Читать книгу Life Without You - Liesel Schmidt - Страница 18

Chapter Eight

The morning passed in an easy melting of hours. We drifted along together, separating to make our solo voyages from corner to corner of the bookstore, each missionless in our missions. And that was truly the point. We had random points of rendezvous as we traversed the sales floor, checking occasionally with one another to decide if we wanted more time or if either of us was ready to leave. We made our way through a stream of stores this way, happily floating along in a comfortable bubble of silence, tossing in an observation here and there, a random thought or memory adding color to the landscape as we passed.

And then, there it was—rising up before us like a beacon.

The glittering storefront of Victoria’s Secret.

To say the magnetic pull was undeniable would have been an understatement. It was like being sucked into a vortex. My feet propelled me forward in a steady march, seemingly of their own accord.

“If you want to go in, I’ll go just down a bit to that sports store.”

I snapped my mouth shut, realizing I had stopped dead in front of the store’s big window, with its proud display of sleekly simple mannequins decked out in alluring lace underthings and satiny smooth slips—cheerfully thwarting the lines of modesty, even in their lack of detail.

Not only had I stopped there in my tracks, but I’d been staring, slack-jawed and transfixed like a bug with the zapper in its sights.

Dellie.

The mannequins seemed to whisper.

“What?” I said, not sure whether I was really talking to the mannequins or my grandfather, who now stood next to me on the sidewalk, his eyes boring into me as he waited for me to answer.

“Do you want to go in?” he repeated, not unkindly.

My eyes widened in horror.

I was standing in front of a lingerie store. With my grandfather.

“Um,” I stuttered, not sure whether I wanted to admit to the fact that I really did want to go in. After all, what sane woman wants their grandpa to know that they wear Victoria’s Secret?

It was almost too much.

He chuckled. “It’s okay. Your Grammie used to like to go there for lotions. They smell nice, but I always let her go in by herself.”

I nodded enthusiastically, like a bobble head on a dashboard. “Yes, lotion. Very, very nice lotion,” I said quickly, not wanting to acknowledge the big pink panty-clad elephant in the room. Better not to let his mind wander that way, that his Dellie would ever consider wearing such scanty panties.

Noo. The only possible reason for me to ever go in there was for their signature line of body lotions and sprays. Heaven forbid I wear anything but Underoos or Fruit of the Loom.

“She wore the one that was purple,” he said now, his voice dropping to a sad hush.

“Love Spell,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“The purple lotion she wore. It was called Love Spell,” I said, smiling a small, wobbly smile at him. “It’s one of my favorites, too.” I paused, suddenly hearing words I’d heard her mutter to the sales consultants every single, solitary time I’d been in to a Victoria’s Secret with her. All those times, it had seemed an embarrassment—a crotchety, unnecessary observation that made her seem unpleasant and contrary. Two qualities that were far from the loving, giving woman that she actually was. “Victoria doesn’t have any secrets left,” I murmured.

A burst of laughter escaped Grandpa’s lips. “That’s what she said, isn’t it?” he boomed, shaking his head with a fond smile.

“Every time,” I agreed.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet, the leather well worn and bursting with bits of paper and cards shoved into every available space. “Here,” he said, flipping it open to pluck out a twenty. “Buy yourself some Love Spell and give them the message for your grammie.” The grin that spread across his face was one of boyish delight, one that broke my heart at the same time as it made it soar.

“For you, Grandpa, I’ll gladly tell them,” I said, smiling back at him as I gingerly took the extended bill from his fingers. “Stay out of trouble while I’m in there,” I added in mock sternness.

“I’m going to go over to that sports store and see if they have anything with my driver’s number on it. I’d like a new hat. You take your time,” he said, still smiling.

I leveled my gaze at him, more sober now. We’d gone to all the previous stores together, even if we hadn’t stayed glued to each other’s sides while we were there, and I felt a little like I was abandoning ship by not accompanying him. “You’re sure?” I asked, searching for reassurance.

He nodded without hesitation. “Most definitely. You go on in and find something, Dellie.”

Find something.

Though I knew their context, they were words that could have been taken so many ways.

