Page 5 of Love in Fine Print

“I stand corrected. You have the sex appeal of a rock,” Miss B stated flatly.

“Did you want me to bring in your sheets from the back before I head in?” I changed the subject.

Miss B insisted on using a clothesline, not the perfectly good dryer that she had in her mudroom. She claimed she was doing her part to save the environment. I tried to tell her that the emissions from her old ’65 Cadillac were a lot worse, but she was hearing none of it.

“Oh, you don’t have to spoil me. I can get on just fine.”

This was the same dance we did every time I did her gardening, ran an errand for her, or did a house repair. I would offer. She would decline. I would insist. She would “begrudgingly” accept.

“I don’t mind. Really.”

“Well, if you’re sure, it’s no trouble. The last thing I would ever want to be is trouble.”

“Really? I thought trouble was your middle name.”

She swatted me with her fan. “It’s not fair that you’ve got all that charm in that body with that face. How are women ever supposed to resist you?”

The truth was I’d never had a problem attracting women. For as long as I could remember, they’d always been interested in me. The problem, if there was one, was me. I’d been accused, more than once, of having commitment issues. I’d blamed it on my career, but the truth lay much deeper than that.

I hadn’t gone to therapy, but if I had, I would put odds on the seed of my relationship aversion being planted when I was four years old, when my mom walked out on my dad and me and never came back. I’d witnessed the devastation it had caused the man who I’d viewed as a superhero. He crumbled and became a shell of himself. I promised myself I would never let anyone have the power over me to destroy me.

Shaking off those memories, I made my way through Miss B’s front room and kitchen and out the screen door to the backyard. I winced again as I lifted my arms and started pulling the pins off the line.

“Remember, fold the sheets from corner to corner,” Miss B called out loudly from the front.

“Yes, ma’am.” For someone who claimed they didn’t want to be any trouble, Miss B had very specific ways of doing things, and she had no problem pointing out when someone did it the “wrong” way.

After I properly folded all of her linens, I carried the wicker basket inside and headed upstairs to put the sheets and pillowcases on her bed. There was no reason for her to try and wrestle the monster of a mattress. Once that was done, I came back out to find Dolly had risen from the nap she’d taken on theporch with Miss B’s Ragdoll cats, Peanut Butter and Jelly, or PB and J for short.

The golden retriever’s tail was wagging, and her tongue was hanging out. I knew that I needed to burn some energy off of her; otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to get any work done this afternoon. Dolly, named after my Gran’s favorite singer Dolly Parton, was a sweet, loving girl who also had the energy of a squirrel that mainlined espresso.

“Dolly and I are going to go down to the park.”

At the mention of the P word, Dolly barked and ran in a circle, happily chasing her own tail.

“Why don’t you come down with us?” I suggested.

“Oh no, I’m fine here.”

“Are you sure?” I asked the same follow-up question I always did.

“Oh yes, you two go; have fun.”

As Dolly and I headed to the park, I silently apologized,Sorry, Gran.

In the letter Gran wrote me that was in her will, she’d asked me to look after Miss B. I’d been doing my best, but the woman was stubborn. I couldn’t force her to be social.

Gran used to drag Miss B to bingo, to the farmer’s market, and to the dollar movies. But since Gran passed away six months ago, the only time I’d seen Miss B leave her front porch was to go to a doctor’s appointment.

I’d also noticed that none of her kids came to visit. Her oldest son lived in San Jose, about fifty miles away. He had a wife and three kids. And she had a daughter who lived in Sacramento; she was married with no kids. And her youngest son lived in Seattle; as far as I knew, he was single.

Miss B talked about them all the time. I’d seen pictures, but I’d yet to see them or meet them. The only thing Gran ever said about Beverly’s children was that they were all very successful.Gran never had a bad word to say about anyone, so when she didn’t have anything to say about someone, it spoke volumes.

I was halfway down the block when my phone vibrated. I pulled it out to see my best friend Declan Steele’s name on my screen. Declan was more like a brother than a friend to me. We’d grown up together, played Pee Wee and high school ball together, and had played against each other for over a decade in the NFL.

We used to talk nearly every day, but since I retired, moved to San Francisco, and took over my Gran’s business, I’d been MIA. Our daily chats had turned into weekly, or even monthly catchups.

“Hey,” I answered, feeling a little guilty that I hadn’t called him back after the last two messages he’d left.

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