She ignores me, squinting into the air as if racking her brain. “Yes, I’m sure I still have it. It’s got to be in the study . . .” she murmurs, then gets to her feet, padding down the hallway that leads to the back of the house.
I resign myself to going along on this tangent and follow dutifully behind her, and eventually she veers off into her home office, heading straight for the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves spanning the back wall. She slips on the glasses hanging from a chain around her neck and starts grazing the spines with her fingertips, brushing past my grandpa’s old engineering texts and Ludlum thrillers, and her own cozy mysteries and romance novels.
While she hunts for whatever it is she’s looking for, I peruse the framed photos lining the shelves, which is akin to taking a trip through time via fashion. My favorite is the one of my grandparents all dressed up—he in his Navy dress whites and she in an off-the-shoulder red dress and fur stole that would fetch a mint in one of the city’s upscale vintage shops. In a posed family portrait, she’s every bit the stately matriarch in a boxy Jackie O suit and white gloves. There’s one of my grandpa with his arms around their boys, the Jersey shoreline in the background, the sea air wreaking havoc on their windblown hair. And then I spot a picture of them with my siblings and me from a family trip we took to the Grand Canyon, my awkward stage on full display in braces and curly bangs. “Ugh, why is this the picture you chose to frame?”
She pauses her search to glance over, then clucks her tongue. “Oh stop it, you look adorable. A little gawky, maybe. But look at the swan you grew into.”
“You used to tell me I looked ‘gamine’ instead of ‘gawky.’?” I remember this detail so vividly because it’s one of the many reasons I fell in love with the written word, that just a slight variation in letters had the power to improve the mindset of an awkward, gangly teenage girl. “Anyway, it’s a real mystery why I never heard back from those model searches I was constantly entering at the back of Teen magazine.” I place the frame back on the shelf, stealthily nudging it behind a couple of others.
“Aha! I knew I still had it.” She pulls a dark hardback from one of the lower shelves and hands it to me triumphantly—and when I see the title, I nearly choke on my tongue: I Do: Rules & Etiquette for the Military Wife.
“Oh my . . .”
I drift toward an overstuffed floral love seat set up in the corner of the room and switch on the reading lamp. Inside the front cover is a faded inscription on the flyleaf: Welcome to the club, Joanie! Everything about the book—from its worn linen cover to the thick card stock and its musty smell—appears ancient. I check the copyright: originally published in 1952. “Where did you get this?”
“Every woman who married a Navy man was given this book.”
“You’re telling me this was government-sanctioned? As in, required reading?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. It was a bit of a joke among the ladies, though I can’t say we ignored the suggestions.”
I start thumbing through the pages, noting the chapter headings with wry amusement—Indoctrination of Wives; An Efficient Kitchen; Matri-Money—when a loose sheaf of papers falls from the back cover onto the floor. I bend to pick them up and unfold them gingerly, noting the signs of age in the creased and yellowed pages. They seem to be ripped from a magazine.
I read the headline on the top sheet and gasp. “Gran, you have got to be kidding me.”
“What?”
I hold it aloft like a prosecutor presenting damning evidence. “?’125 Tips to Hook a Husband’?!”
She squints at the page for a moment before breaking into a grin. “I’d forgotten I’d saved this.” She plucks it out of my hand, skimming it and occasionally chuckling to herself.
“Okay, you need to explain yourself.”
She waves a hand, as though such reading material is as normal and mundane as the Sunday paper. “It’s just an article I ripped out of an old McCall’s or Ladies’ Home Journal a long time ago. Back when I was single.”
I do some fast math. “You’ve saved this since the fifties?” I say, incredulous. “Did you use this to trick Grandpa?”
She recoils, affronted. “Excuse me? Of course I did not trick your grandfather! My goodness, you’re really on a roll today,” she huffs.
“Well then, why do you have it?” I ask, suitably chastened.
“What do you mean, why? I didn’t meet your grandfather ’til I was nearly thirty! I was considered a spinster in most circles. I needed all the help I could get!”
I narrow my eyes, not missing her subtle dig—I’m nearly thirty. No one’s better at camouflaging an insult than my grandmother. “Thanks for that.”
She smiles innocently, passing the pages back to me. “You should take this advice. There are a lot of great tips in here.”
I scan the list, then snort. “Like ‘Read the obituaries to find eligible widowers’?”
She shrugs. “It’s not the worst idea.”
“?‘Learn to sew and wear something you’ve made yourself.’?”
“It shows him you’re thrifty!”
“?‘Ask his mother for recipes.’ I hate cooking.”
She looks scandalized. “Whatever you do, don’t tell a man that. Or his mother.”
“?‘Find out about the girls he hasn’t married and don’t repeat their mistakes.’?”
“That one’s just a no-brainer.”
“?‘Point out to him that the death rate of single men is twice that of married men’?!” I throw the pages down. “Gran, be serious.”
“What? Statistics don’t lie! No harm in instilling a little fear,” she says defensively.
“I am not using these ‘tips,’?” I say, my fingers locked in tight air quotes, “to trap a husband. They’re ridiculous and antiquated and you know it.” I scan the list again anyway, shaking my head. “Funny, though. I can’t believe women actually used to do this stuff.”
“Oh, I think you will use them.”
I glance up. “Excuse me? How’s that?”
A slow, devious smile blooms on her face, melting the years and lines of age away. It takes me a second to place the familiar glint of mischief in her eyes until I realize: It’s the same teasing gleam I see when I look in the mirror.
“Because it’s my birthday, and this is what I want as my gift.”
I cross my arms and tilt my head, my body language communicating: You can’t be serious. She meets my gaze steadily, her smug expression confirming: As a heart attack.
“What, the Hamilton tickets weren’t enough?”
She throws up her hands. “Cass, just read the book and give some of the tips a shot. What do you have to lose?”
“Uh, my dignity?”
“Pfft.” She waves a hand. “Overrated.”
“You’re actually suggesting I behave like a submissive 1950s trophy wife?!”
“I’m suggesting you consider that some of those tips might actually have merit. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting a different result, right? You’re sitting here telling me you wish things were different, but you’re not willing to change your behavior or consider another way.” She raps the book cover with a knuckle. “Here’s another way.”