste. After adding a dollop of milk, I take a small sip, trying not to burn my tongue. Kate has a tray of muffins and fruit that I take from her, making her tsk at me. I shrug and follow her out to the pool. Setting the tray on the table, I hurry back inside to retrieve my coffee. I don’t want it to feel abandoned. Kate laughs at my near embrace of my mug. I had gotten out of the habit of drinking coffee in the morning, but I'm looking forward to picking it back up. As we eat, I push my fears aside and ask Kate point blank what had happened between her and my mother.

Kate pushes her plate away and steeples her hands on the table in front of her. I pause to watch her, noticing her hands tremble.

"That, my dear, is a long story."





"I've got a week" I try to joke.

"That you do." She brings one of her hands up to finger the wisps of fine hairs along her scalp. "I just wonder if you'll want to leave early once I tell you." her eyes seem wet and her voice hushed.

I reach out to touch her arm, suddenly feeling guilty for asking. "I'm sorry. I just can't help but wonder why I didn’t know about you."

"It's alright dear. Don’t apologize." Kate pushes her chair back and stands.

"You haven’t finished eating. Please come sit back down."

"Oh, I'm not going far," Kate murmurs as she sits on a wicker-style loveseat a few feet from the table. "I just like to be busy when I talk." She pulls a bundle of yarn with two needles sticking out if it from a basket that sits below the loveseat.

She pulls the needles from the bundle, careful not to drop any of the stitches and begins to knit. Once she knits a couple stitches, she looks up at me, her hands still busy and says, "Your mother stopped talking to me after I tried to convince her to leave your father and give you up for adoption."

I gasp.

"I want you to know, my dear, that I have regretted that for twenty-five years."

"Why would you tell her to do that?"

"Well, I was just scared she would end up like me, and I also didn’t like the idea of her leaving me behind. I had no right to put that much pressure on your mother. I'm not sure if your mother ever told you much about me or her life growing up." Kate eyes search mine.

I shake my head and look down.

Kate blinks a few times, taking a shaky breath and goes on. "I see. Well, I married very young, too young. I was a lovesick fool, and your grandfather was a good-for-nothing. We got married when I found out I was pregnant with Ronald, and not long after, your mother was born. Your grandfather left us. Here I was, all on my own, with two little ones. I moved back in with my parents, which was a nightmare because now, not only was I a disgrace, I was also divorced. In those days, that was a very bad thing."

As I listen to her speak, she never slows her pace, needles clicking. Row after row of, well I'm not quite sure what she is making, but am amazed at how fast she goes with barely a glance down.

"Living with my parents was awful. Trying to get out of their house is what had pushed me into the arms of your grandfather in the first place. My mother watched your mother and uncle while I went to work. I managed to scrape enough together to get my own place. My mother kept watching them while I worked but at least I was out of their house. I waitressed and worked like a dog. It was not a life I would wish on anyone, but somehow I made due. Once your mother and uncle were old enough to keep watch of themselves, I stopped taking them to my parents. Happy to once and for all be free of them, I also swore off men. I had plenty sniffing around, but men led to babies and I had enough of those already." Kate motions for me to pass her unfinished plate to her. Setting her knitting on her lap, she takes a bite of her muffin and puts the plate on the seat next to her.

Once she finishes chewing, she goes on. "Your uncle Ronny was a bit of a trouble maker. He was always up to no good. Anne tried to keep up with him, but Ronny was almost two years older than her and your mother was on the small side, even as a child. I was at work when it happened." Kate pauses again, setting her knitting in her lap once more to pick up a napkin to dab the corners of her eyes. Tears keep forming so she looks up at the ceiling and blinks rapidly before going on. "Ronny had built a fort out of old boards he came across on his escapades, high up in an oak tree. It made your mother so angry that she was so small and couldn’t climb up there with him. She used to sit cross-legged at the bottom of the tree and wait for him to come down. While I was at work one day, a board broke, and Ronny fell out of the tree. He landed right in front of your mother and broke his neck."

