lots of books,” he said, sounding confident rather than conciliatory.
“Oh, I hope so. I really, really hope so. Sometimes it feels like I work so hard to get somewhere, and it all ends up as nothing.” I shook my head, suddenly feeling heavy. “Sometimes I think I’m being a complete idiot, doing what I’m doing.”
“Who told you that?” he demanded, sounding blustery. “I’ve read your articles, Dellie. Your mama sends them to me sometimes, and they’re really good.” He reached over and rested a big, gnarled hand on my thigh, patting gently. “Don’t let anybody tell you any different. You’ve got something.” He stopped suddenly, and I heard a tiny crack in his voice. “You’ve got something special.”
I felt my throat swell and my nose prickle with the telltale sign of tears. I wasn’t used to this kind of praise from him, nor was I used to seeing much that bordered on vulnerability from someone usually so in control.
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said quietly. “That really means a lot. More than you know.” I took his big hand in mine, feeling its rough warmth as I squeezed it.
“I mean it. I wouldn’t lie to you, just ask me,” he said with a grin, reciting words I had heard so often from his lips. That was one thing you could always count on Grandpa to deliver—a rotating list of his standby lines and jokes. They were almost comforting in their predictability. Some things would never change; and sometimes, that was exactly the reassurance you needed.
We meandered along the sidewalk, passing glass storefronts with well-placed displays and mannequins dressed to the hilt in tailored dresses and vertiginous heels. I took mental notes and drooled inwardly, wishing I had the budget to dress like these plaster-cast women, wondering if I would ever be able to afford any of it and still be a writer. There were days when I particularly felt the squeeze of my paltry income, and going shopping seemed more like a minefield than a joy. It was a reminder of what I didn’t—and couldn’t—have. Once upon a time, I had enjoyed window-shopping. Now, it often felt like a punishment, an inaccessible carrot dangling maliciously in front of me.
I must have sighed out loud without realizing it.
“Why so blue?” Grandpa asked, suddenly pulling me back to the present.
I shook my head, not wanting to tell him what I was thinking or feeling. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was wallowing in self-pity or somehow angling for him to buy me something. We were out, two adults exploring a whole new world; and I didn’t want him to feel like that didn’t mean something to me.
“I can tell something’s bothering you, but I’m not going to make you talk.” He kept his eyes trained ahead, the bookstore in his line of vision. “You want to talk, you just say so. I’ll listen.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said, mentally breathing a sigh of relief. I reached out and slipped my hand in his as I matched my stride to his to catch up a bit. “You too. Anytime you want to talk—about anything—I’m here. I have two good ears for listening.”
“Me, too,” he said, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before turning his face to me. “See?” he asked with a mischievous wink. He grinned, and I noticed the slight movement of his ears, back and forth, back and forth, in a subtle wiggle waggle that he had always delighted in showing off to all of his grandchildren as we watched in childish wonder. Part of the magic of Grandpa—an irreplaceable element of what made him different from everyone else’s grandpa.
Peter Samuelson had magical ears.
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