Page 38 of Royal Agenda

“What do you think of our family, Grandma?” Grace smiled fondly at the black and white photos as if the people in them were her friends. They probably were. Where the photos stopped on the family tree, headstones filled in.

Compared to other screens with blank pictures, Nancy’s was a treasure trove. “It’s quite the group.” She pointed to her great-grandmother. “I didn’t know her name was Nancy, too.”

“And look,” Grace scrolled two more generations back, and another Nancy appeared. “If you go back one more, Nancy,” she scrolled again, “we’re in France.”

“Really? I always thought I came from English ancestors.” She took her reading glasses out and put them on.

“We do—hence the Mayflower and etc., but this line is French.” Grace hugged her from behind. “Which explains your expensive tastes.”

Nancy patted her arm. “I like quality; there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Grace chuckled. “Keep looking. Maybe you’ll learn something about yourself.”

Nancy would have scoffed—had done so on other occasions when Grace talked about finding parts of herself in the past. It all sounded so new-aged and hokie. But she couldn’t deny that seeing her name shared through the generations touched a sensitive cord inside of her. Maybe there was something to looking at the past.

She only hoped Grace could take a moment to see into the future—a wonderful future with a handsome man who couldn't take his eyes off of her.

Fourteen

Grace stepped out the back door just as the sun touched the horizon, eager to be on her way. With his deep voice, accent, and smoldering eyes, Ryker was as smooth as caramel and just as tempting. As if that wasn’t enough to entice her, he’d done something completely unexpected when he asked her out: he’d offered an experience.

Saying no to hunting for a moonshell on the beach during a full moon was impossible for her to refuse. Her heart thrummed with anticipation, and couldn’t sit still in her chest. It was like a two year old that wanted to ride the ferris wheel at the county fair–knees bouncing and bum wiggling. Yes, her bum wiggled when she was excited. She may have also sang along to some cheesy pop songs as she got ready because–why the heck not?

“Where are you going?” Grandma called from the patio set where she’d put her feet up on the coffee table, a mound of baby pink yarn in her lap. She had on her normal uniform of a tracksuit, this one red, with a crease down the front of the pants, but, instead of wearing sneakers, her feet were bare and her toes painted pale pink.

Grace gulped as she quickly ran through a list of pros and cons about telling Grandma she had a date as she made her way over to say goodbye.

Pro: It was the truth.

Con: Grandma would tell her friends, and then the whole Palms community would know she’d been out with Ryker.

Pro: She wanted everyone to know she’d been out with Ryker. The man was roguish, charming, and gallant in all the right ways.

Con: If tonight was a disaster, she’d have to tell Grandma, who would then tell her friends, who would tell . . . etc.

Pro: Telling her was the fastest way to get to the boardwalk and to Ryker.

Yep. She was so telling.

“I have a date with Ryker.” She made a show of checking her phone for the time. “And I’m going to be late.”

Grandma motioned for a hug, and Grace happily obliged. They’d stayed in the computer lab an extra half hour so she could answer Grandma’s questions about their ancestors. They laughed over the legal documentation about a feud between their family and a neighboring family over a brood of chickens. The neighbors claimed that because their rooster was the father, they should get half the chicks. The judge ruled in favor of their family—stating that the female had done the lion’s share of the work to hatch the chicks and should, therefore, be able to keep them.

“Here! Here!” Grandma had lifted a fist in the air as Grace finished reading the account of the proceedings printed in the newspaper. “You’ll do this again, won’t you?” she’d asked.

The hope in her eyes melted all of Grace’s resolve to quit right after that class. “I’ll stick around for a while. We’ll see what comes up.” She had feelers out with several genealogists and archivists around the world. Sometimes, she had to make personal visits to a church or cemetery to go deeper than the indexed records available online. She had a sense for it—a gift in being able to determine which headstone held the key to unlocking the past, what familial line a family Bible traveled, or which attic to search. She didn’t know how she knew, just that she did.

And she was always right.

The yarn tickled her bare leg at the knee. “What are you making?” The wavy lines and tight stitches didn’t look like much of anything. Neither did Peruvian bags, belts, and clothing when the weavers first started, though they turned into beautiful pieces soon enough. Grace enjoyed sitting near them to work—the rhythm of the loom was as soothing as a bubbling brook.

Grandma pressed her lips together. “A baby hat. But I’m pulling it out to start over.”

Upon closer inspection, the yarn was fuzzy and wearing thin in places, as if it had been pulled apart more than once. She picked up Grandma’s phone and found a YouTube channel with soft piano music. “Try knitting to some tunes.”

“Why?” Grandma stared at her as if she’d worn a suit of armor to the beach instead of her new sundress and pair of sandals.

“Successful weavers across the globe hum or sing as they work. It’s all about getting into the flow and music helps.” She set the phone on the arm of the chair.

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