Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(48)

She’s as sharp as I promised Grace she is. I always suspected Grandma Rose moved to that tiny condo to force me out on my own. She didn’t want me beholden to her.

I am. But not in the way she thinks. I don’t feel obligated or inconvenienced by her. It’s an honor to help pay for her care. I’ve been doing her finances and making sure she has what she needs since I was twenty-one and beginning to excel in my field. She argued at first, but I was as clear about my wishes as she was about hers. I wanted to help. She honored me by allowing me to help.

“Facility” is a cold word for where Grandma Rose lives. The manicured grounds, even in the midst of autumn’s shedding leaves, are immaculate. The burnt auburn, golden yellow, russet brown, and even the festive orange of the porch pumpkins are movie-set perfect.

Black and orange balloons are tied around one of the porch’s columns, a Mylar skull-printed one reading: HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

I pull my grandmother’s wrapped gift from the backseat. From a shopping bag I remove a headband with red sequined devil horns and hand it to Grace.

“What?” She laughs as she puts it on, the horns poking up from her red hair. Just as devilish as I imagined her. My headgear is classic—the arrow-through-the-head bit that Steve Martin used to do onstage. Grandma loves him.

“You look ridiculous.” Grace is still laughing.

“That’s the idea.” I take her hand and walk with her to the porch. “Not only is her party on Halloween,” I tell Grace. “Halloween is her actual birthday.”

“Your grandma has a Halloween birthday. I’m so jealous!”

“It suits her,” I say as we enter.

The place is modern and clean, the nursing staff friendly and smiley, but there’s no escaping that beef-broth scent of an old folks’ home. The good news is that this place is only for the firm of mind. I’m glad Grandma Rose isn’t suffering from memory loss.

In the common room, a Bose speaker pipes “Monster Mash” into the air, and a few couples sway and shake their hips as much as Mother Nature allows. My grandmother is among them. I smile the moment I spot her.

“Which one is she?” Grace leans in to whisper.

“The one wearing a halo.” A white pipe-cleaner ring attached to a headband pokes out of my grandmother’s short, white hair. “Don’t buy that lie for a second.”

Before I can issue more of a warning than that, my grandmother throws both arms into the air, nearly opening the white silky bathrobe acting as her angel garb in the process.

“Davis!” She bursts through the crowd and one older gentleman wobbles dangerously before a nurse catches him by the arm and stands him upright.

“Breakin’ hips and takin’ names,” I say as I bend at the waist to envelop my diminutive grandmother in a hug. She doesn’t smell like beef soup. She smells like Chanel No. 5, the classy broad.

“Steve Martin,” she tuts, tapping the pointy end of the arrow headband I’m wearing.

“Rose Price, Davis’s grandmother.” She offers a hand—one tipped in orange and black manicured nails, and Grace shakes it. “I like those horns.”

“Thank you.” The wonderment on my girl’s face is priceless.

“Well? Introduce yourself!” Grandma Rose demands.

“Sorry. I’m Grace Buchanan.”

“Oh, sounds regal.” My grandmother tips her head in my direction. “What are you doing with this louse?”

Grace laughs, probably unsure how to respond.

“Be nice.” I hold up my grandmother’s gift. “Where does this go?”

“To my room!” she announces, arthritic finger pointing into the air.

“What about the party?” I ask as I follow her down the hallway. She may be eighty-four, but she moves fast.

“Eh, it’s dead in there. That’s a dangerous joke to tell in a place like this.” She winks over her shoulder at Grace but doesn’t stop her forward movement. “Said that at a party two weeks ago and I was right. Maybelline Wolf dropped dead on the spot.”

Grace covers her mouth, smothering a laugh that’s likely a combination of shock and amusement. I give her a quick lift of my eyebrows as if to say, I warned you.

She squeezes my hand in hers and we follow my grandmother into her room.





Grace


What a cool lady.

No kidding, just the coolest.

If I’m fortunate enough to reach my eighties, I hope to do so with the class, fortitude, and mindfulness of Rose Price.

Take right now, for instance. She’s bent over her new birthday gift—an Apple laptop with an extra-large screen—while Davis shows her the ins and outs of FaceTime. He’s talking to her from his phone about three feet away, which is adorable.

She’s scrawled a few notes on a pad of paper labeled “scratch pad” that features a cartoon drawing of a naked backside and a cat clawing its way down one of the thighs.

What a character.

Davis excuses himself to fetch us ladies a glass of punch, and Rose promptly rolls her desk chair to the bed where I’ve been sitting.

“Okay, gorgeous. Out with it. How hot is this relationship? You two are positively decadent together. I can only imagine how much heat there is in the bedroom.”

My mouth goes dry with shock. I hope Davis returns to save me soon. I’m not sure how to handle this much eye contact and genuine interest from someone older than me. My parents are infamous for their narcissism.