29. Lily

29

Lily

“And who is it you’re here to see?” asked the receptionist.

“Mr. Hanlow,” I told her. “Room 233. I’m his granddaughter.”

“I thought I recognized you. What’s it been...two months?”

I nodded and signed myself in... as Carol Hanlow. Then I walked all the way through the care facility to room 233...and knocked on 232 instead.

I knew that there were people looking for me and I knew they’d check here at some point. I couldn’t have a visitor’s book showing I’d been here. But my grandmother was the one link I had to my parents and I couldn’t abandon her completely. When I heard she’d had to be moved into the care home, some months after I left New York, it had taken me weeks to pluck up the courage to make the trip to Colorado. It was meant to be a one-time thing but, when I’d seen her here all alone with no visitors, I’d known I’d have to come back .

Hence the ruse. As far as the care home was concerned Mr. Hanlow got a visit from his (actually long-dead) granddaughter every few months while my grandmother saw no one at all. I really would stop in to see Hanlow for a few minutes on my way out—partially because I felt sorry for the poor guy, partially to cover myself if he talked to the nurses. His Alzheimer’s helped to muddy the waters enough that no one would figure the time discrepancy.

My grandmother opened the door and her face lit up when she saw it was me. She pulled me inside while simultaneously giving me an enormous hug. “Get yourself in here,” she ordered. “I’ve got two clues I’m stuck on.”

She did the Wall Street Journal crossword every Friday. At eighty-three and at least as sharp as I was.

When we were sitting drinking tea and I was trying to figure out ten down, she said, “Who is he?”

“Maybe I just came to visit, like other granddaughters. I could brush your hair for you. Do you want me to brush your hair?”

“Tessa, you touch this ‘do and you won’t sit down for a week. It’s been sixty-two days since you visited and you average eighty-eight. You came here because you want advice and that means it must be a man because it can’t be your job or your friends or your house because you won’t tell me diddly squat about any of those.”

I always suspected I inherited a lot of things from my grandmother. It was one reason we got on so well. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s better that you don’t know this stuff.” I didn’t even dare to tell her which state I was living in. It’d make it easier for her to play dumb if anyone came looking for me. She knew I’d fled New York, but nothing else about my life.

She shook her head. “As long as you’re happy and you’re well away from that prick—pardon my French—Erico.” She sighed. “Of all the people who could step in and raise you. Your parents would have been horrified. Your father was a goddamn hippy. He abhorred violence. Animals, plants...that was always his thing.”

I’d never been able to relate to that, before. I’d grown up a city girl, under Uncle Erico’s wing. Since the horse riding with Bull, though, the great outdoors seemed just a little less scary.

“So,” said my grandmother. “It’s a man. Unless it’s a woman?”

“Grandma!”

“It’s all fine, Tessa.” She put her hand on mine. “When I studied in San Francisco, I had a few experiences with—“

I put my hands over my ears. “Too much information!”

“So shut me up. Tell me about your man.”

I met her gaze...then dropped my eyes. This was what I’d come here for. “He’s...good,” I said. “I mean, I think he’s a good man, you know? He tries really hard not to be, when everyone’s looking at him. He’s got this bad boy thing going on. But when he’s with me...” I sighed and shook my head. “He’s an asshole too, though. He thinks he’s God’s gift.”

“Is he?” she asked sharply.

I bit my lip. And nodded.

“Sounds like a keeper.”

“But he’s an asshole!”

“The good ones usually are. Your grandpa was kind of an asshole, God rest his soul. So what’s the problem?”

“We had a fight. About what I do for a living.”

She frowned at me. “Are you stripping?”

“ No!” I said, horrified.

“Because there’s nothing wrong with that. I did it. That’s how I met your grandpa, actually.”

“No! God, look at me! Do I look like a stripper?”

“There’s nothing wrong with curves, Tessa. He obviously likes them.”

“I’m not stripping.”

“Hooking?”

“ No! Just...anyway, he doesn’t approve and we had a fight about it. And now I don’t know how to apologize.”

“Go and visit him. Surprise him. Don’t let him tell you what to do with your life, but give him a chance to explain. You don’t want to lose this one.”

“He’s an asshole! How can you be so sure he’s right for me?”

“Because you’ve called him an asshole three times since you’ve been here. You’re never that down on anyone... unless you really, really like them.”

I stared at her. And then hugged her, which knocked the table and sloshed tea over my jeans. “Goddamnit!” Luckily, I found a napkin in my pocket so I mopped up the worst of it with that.

I spent the whole afternoon with her, then slipped into Mr. Hanwell’s room for a quick game of checkers before I left. On the flight back to Texas, I turned it over and over in my mind. By the time the wheels hit the tarmac, I’d made a decision: I was going to go and see Bull. Not to carry it on. I couldn’t. That would be dangerous for both of us. I’d just apologize and that would be it. I figured that seeing him again, just for a few minutes, would scratch my Bull-itch. It would be, I thought, like giving an addict a carefully measured dose to help them gradually kick the habit.

I hadn’t realized just how helplessly addicted I was.