Find something. In yourself. In your life. Find something to be proud of. Find something that makes you feel whole. Find something that makes you strong.

Find something.

“I will,” I said, taking a deep, determined breath. “I will.”

The warm glow of the store’s interior seemed something like a hug, and a welcoming waft of scented air greeted me as I entered the retail ode to lady-dom.

“Welcome to Victoria’s Secret,” a voice chirped as I passed a table of artfully arranged panties and bras, a colorful wash of neatly folded fabrics whispering suggestions of romance and self-confidence.

Honey, she doesn’t have any secrets left. The words tickled my tongue, begging to be let out to play.

“Hi,” I heard myself say instead, meekly glancing around the store as I got my bearings.

First things first, I needed to find the lotions. Then I would be free to explore and find what I really wanted in here: another pair of sparkly panties. They didn’t have to be pink, but I definitely wanted them to be sparkly. The pair I had found with Charlie had been perfect, and now I had my sights set on something equally special to add. I had a gift card from Bette and strict instructions to buy at least one more pair of pretties while I was here, and I was going to make the most of my unexpected trip to this palace of panties.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” The girl in front of me looked to be about twenty, dressed head to toe in the store’s strictly mandated black, though she wasn’t letting corporate dictates box her in—she wore a lacy black bustier top peeking out of a black blazer, a cropped specimen that hit her at hip level and showed off an hourglass figure and hiked her boobs up like a car on jacks. Leather leggings were capped off by patent black leather heels that appeared to add six inches to her height; and her bleached blonde hair had an unexpected shock of purple in it, cut into a pixie that displayed high cheekbones and bright green eyes. If she hadn’t seemed so friendly, I might have hated her.

“No, not really,” I said noncommittally, not wanting to be trailed around the store. “Just looking to see what’s in.”

“My name’s Erin. Just let me know if you need any help,” she bubbled.

“Great, thanks,” I bubbled back.

She toddled off, heels clacking over the floor’s slick tiles as she went.

When she was out of sight, I set about my wandering in earnest, scoping out each table and rack to search for something that fit the “sparkly” category.

It didn’t have to be pink.

Heck, it really didn’t even have to be sparkly; but I really wanted something sparkly.

Wear sparkles, feel sparkly, right?

And then, I saw it: a bright teal stretch satin and sequin thong that hung with glorious deliciousness from the clips on a hanger on a wall display, right below a coordinating bra with padded cups generous enough to fit my head.

True, I could never hope to wear a bra like that, but the panties were definitely in my wheelhouse.

They were decadent.

They were divine.

They were something that belonged nowhere in a sensible woman’s lingerie drawer.

They were the antithesis of the white granny panty.

And I had to have them.

“My George would have loved those,” a voice quipped behind me.

A guilty ripple of shock ran up my spine, and I snatched my hand away.

“George had a wicked streak, that’s for sure,” the voice continued. While the voice bore distinct traces of age and years of a cigarette habit, it was still melodic. There was feistiness and spunk, and I could imagine the speaker, even as I turned around.

I tried to arrange my face into a confident smile rather than a guilty, self-conscious grimace to face this person, this interrupter of my hunt for the perfect panty.

The face that greeted me bore no resemblance to the image I had conjured in my head.

I was expecting to see Shirley MacLaine but was greeted, instead, by someone whose features seemed a strange mash-up between Estelle Getty and Ellen Albertini Dow, that weird little old lady who played the rapping grandma in The Wedding Singer. Needless to say, I had to shift my gaze down to meet her eyes—so short was she.

Not that I’m all that tall, but still.

She was positively itty-bitty.

“And boy, could we make some trouble together,” she said, reaching up, up to stand on tiptoe and trace over the sequins. “George would have loved these,” she said again.

“George sounds like quite a guy,” I murmured, not quite sure how else to respond. I’d never met this woman before in my life, so the randomness of this encounter—while it certainly had all the components of an interesting story—was something I felt unprepared for. I don’t generally start up conversations with women who are obviously pushing ninety in the lingerie store, and the fact that I’d been fingering a pair of such racy underwear felt a bit…taboo?

