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I shake my head. Down boy. What did I say about Callie being off-limits? The last thing I need is my hormones running riot, especially the way I’ve just upped the stakes of this game.
“So, what’s the plan today?” she asks brightly, sun glinting off her dark curls.
“Nothing special,” I reply. “I figured I’d show you around, grab a bite—”
“Actually, Callie’s spending the day with me,” Zelda interrupts.
“She is?” I gulp.
“I am?” Callie looks just as dubious.
“Yes.” Zelda gives a big smile—the one that means trouble. “It’ll be fun.”
“Great,” I lie. “We’ll all have a blast.”
“Oh, you’re not invited,” Zelda tells me with a smirk. “Girls’ day out. No boys allowed. It’ll give us a chance to really get to know each other.”
Shit.
Callie sends me a panicked look, but there’s nothing I can do. I can only hope she keeps her eyes on the prize, because she’s about to leap out of the frying pan…
And into the fiery depths of Mordor.
8
Callie
A day with the grandmother? I can do this.
I mean, sure, my experience with grandmothers is more ‘soap operas, TV dinner trays and stirring dinner on the stove,’ but they can’t all be so different.
Can they?
Oh boy, they can.
Zelda calls the chauffeured Rolls around for us and takes me to a stretch of peninsula that’s peppered with upscale shops. We’re on a mission for antiques—because clearly, her house has a tragic lack of luxury furniture—and it doesn’t take long to realize that shopping is more of a competitive sport to Zelda.
“No, this won’t work,” she says, staring at the interior of our third shop as soon as we arrive. “Harry will have what we need.”
She whisks me across the street, to a seemingly identical store. “Ah yes,” she beams. “Much better.”
“Ms Dashford-Farnsworthy-Cox,” the salesman greets her in delight. “So great to see you again. Are we looking for anything in particular today?”
“We’re seeing if the urge strikes.”
“Wonderful!” the man snaps his fingers, and another clerk hurries over with a silver tray of biscotti and freshly squeezed lemonade.
Zelda sees my expression. “I keep all my husband’s names,” she explains. “They’re sort of like souvenirs from the marriage. The names, and all my jewelry, of course.”
“Of course.” I blink.
“Dash’s grandfather, Phin, was my first love. I was nineteen. We met when I was a hostess at his supper club. Love at first sight,” she adds, as she browses the array of antique end tables. “Of course, the fact I was dressed in a mermaid costume might have helped. After he passed, there was DTF.”
I splutter on my complimentary lemonade. “DTF?” I repeat faintly.
“Darwin Theodore Farnsworthy. We met on a cruise to Europe, lovely man. In the oil business. Divorced in ninety-three, and then again in ninety-eight,” she says. “That one stuck. Then, of course, there was my dear Mitty. Heart attack, right in the middle of the golf course. Such a shame. And he was below par.”
Part of me thinks she must be kidding, but nope, the romantic adventures of Zelda Dashford-Farnsworthy-Cox could fill a book.