Kate sets her knitting to the side and grabs her cane to stand. Placing one shaking hand on her hip, she randomly pats it. "Your mother didn’t leave him. She was too little to understand that he was dead. It was maybe hours later when I got home from work and went looking for them. When I first saw them, it just looked like Ronny was lying on his belly looking at a bug or something." Kate takes a deep breath and starts pacing slowly along the pool deck, still patting her hip with her hand, almost like setting a rhythm for her words to follow. "I didn’t think anything was wrong until I saw Anne crying. I started hollering at Ronny to get up and Anne just looked up at me shaking her little face, saying ‘Mama, mama, mama.’ I fell to my knees and turned him over. He was lifeless in my arms, already cold, and heavy. I think people heard me screaming because the next thing I knew my father was pulling me off of him and my mother was holding Anne."

Kate takes another napkin off the tray, and after wiping her eyes, blows her nose before sitting back down. I am oblivious to my own tears as I sit next to my grandmother and put my hand on her arm. I want to hug her but feel uncertain, having only met her the day before. Kate reaches a hand up to wipe the tears from my eyes and then pats my hand.

"I never even knew I had an uncle," I say, sniffling. "How old was he?"

"Ronny was nine. Your mother was seven. I had a very hard time dealing with losing Ronny. Your mother and I moved back in with my folks because I could not manage to work after that. Your mother, if possible, took it even worse. To her, Ronny hung the moon. She used to follow him everywhere. Now that he was gone, she seemed lost. I wasn’t much help. I understand that now. I was the adult and should have paid more attention to her grief. I can't claim to have been much of a mother after that. Your mother slowly came around with no help from me. If anything, she took care of me. Five years later, I managed to go back to work and was set on staying at my parent's house this time around. It was just easier that way, and your mother and mine got on so I just stayed."

Kate picks her knitting back up, and I lean my head on a pillow of my hands on the back of the loveseat. "Your mother met your father when she was sixteen years old. She hated him. I think he bullied someone, but your mother, little thing that she was, scared the crap out of him and stopped him. After that, she could not get rid of him. He was like some lovesick puppy that could not leave her be. It wore her down eventually, and before I knew it, every time I turned around I was tripping over them kissing. They didn’t even try to sneak around. It was as though someone sewed their lips together. My father was old-fashioned, and it drove him nuts. I wasn’t happy about it, either. Anne was only seventeen when she found out she was pregnant with you. I could see history repeating itself and your father leaving her just like your grandfather had left me. I tried to talk your mother into going to college and giving you up for adoption, but her heart was set on marrying your father. I just could not believe it would work out and told her so. We were both stubborn, and I told her I never wanted to see her again if she went through with it. That is my greatest regret."

"Your father had a friend who had moved out to Ohio and offered them a place to stay. I tried sending your mother letters over the years, but they all came back return to sender. I know now your father was a good man and didn’t leave her. I only wish I would have trusted that then. I know your mother never forgave me for what I did, and now that she's gone, well, I hope maybe we can have a chance to still be family."

"I'm sorry you never had the chance to talk with her again. I'm sorry she sent your letters back."

"Shh, sweetheart," Kate says, patting me on the cheek. "In time, I will be with Anne and Ronny again."

After our talk, Kate admits to being overtired and needing to lie down. I clear the table and load the dishwasher. I think about putting my suit on and going for a swim but after sitting on my bed decide a bit of rest is in order. I replay the conversation in my head. I cannot imagine how Kate or my mom dealt with Ronny's death. Picturing my mother, only seven years old, with his body breaks my heart. I also cannot understand why my mother had kept all of this from me. I wonder if my father even knew about Ronny. Part of me can understand Kate's advice to do an adoption. My mother had been so young.

I cringe, remembering the very in-depth birds and bees talk I had been subjected to as an adolescent. Had my mother worried the same thing would happen to me? Thinking about it, she did seem to be very pushy about me getting on the pill before I even contemplated having sex for the first time. Even considering all of that, I can't understand why my mother would still refuse to reconcile with Kate. I know she was stubborn, but to keep my own grandmother from me seemed overly harsh. Is there more to the story, I wonder as I fall asleep.

