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“I’m serious,” Mrs. Parker says. She makes a curving motion with her hands. “You filled out in all the right places.” She grins at me.
Grady is about to lose his shit and go tumbling into the grass, he’s so tickled over this. I shoot him a quelling look, and he holds up his hands in surrender.
Mrs. Parker looks toward the front door, and then back at us. Confusion clouds her features. “What are you two doing?” She narrows her eyes at us. “And why are you together? Did somebody die?” Suddenly she covers her mouth and gasps. “It wasn’t your grandma, was it? Oh, Lord ha’ mercy.”
“No, ma’am,” I say. “Grandma is fine. I talked Grady into taking me to the turkey shoot so we can win a turkey for Thanksgiving.”
She suddenly looks excited. “Win one for me, will you? My boy couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, much less a little paper turkey.”
I choke on a laugh. “I’ll try.”
She walks over, steps onto her tiptoes and kisses Grady’s cheek. “I hope you’re going to shower,” she says. “You smell like outdoors.” Her face twists in a grimace.
“I plan to shower,” he says drolly.
“Well, I’ll let you get to it.” She turns to walk away, but calls back, “And I’m sorry about the armoire! I didn’t have anywhere else to put it.”
“Bye, Mama!” Grady yells. He leans against the front of his Jeep and scratches his arm. “One day, I’m going to come home and there’s going to be a tiny path through the main section of the house, and the rest will be stacked with furniture I don’t need, that she just dropped off when she knew I wouldn’t be home.” He glances down at his watch. “I’m usually still working at this time. And she was well aware of that.”
“Caught in the act,” I say. Then I admit: “I think it’s sweet.”
He scratches his head. “I keep threatening to take her key away, but it wouldn’t do any good. Jeff Riley at the key shop would just make her another one.”
He’s probably right.
“You want to come inside?” he asks me, like he’s suddenly shy. He runs a hand through his dark hair, and tiny dust particles rise in the air.
“Were you planning to make me wait for you on the porch?”
He lets out a self-conscious chuckle. “No, dummy.” He taps the back of my arm as he walks past me. “Come on in.”
Grady’s house has a pretty little porch on the front, and a glider that’s a lot like Grandma’s.
“Mama got that at a yard sale,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “I’d rather have a couple of rockers, but she hasn’t found any yet.”
“Give her time,” I say.
Grady has landscaped the front of his house with pretty azaleas and boxwoods, yard staples in the South. He has two light poles by his front steps that are solar powered, and I test them as I walk past. “These are nice,” I say.
He colors a little. “I made those. Couldn’t find anything solar that I liked.”
I look up and see that he has solar panels on the roof. “You went solar?” I say, suddenly impressed.
“Climate change is real,” he replies. “Figured I’d do my part.”
His windows are trimmed with burgundy shutters and he has added window boxes full of fall flowers. “Pretty,” I say as he walks to the front door.
“Thanks.” If I didn’t know Grady better, I’d say he’s blushing.
He holds the door open wide and motions for me to precede him inside. I walk into a beautiful, tidy home with gleaming hardwood floors. The foyer opens up into a large family room. It’s an open concept house, so you can see the kitchen and the dining room from the living room.
“Wow,” I say, seriously stupefied. None of this was evident from the modest exterior.
“It’s not much,” he says, “but it’s mine.”
“It’s beautiful, Grady.” I look at his furniture. He’s right. None of it matches exactly, but it somehow works. He has big chunky pieces and small dainty pieces at odds with one another, yet they somehow work together just fine. “What’s back here?” I ask, as I walk toward the hallway.
“My bedroom,” he says.
