Mirabelle, who has for reasons unknown memorized August’s shopping list, appears none the wiser to her masculine preferences. “I…don’t think I understand.”
Leeann clarifies, “My frightfully confused granddaughter likesblonds.”
Mirabelle’s mouth opens, but lag settles into the space between it moving and words escaping. “I…still don’t understand.”
“I’m wearing a wig, because I have naturally dark hair, and she wants a blond.”
“You’relyingto her?” Mirabelle’s voice pitches.
Well. I mean.
Mirabelle’s distaste floods the room, hitting me square between the brows. “You’re lying to her.” Her head whips toward the other women. “Andyou’reall encouraging it? Leeann! That’s your granddaughter’s feelings you’re letting him play with!”
Leeann’s lips purse. “I prefer to think of it as…helpingher.”
Mirabelle scoffs.
Lynn plants her hands at her hips. “Sheasked for secret identity. We’re doing what we can to give herexactlythe story she’s asked for.”
“Speaking of,” I raise my hand, “I believe we’ve managed to obtain something akin to anenemiesplotline. I’m not certain it could be used as a trope in marketing if our story were written down, but…” I shrug. “I mean, maybe it could be? I suppose it would depend on the desperation of the author.”
Leeann snaps her fingers. “Lynn, bring outthe thing.”
Oh dear. We’ve athingnow?
Lynn, reverently, nods and rises, exiting the room to return withthe binder. She then places it in Mirabelle’s lap. “August gave this to Leeann when she asked her to search for a husband. It’s by August’s own request that we are following her exact guidelines.”
It takes Mirabelle two minutes of searching through the book to declare, “August wanted you to stop giving random tourists her phone number, Leeann.”
Leeann slaps her hand to her heart. “How dare you.”
Dry, Mirabelle points at the list of microtropes. “You can tell she didn’t take this seriously, because she didn’t even make this whole thing herself.”
All our brows rise, and I say, “What do you mean?”
“The handwriting here is different. It’s a little hard to tell because all of the fonts are forced, awkward, and unnatural, but I’m completely confident half of these tropes were added by December, because, first of all, she’s the one who does crafts like this, and, second of all, August wouldn’t include half a dozen kiss scenes in her real life love story. She barely includes them in her books.”
Well.
I did think it was a little bit of a contrast withslow burnhanging around. I’m glad I decided against kissing her Sunday night. It took every ounce of self control in me to stop myself while firefly light glittered in her eyes, but now I’m unbelievably grateful.
I swallow as a thought occurs to me and my heart rate jumps. “Is there a chance that the blond thing was also December?”
Mirabelle returns to the collage of anime princes and hums. “No. Nope. The picture style is December, but the characters are all her. Completely. Every time she’s joined us for book club, she’s always bringing up the animes she likes. I’ve talked about them with my friend Fawn, and her nose wrinkles at them. Specifically because many of the leads are…this.”
Oh. But… “Right now she’s watching an anime without a blond lead. Maybe that means there’s hope?”
“What anime?” Mirabelle asks.
I pull up my email history on my phone and recite the title. Mirabelle pulls the anime up on her phone and squints at the pictures before sending a withering look my way. “Ali. This main character…is a child.”
My mouth opens, but. Yeah, no. She’s right. She’s not only right, but also it occurs to me that in all the conversations about this anime I’ve had with August, she has obviously not seen the main character as amale lead. It’s not even a romance. I’m grasping at straws.
Amid my silent breakdown, Leeann murmurs, “I had no idea you were this close to my granddaughter, Mira.”
“What do you mean?” A genuine trickle of hurt settles in the small woman’s eyes. “She comes to book club sometimes.”
“Right…once every six months or more…but I wasn’t aware you two talked outside that.”