When I wake up the next morning, I consider pulling back the fitted sheet to check the brand of the featherbed. I seriously need one back home. This is the most comfortable bed I have ever slept on. My stomach rumbles as I stretch, reminding me that I missed lunch and dinner the day before. Walking to the kitchen, I feel bad for sleeping through two meals in as many days. I pause at the photo hanging in the hallway. I lean in to look at Ronny. This picture must have been taken not long before his death. My heart breaks a little looking at his impish grin.

My grandmother is sitting on the wicker loveseat, knitting.

"What are you making?"

"It’s a prayer shawl. I'm part of a knitting group at my church. We knit these shawls and then the pastor prays over them, and we give them to people going through a rough time."

"It's very pretty."

"Thank you. Do you knit?"

I shake my head, reaching out to touch the shawl.

"My group meets tomorrow and since you'll be spending the day with Ryan I'm going to go. So I'm trying to finish it.

"Oh, right…"

"He's a very handsome young man isn't he?"

I look at her, confused.

"Ryan" she answers the question I didn't ask.

"Kate…"

"Okay, I'll stop. Hungry?"

My stomach answers for me. I don’t let Kate get up to make me something, telling her to keep knitting and just let me know what I can have. She grumbles about me not being very easy to wait on and tells me there is lunch meat and cheese in the fridge. I make myself a sandwich with some chips on the side and grab a soda before heading back outside. I still cannot get over how pleasant it is compared to Ohio this time of year. We chat while I eat, keeping to easy topics, neither of us prepared to revisit the emotional discussion of yesterday morning.

Sometime after lunch, I change into my swimsuit and try out the pool. It is a bit strange to be swimming outside this time of year, but the water feels wonderful. I’m dozing in an armchair-style float when a splash wakes me. Blinking, I look around trying to place the source of the splash, locking eyes with Kate who is still sitting on the loveseat. How strange, I think to myself. Suddenly, I’m in midair as someone flips my float. I come up sputtering and wiping water from my eyes to see Ryan standing in front of me laughing. Ryan is clearly not expecting me to pounce on him. I dunk him in the water, causing him to do some sputtering of his own.

My eyes widen at his mischievous expression as he charges me. I squeal, “No, no, no!” But it’s useless as his hands circle my waist and he pulls me under. As we're coming back up, I kick his legs out from under him before fleeing to the other end of the pool. With my back up against the wall and just my head above the water, I keep my eyes on Ryan. He puts his hands up in defeat and slowly swims over to me.

He's laughing. "Sorry about flipping you. I couldn’t resist."

"None of that tomorrow."

Ryan leans in and whispers, "No promises," in my ear.

I pray he doesn’t see me shiver and try to seem riveted by the cuticle of my thumb to avoid looking at him.

"So where are you taking Grace tomorrow?" Kate asks.

"That, Kate, is a surprise."

I can’t help but flush and look up at him then. He grins at me, lifting his brows up and down a couple of times, making her laugh.

"Just bring her back in one piece," Kate says, getting up to start dinner.

"Oh, let me help," I say, swimming over to the ladder and climbing out. I can feel Ryan's eyes on my back. I grab my towel and walk inside, doing my best not to drip everywhere. Kate is making a chicken casserole and lets me make the side salad. Once the chicken is in the oven and the salad in the fridge, we go back outside. Ryan is just climbing out of the pool. I stop mid-step to watch the water bead and roll down his chest. Kate, who is standing behind me, clears her throat to bring me back down to earth. I feel flustered at the thought of spending the day with him tomorrow, wondering if I will make an ass out of myself.

Ryan drinks a beer while Kate and I share a bottle of wine with dinner. The chicken is just as good as the tilapia from the first night. I’m going to have to try and learn what I can from Kate in the kitchen over the next few days. Over dinner, Ryan tells us all about the group he had taken fishing that day. With tourists, he mainly does catch and release. Only the truly serious sport fishermen want to preserve some of their catches. He even has a buddy he could refer them to should they want them mounted for display. I am curious about what he has planned for the next day. Ryan tells me to be ready by nine and to wear my suit. Flashbacks of his hands on my waist make me gulp, causing Kate to glance at me.

Ryan leaves not long after dinner. I clean up after Kate goes to bed and then head to bed myself. I lie there, thinking of my mother and what it must have been like having Kate as a mom and no dad. I wonder what happened to Kate after my mother left. They had lived in Pennsylvania at the time. How had Kate ended up in Florida?

