Too Good to Be True(58)

Pulling into the visitors’ lot at Golden Meadows, I bucked up a bit. This place was good for the spirit. “Hi, Shirley,”

I said to the receptionist as I went in.

“Hello, Grace.” She smiled. “And who have we here? Why, it’s Angus! Hello, honey! Hello! Do you want a cookie?” I watched in amusement as Shirley convulsed in delight at the sight of my dog, who was extremely popular here. Angus, knowing he had a captive audience, raised his right paw and tilted his little head as Shirley swooned with joy.

“You sure you don’t mind watching him?” I asked as Angus delicately (we were in public, after all) ate the proffered cookie.

“Mind? Of course not! I love him! Yes, I do! I love you, Angus!”

Smiling, I walked down the hall. “Hey, everyone!” I called as I went into the activity room where we held Dancin’ with the Oldies each week.

“Hello, Grace!” they chorused. I hugged and kissed and patted, and my heart was eased a good bit.

Julian was there, too, and the sight of my old buddy made me just about burst into tears. “I miss you, ugly,” I said to him. Dancin’ with the Oldies hadn’t met last week, due to a conflict with a free blood pressure screening.

“I miss you, too,” he said, pulling a face. “This dating thing isn’t working for me, Grace. I say forget it.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“A whole lot of nothing,” he answered. “It’s just…I’m not meant to be with anyone, I think. Romantically, anyway.

It’s not the worst thing to be alone, is it?”

“No,” I lied. “Not at all! Come over for Project Runway tomorrow, okay?”

“Thank you. I’ve been so lonely.” He gave me a sad smile.

“Me, too, buddy.” I squeezed his hand in relief.

“Okay, good people!” Julian called, patting my head and pushing Play. “Tony Bennett wants you to Sing, You Sinners! Gracie, let’s jitterbug!”

Three dances later, flushed and panting, I took a seat next to my grandmother. “Hello, Mémé,” I said, giving her withered cheek a kiss.

“You look like a tramp,” she hissed.

“Thank you, Mémé! You also look so pretty today!” I said loudly.

My grandmother was odd…her utmost pleasure in life was to put other people down, but I knew she was also proud of the fact that I came here, that everyone loved me. She might not have a kind word to say, but she liked having me around nonetheless. Somewhere in her sour old soul, I believed, was Nice Mémé, a woman who just had to have a little affection for her three granddaughters. So far, though, Mean Mémé had gagged and bound Nice Mémé, but you never knew.

“So what’s new, Mémé?” I asked, sitting next to her.

“What do you care?” she answered.

“I care. A little. I’d care more if you were nice to me once in a while.”

“What’s the point? You’re just after my money,” she said, waving her liver-spotted hand dismissively.

“I thought two hundred years of hard living would’ve used up your money by now,” I answered.

“Well, I have plenty. I buried three husbands, missy, and what’s the point of marriage if you’re not making money?

”

“That’s so romantic, Mémé. Really. I have tears in my eyes.”

“Oh, grow up, Grace. A woman your age doesn’t have time to waste. And you should show me more respect. I might cut you out of my will.”

“Tell you what, Mémé,” I said, patting her bony little shoulder, “you take my portion and you spend it. Go on a cruise. Buy yourself some diamonds. Hire a gigolo.”

She harrumphed, but didn’t look my way. Instead, she was watching the dancers. I might’ve been wrong, but it seemed that her pinkie was keeping time to “Papa Loves Mambo.” My heart swelled with unwilling sympathy.

“Want to dance, Mémé?” I asked softly. She could, after all, walk pretty well. The wheelchair was more for effect —she was better able to ram people if her center of gravity was lower.

“Dance?” she snorted. “With whom, dimwit?”

“Well, I’d—”

“Where’s that man you’re always talking about? Scared him off, did you? I’m not surprised. Or did he fall in love with your sister?”

I flinched. “Jesus, Mémé,” I said, my throat thickening with tears.

“Oh, get over it. It was a joke.” She glanced at me with disdain.

Still stunned, I moved away, accepting a rather stiff waltz from Mr. Demming. Mémé was my only living grandparent. I never met my biological grandfather—he was the first of the husbands that Mémé buried, but I loved him in theory, since my father had an arsenal of wonderful stories about him. Mémé’s other two husbands had been lovely men; Grandpa Jake, who died when I was twelve, and Poppa Frank, who died when I was in graduate school. My mom’s parents had died within months of each other when I was in high school. They, too, were quintessentially wonderful people. But because the fates were cruel, the only surviving grandparent I had was as mean as camel spit.