Page 17 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“You can put your things away in these drawers, if you like. I know you’re only here for a few days, but best to be comfortable, isn’t it?”
I nod. I should ask him how he’s feeling or something. But it doesn’t feel like the right time. We look at each other for a longmoment, both of us smiling placidly. It is an exceedingly awkward moment. That’s when I realize I’ve never really been alone with Gramps. Usually, we’re surrounded by family. What have I gotten myself into?
I blurt out, “Gramps, I’m really sorry about that therapy appointment. I should have asked you first, I…”
He gives a tiny shrug. “Pfft. No need to apologize.”
“But…”
“You probably want something to eat,” he says.
“Uh. Sure.”That went well. Not.“Do you want to go have dinner downstairs with Angela and the others?”
“No, no,” he says. “I usually just eat here.”
“Oh. Okay. Do you want me to cook something?”
“Please, don’t trouble yourself. I have a beef casserole in the freezer. People keep bringing me food. I’ll heat that up.”
“Right.”
I sit at the kitchen table, feeling useless, as he slowly turns on the oven, sets the table, puts the casserole dish in the oven, and sets the kitchen timer.
“It’ll be about half an hour.” Gramps sits across from me and picks up his newspaper. The timer ticks loudly.
I hesitate, then grab my book and take it outside to the balcony. I stand at the railing for a moment, closing my eyes and drinking in the sultry air. The gulf sparkles under the clear blue sky, crashing gently against the white sand. I plop onto a lounge chair, stretch out my legs, and read.
After dinner—beef casserole served with Lipton iced tea with lemon—I ask Gramps what he wants to do next.
“I usually watch the news, then read for a while before I turn in.”
I glance at the microwave clock. It’s sevenP.M.
“Okay.”
“You’re welcome to watch the news with me. I probably have some ice cream in the freezer I could dig up for you.”
“That’s nice of you.” I consider it for half a second, but I’m filled with restless energy. I don’t want to stay cooped up here all night. “But I think I’ll go see my house.”That sounded weird.“The house, you know, Pebble Cottage.”
Gramps nods. “That’s a good idea. Go take stock of the place. Take the key from the hook there—it’s yours now.” He clicks on the TV—the volume blares. “I’ll be in bed by the time you get back. The door will be open. Good night, Mallory.”
I watch him, his face illuminated by the glow of MSNBC.
“Night, Gramps.”
I take the house key, which is connected to a key chain that looks like Barack Obama on a surfboard, grab my bag, and shut the door quietly behind me.
Chapter 9
I drive up the peninsula along Gulf Boulevard, a long, two-lane road that stretches from the southern tip of St. Pete Beach all the way up to Clearwater Beach. Pebble Cottage is in Reina Beach, a few miles north of where Gramps lives. I keep the radio off and open the windows to the balmy evening air.
When I reach Reina Beach, I turn right, away from the beach, and slowly wind my way through residential streets. Like the houses, the streets here are small and quiet, lined with lush green trees draped with Spanish moss.
I turn into a cul-de-sac and find Pebble Cottage. Carefully, I pull into the carport on the right side of the house. The front yard is small and tidy, nothing more than a patch of overgrown grass and a single tree. I climb the two front steps—no front porch here, just the giant sunporch in the back—and hesitate before I let myself in.
It’s dark inside. Inside the front door is a narrow entryway with a row of peg hooks on the wall. There used to be a shoe rack here, overflowing with my family’s sandals and Lottie’s gardening clogs. Now the house is empty. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does, because I haven’t been here since it was Gramps and Lottie’s home. Back then, it was full of their things: well-cared-for furniture from the 1960s and ’70s—most memorably, an angular sofa in brown-and-orange plaid—paintings and decorative sculptures from their travels, and aglass cabinet full of crystal teacups and candlesticks that had been passed down from Lottie’s mother.
The hallway floor is still a brown-and-orange floral tile that screams 1970s. The living room is still brown: brown shag carpet and brown, wood-paneled walls.
