We’re like a couple of sixth graders playing hooky from school for the first time. Neither of us is where we’re supposed to be this morning, but after discovering that photo last night in his grandfather’s workshop, neither of us can say no to this journey. Even an early-morning missed call from Leslie and a half-dozen new customer inquiries at Trent’s real estate office couldn’t change the plan we impulsively formed last night. One way or another, we’re going to find out what our grandparents were hiding and how my history and his are tied together…and what May Crandall has to do with it.
I’ve intentionally failed to answer Leslie’s summons, and Trent has slapped a note on the door of the real estate office, and we’re on the lam, after having taken off at first light.
A little over two hours later, we’re in Aiken. We plan to see May Crandall after her breakfast. Depending on what we find out from May, we may go to my grandmother’s house on Lagniappe next.
I try to focus on the driving as we wind through graceful, tree-lined streets, the sleepy magnolias and towering pines slipping their calming shade over the SUV, seeming to say, Why the rush? Slow down. Enjoy the day.
For a moment, I relax into it, persuade myself that this is just any other late-summer morning. But the instant the nursing home appears around the corner, the illusion vanishes. As if to punctuate this, my cellphone rings again, and Leslie’s name is on the screen for the fourth time. I’m inconveniently reminded that, as soon as this visit with May Crandall is over—whatever it yields—I’ll have to check in. The world of present-day issues has come calling. Literally.
At least I know that, if the summons had anything to do with my father’s health, one of my sisters would be phoning me, not Leslie. So it’s definitely business related. Something that has cropped up since I talked to Ian yesterday evening, or else he would have mentioned it then. Leslie probably has a can’t-miss press op lined up, and she wants me to come home early from my minivacation on Edisto. Little does she know, I’m already here.
The idea of diving back into the political stewpot pinches a little. I really don’t want to think about it. Putting my phone on vibrate, I tuck it into my purse without checking the stack-up of texts. There are probably emails too. Leslie does not like to be ignored.
All thoughts of Leslie vanish as I park, grab the folder that holds the antique photos from the bulletin board and the papers from Grandma Judy’s envelope, and get out of the car.
Trent meets me on the curb. “If we’re ever traveling cross-country, I’ll drive.”
“What, you don’t trust me?” A strange little tingle slides down my back, and just as quickly, I shrug it away. Being in Aiken again is a stark reminder that, as much as I find Trent likeable, this will never be anything more than a friendship.
I made sure to slip a mention of my fiancé into the conversation before we left Edisto, just to be fair to all concerned.
“You I trust. Your driving…maybe not.”
“It wasn’t even a near miss.” We banter back and forth on the way up the sidewalk, and by the time we reach the door, I’m laughing without meaning to. The scent of air freshener and the oppressive quiet sobers things up.
Trent’s expression morphs almost instantly. His smile vanishes. “This brings back memories.”
“You’ve been here?”
“No, but it looks a lot like the place we moved my gran into after her stroke. There wasn’t any choice, but it was tough on Granddad. They’d never been separated more than a night or two in over sixty years.”
“It’s so hard when you reach the point where there aren’t any good options.” He knows about Grandma Judy’s situation. It came up last night while we were sitting on the porch of the little cabin talking about the photos and what they might mean.
An attendant in colorful scrubs passes by. She greets us, appearing to wonder if she recognizes me. Then she moves on. I’m glad. The last thing I need is anyone picking up on the fact that I’m here. If this gets back to Leslie and my father, there will be an intense round of questions, and I haven’t a clue what I’d say.
At the doorway to May Crandall’s room, I suddenly realize I’m not sure what I plan to say to her either. Should I just burst in there with the photos and ask, Who were you and my grandmother to one another? How was Trent Turner, Sr., involved?
Should I try to lead into it more subtly? From my short association with May, I have no idea how she’ll react to our coming here. I’m hoping that Trent’s presence may work a bit of extra magic. May did, after all, most likely know his grandfather.
What if it’s all too much for her, the two of us showing up? She has been sick. I don’t want to cause her any more problems. In fact, being back here nudges me toward the realization that I should do something to help her. Maybe I could talk to Andrew Moore at the seniors’ rights PAC. Perhaps he could give me some suggestions about organizations that serve seniors like May whose families live far away.
Trent stops at the door and motions to the nameplate. “Looks like we’re here.”
“I’m nervous,” I admit. “I know she’s been sick. I’m not sure how strong she’ll—”
“Who’s hovering around out there?” May puts my uncertainty to rest before I can finish voicing it. “Go away! I don’t need anything. I won’t have you whispering about me!” A slipper flies through the small opening between the door and the frame, and then a hairbrush sails past and clatters across the hall.
Trent recovers the discards. “She’s got a good arm.”
“You leave me be!” May insists.
Trent and I share uncertain looks, and I lean close to the door, avoiding the line of fire just in case May has more ammo at hand. “May? Just listen a minute, okay? It’s Avery Stafford. Remember me? We met a few weeks ago? You liked my dragonfly bracelet. Do you remember?”
Silence.
“You said my grandmother was a friend of yours. Judy. Judy Myers Stafford? You and I talked about the photo you had beside your bed.” It seems as though my whole world has changed since that day.
“Well?” May snaps after a moment. “Are you coming in or not?” Beyond the door, there’s the sound of a body shuffling and bedcovers moving. I don’t know if she’s preparing to greet us or loading up to take another shot.
“Are you finished throwing things?”
“I don’t suppose you’d leave if I weren’t.” But there’s a note of anticipation in her voice this time. She’s inviting me in, so I enter, leaving Trent safely in the hall.
She lies propped up in bed, wearing a blue housecoat that matches her eyes. Even with a stack of pillows behind her, there’s something regal about the way she watches me, as if she was accustomed to service in bed long before her nursing home years.
“I was hoping you’d feel well enough to talk with me today,” I venture. “I asked my grandmother about you. She mentioned Queen…or Queenie, but that was about all she could remember.”
May seems stricken. “She’s that bad?”
“I’m afraid so.” I feel terrible for being the messenger. “Grandma Judy isn’t unhappy. She just can’t remember things. It’s hard for her.”
“And hard for you too, I would imagine?”
May’s sudden insight leaves me floundering emotionally. “Yes, it is. My grandmother and I were always very close.”
“Yet she never told you about the people in my photograph?” Beneath the question, there is the insinuation that this woman knows my grandmother intimately. I’m not sure I’ll be able to resign myself to it if I never find out the truth—if May won’t tell me.
“I have a feeling Grandma Judy would now, if she could. But I’m hoping that, since she can’t, you will.”
“It has nothing to do with you.” May turns her shoulder away from me, as if she’s afraid to have me look directly at her.
“I have a feeling it does. And maybe…”
Her attention shifts toward the door. “Who is that out there? Who else is listening?”
“I brought someone with me. He’s been helping me try to figure out what my grandmother hasn’t been able to tell me. He’s just a friend.”
Trent steps inside and crosses the room with his hand outstretched, flashing the sort of smile that could probably sell snow cones to Eskimos. “Trent,” he says, introducing himself. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Crandall.”
She accepts the greeting and imprisons his hand in both of hers, holding him slightly bent over the bed while she turns back to me. “Just a friend, you say? I doubt that.”