“Oh, he was,” said the aged little woman who stood before me, her eyes crinkling in a smile. “We shocked everyone when we got married. It was quite the scandal,” she tittered.

By that point, I couldn’t help the smile that crept across my lips. There was no way around it. In the two minutes we’d been in one another’s company, I had no choice but to be absolutely fascinated by the impossibly impish little sprite in front of me, and the writer inside of me was dying to know more.

“Really? Why?”

“Because he was already engaged to someone else, and we ran off together and eloped!” she stage-whispered, leaning closer to me and widening bright green eyes that were positively vivacious.

“You stole him from his fiancée? How did you do that?” I marveled.

She simply smiled. “A lady has to have some secrets, now doesn’t she?”

“That’s what my grandmother always said; not that you’d have much to worry about if you told me. I’m not even from here—I’m here from Pensacola, visiting.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” she replied sweetly. “Do you have family here?”

I nodded. “My mom’s family is all here. My grandmother died about six months ago, so I thought I’d come and spend some time with my grandfather.” It was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Not that I owed her the whole story, but I still felt a little guilty at the spin I was putting on things: dutiful, loving granddaughter on a trip to comfort her grieving grandfather. Again, partially true, but to get into the details of my own need for the trip would have taken too long. And been a little too personal, really. Better to keep it all simple.

“That’s a shame,” she tutted, her previous smile replaced by a look of concern. “What was her name? I might have known her. When you’re as old as me and you stay in one place your whole life, you know everybody.”

“Meredith Samuelson. Everybody called her Merry, though.”

The sprite’s eyes grew wide. “You’re one of Merry Samuelson’s granddaughters? Oh, my dear.” She clucked. “Dear, dear, I’m so sorry,” she added, reaching up to rest a light hand on my arm, just the right mix of sorrow, sympathy, and social propriety. She may have had a thing for racy lingerie, but the lady also had class. No doubt this woman had been to many a cotillion in her youth. “You must miss her—she was such a sweet lady. And she certainly lived up to her name.” She paused. “Now, which one of the grandchildren are you?”

“I’m Odelle.”

“No,” she protested. “Dellie’s only a bitty little girl. You’re a young woman; you can’t be Dellie,” she said, looking square into my face. “Well.” Headshaking ensued as she searched my eyes. “Time does fly, doesn’t it, Dellie?”

I nodded.

“Your grandmama and I didn’t really run in the same circles, but I always thought she was lovely. And her cakes were to die for. She made every wedding cake, anniversary cake, and birthday cake I ever needed. If it wasn’t Merry’s cake, it wasn’t at one of my parties; and every lady in the League always called her, too,” said the tiny woman in front of me, whose name I had yet to discover.

“She did make some wonderful cakes,” I agreed solemnly. “You’re going to have to forgive me, though—I don’t remember ever meeting you. And it’s been a very long time since I last visited, I’m sorry to say,” I said, meaning every word to my core.

It really had been far too long since I’d made my last trip up there, and the changes I saw everywhere seemed to make it glaringly obvious. Now, it was too late. Grammie was gone, and I’d never again get to curl into her arms for a hug as she sat in her blue La-Z-Boy recliner or watch her whip butter into the sugar for her frosting, her generous frame moving about in the familiar process of mixing magic. She wore no chef’s jacket in her small kitchen, but the housecoats she always donned may as well have been her uniform as she worked, tunelessly singing the words to some old song from her youth.

I felt a swell of emotion run through me.

“Well, it’s good that you’re here now.” The white head nodded, then stopped abruptly as she remembered that she still hadn’t properly introduced herself. “But Lord, where are my manners?” she scolded herself.

Given our earlier conversation, I doubted that she was one to stand on ceremony and had a certain relish for thwarting the etiquette books to create a stir. Not that she hadn’t memorized every word on every page, but one got the distinct impression that she didn’t often heed the rules unless they served to her benefit.

“I’m Annabelle MacMillan,” she said at last, her face once again wreathed in a smile. “Like I said, your grandmama and I didn’t really socialize much; but I knew her well enough to know that many, many people loved her and will miss her.” Her hand remained on my forearm as she spoke.

