It was a natural relationship, the kind of fairy-tale simplicity so many folks used to have. They lived, they fell in love, and then he missed her for the rest of his days.
So why me? And why Hattie?
I push the album aside and pull out another photo book, this one more recent.
He looks a lot older here, like he aged twenty years in the five or so since Grammy died.
Still, he looks good. Healthy and active.
If not happy, then at least confident, always in his element.
Mom’s absence hits me again, but they never seemed close.
For as long as I’ve known her, she’s only come ‘home’ to Portland a handful of times. Some old beef I’m not sure I care to understand.
Also, I don’t blame her.
When we finally hit the 2000s, I recognize myself. Plus, Margot and my cousins and me as kids—all old enough to spend summers with Gramps.
Sailing up and down the coast, bumping around bustling New York, occasionally horseback riding on Gramps’ ranch inSanta Fe. He taught me to appreciate the desert as much as the sea.
So did Gramps’ hardass bodyguard, Holden Verity, his tall, gruff figure leering over my shoulder in damn near every photo. The guy wound up like a glorified babysitter in the later years.
When he wasn’t keeping Margot and little Cleo out of trouble, he was always there every time I stepped out at night, ready to stop me from raiding the wine cellar or lighting up a contraband joint.
What a fucking pill.
Though now that I’m older, there’s a certain respect.
The man was dedicated, and I guess he’s still helping oversee Gramps’ properties until they’re sold off.
Those long summers were half a lifetime ago, but I still remember them like they were yesterday.
Especially the sailing trips.
Those continued well into my teens, the times when life made sense. When it was peaceful and innocent and stupid the way every young man likes.
Even if my bratty sister and her friend made my life hell.
Sometimes, I deserved it, punkass little prick that I was.
I always gave it right back to them, too.
Especially to Hattie.
She was a textbook dork back then with her frizzy hair, thick glasses, and round nose always stuffed in a book bigger than her head.
I’m back to being sixteen, a sandcastle-stomping dick, full of teenage angst and testosterone.
That summer was the first time I felt like I deserved a man’s respect, but the girls tattled on me to Holden for smoking.
Gramps put me under house arrest.
Fucking house arrest.
Marooned with his mute statue of a bodyguard. Hell, even Ares is livelier than Holden.
Even now, I can feel echoes of frustration.