~*~

I wake with a start the next morning, grabbing my phone to see how much time I have to get ready before Ryan arrives. I have two hours. Not thinking Kate is up yet, I take a shower and get dressed. Pulling on my same suit from the day before, I struggle over what to wear over it, settling on some running shorts that dry easily and a white V-neck t-shirt, hopeful the white will reflect the sun. I had packed plenty of sunscreen and wonder if it is too early to apply, deciding to hold off I set the bottle next to my purse before walking out to the kitchen. Kate is up and has just started a pot of coffee when I walk in.

I freeze when I see what she is putting into the oven. Cinnamon rolls, my mother's recipe. I guess the recipe is actually Kate's. I can’t help but feel pulled back to the last time I made them. How excited I had been to do something sweet for Jon and how he had thrown them against the wall. Kate is looking at me. I force a smile and make myself a cup of coffee. We eat by the pool and then Kate leaves to get ready for her knitting club. One of the members will be picking her up around eleven. I am happy that my visit will not make her miss her meeting. She seems to really enjoy her knitting. She had finished the shawl the night before, after dinner. I picked it up from the arm of the loveseat and unfold it. It’s a plum shade of purple and has a diamond-like pattern to it with ribbed edging. I gather it in my arms, saying my own little prayer for whoever will receive it before refolding it and setting it back down.

Ryan comes over not long after Kate's finished getting ready, opening the front door and shouting, “Hullo,” before walking in.

"We're out back," Kate calls out.

Ryan is wearing loose green swim shorts that hang low on his hips and a blue t-shirt. I try hard not to look at his waist.

He checks out what I’m wearing. "Wearing togs under that?"

"Huh?"

"Oh right. Sorry," he says, lifting his arm up to scratch the back of his neck, exposing a bit of his abs. "Your suit."

"Um." I’m trying not to drool. "Yes, I am wearing my suit," I say, lifting my shirt, wondering why his eyes just dilated.

"Ready?"

"Should I put on sunscreen? I have some on my face, but since it isn’t summer, I wasn’t sure about the rest of me."

"Sure, wouldn’t want you to burn."

I go to my room to get the sunscreen and take off my shirt. Once back in the kitchen I ask Ryan if he will help me get my back. He gives me a cheeky grin, motioning with his finger for me to turn around. Ryan starts with my shoulders, almost massaging them as he moves to the back of my neck. I have to control myself from dipping my head back onto him as his long fingers work the lotion in. Ryan squeezes more lotion into his hands before rubbing my arms. My eyes are closed as his hands are on me, but when I open them he is standing right in front of me, holding out the bottle.

I blush when he says, "You should probably do your front and legs."

Yes, that is a good idea, I think, taking the bottle from him to finish up before putting my shirt back on. Per his recommendation, I am wearing simple sneakers.

"Should I bring anything?"

"Nope. I've got it covered."

Kate tells us to have fun, winking at me, and asks if we will be home by dinner. Ryan says he wouldn’t dream of eating anywhere else, which makes Kate happy. As we walk up to his Wrangler, I grin when I see two kayaks on his roof. I have always wanted to try this.

"So where are you taking me?"

"Someplace wet," Ryan laughs.

"Silly Kiwi."

"Hey, well done!"

"I thought you were crazy when you said it," I admit.

We’ve been in the car sometime before I groan "I forgot my sunglasses."

"Not a problem" Ryan says, reaching to the floor board behind me, producing a worn looking baseball cap and hands it to me.

I flip the visor mirror open and put it on, pulling my pony tail through the opening in the back. The hat is huge on me.

"Is it okay if I adjust it?" Jon had gotten angry at me once when I had done that to one of his hats without asking first.

Ryan gives me a strange look and nods.

The hat has a strap you can use to tighten it with on the back. I make it as small as I can. It is still a bit big on me but will work. Once I have my hair pulled through, I turn to Ryan and smile. He laughs, pushing the bill down so I can’t see him anymore.

"Hey!" As much as I protest, I have to admit I am drawn to Ryan. Why does that make me feel so guilty?