I nodded in agreement. “So how did you find out about her and her cakes?” I asked, my curiosity sufficiently piqued.

Her smile turned mysterious, and it seemed to hold the barest hint of sadness.

I took a second to survey this tiny woman again, my imagination running wild with all the possible tales that were locked into her memory. No doubt she had some tales to tell—but was she willing to share? And really, how did she know my grandmother, aside from all the sheet cakes and buttercream-covered tiers? Something told me that there was more to the story than simple sugar.

“Merry and I knew each other when we were young ladies, actually,” she said. “Her mother worked for my family for awhile, coming over to the house to tend to some housekeeping that Mama needed done.”

I felt myself staring at her as I combed my memory. Grannie Rose had been a housekeeper? Had I known that? For some reason, I didn’t remember ever hearing of this aspect of the family history, but with as much glossing over as happened in the familial timeline, I wasn’t surprised. Domestic duties wouldn’t exactly have ranked high on my great-grandmother’s bragging list.

“Really? Wow, your family must have been well-off, then,” I said, studying her face for a reaction.

She frowned. “Dear, it’s impolite to discuss money,” she said, surprising me. “But yes, Daddy did well. And Mama couldn’t cook or clean to save her life, so she had hired help for that,” Annabelle said, shaking her head mournfully. “She was good at hosting a party and arranging a fundraiser, but she was never raised to know how to do anything that really required her to get her hands dirty.” Annabelle tutted.

“So Grannie Rose came and did laundry and cooked and cleaned?” I asked, just to clarify.

Annabelle answered with a short nod of her very white head. “Only for a few months, though. Our regular housekeeper retired, and your great-grandmama filled in for her while we looked for a new one,” she explained.

“Why didn’t your mama just keep her on, instead of hiring someone else?” I asked. Reasonable enough question, right?

“That wasn’t really something your great-grannie wanted to do full-time. She just had to earn some extra money for awhile, is what she said.” The tone of Annabelle’s voice hinted that she had other suspicions, but if she knew the real truth, she wasn’t letting on. Maybe she’d divulge later—if there ever was a later.

Right now, though, it was time to get a move on. I still had to hunt down the lotion and buy my panties—no way was I going to go back out to meet Grandpa empty-handed, not after having spent so long in the store. He was probably bored to death by now.

“Annabelle, it’s been such a pleasure to meet you, but I have to scoot,” I said, hoping the disappointment I felt in having to leave was clear in my voice. I really did want to know more, and I had no doubt she had more to tell. “Grandpa’s out there somewhere waiting on me, and I still haven’t picked up what I came in here for,” I said. “I’d love to talk more, though,” I ventured, hearing the words come out in a rush. “Is there a way I can reach you?”

“Oh, yes, of course!” She laughed, apparently finding my question a bit absurd. “I’ll give you my number…and I’m on Facebook,” she said, whipping out an iPhone encased in pink crystals. The woman may have been nearing the century mark on her life, but everything about her exuded youthful energy. “Do you Facebook?”

I knew my face registered the shock I was feeling, but I could only hope she was too preoccupied with her cell phone to see it.

“Um, yes,” I stammered, trying to recover quickly—and gracefully. “Yes, ma’am, I’m on Facebook.”

“Well, then, you can friend me on Facebook,” she replied, sounding gleeful. “I’m on Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest, too!” she added. “I like to keep up with things, you know how it is.”

Of course I did. Didn’t everybody?

I blinked once. Twice.

Who was this woman?

She slid a glance at me. “Well don’t look so shocked, honey.” She laughed again. “I may be in my eighties, but I’m far from kicking any buckets!”

“Clearly!” I said, feeling the blush rise in my cheeks.

Annabelle winked, quick as a flash. “I have a brand new pair of leopard-print Louboutins, and I have every intention of wearing them at my ninetieth birthday party,” she said hotly. “My George would have loved them.”

Something about Annabelle MacMillan told me that when she had her mind set to something, nothing would stop her.

I left the store a few minutes later, purchases in hand and now in possession of Annabelle’s number. I could hardly wait to hear more from this captivating little creature. And to find out more about George, their scandalous romance—and just how well she knew my family.