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"I like the mall there," Gran says.
"Gran, we live in Nashville. There are malls everywhere!"
"They're full of tourists. I like to shop in peace and quiet, Emmaline."
I don't even want to know what she was shopping for today. There's no telling with her. My grandparents never had much. Grandpa worked every day for every penny they had. But when he died, he left Gran a millionaire. I don't think she even knew about the massive life insurance policy he'd taken out on himself until the day we found the paperwork.
What he couldn't give her in life, he's more than making up for in death. Gran and Bets shop like they're professionals and love every minute of it. It's terrifying, honestly.
"Oh! That reminds me." Gran sets her knitting aside and hauls herself off the sofa before hobbling toward the kitchen, only to return a few moments later with a bag under her arm. "I picked this up for you today."
I carefully reach into the bag, retrieving the book tucked inside. "Good Girls Get Punished," I read the title aloud, my eyes widening at the mostly naked man on the cover. "Good lord. I think the towel in front of his package may be the only thing keeping it from saluting the whole world."
"They really ought to make book covers like they do those moving images on your computer," Bets says, peering over my shoulder. "I'd like to see what he can do when he drops that towel."
"Bets!" I cry, shoving the book back into the bag as my cheeks burn.
Gran cackles, slapping her knee.
"Well, don't blame me!" Bets huffs. "If he's going to put it out there, I have a right to wonder, don't I?"
"You have got to stop reading dirty romance," I tell her before turning narrowed eyes on Gran. "And you have to stop driving. If you want to go shopping while I'm at work, all you have to do is let Lottie know. She'll take you."
Lottie helps keep an eye on Gran and Bets while I'm working. At least she tries to keep an eye on them for me. They tend to escape before she realizes they're gone more often than not. It's not her fault. They're crafty for old ladies.
"Lottie drives like she's got one foot in the grave," Gran says.
"And she listens to that God-awful screaming racket," Bets agrees, her lips pursed just like Grans. Aside from the fact that Bets wears her hair long while Gran prefers to keep hers permed, there's no telling them apart. They're identical, right down to the little birthmarks on their left earlobes.
"It's rap," Gran says.
"It is not rap. That sweet boy with the bad tattoos is rap. What's his name, dear?" she asks me. "Toast Throne?"
"Toast Throne? Do you mean Post Malone, Bets?"
"Yes! That's the one." She beams at me. "Such a sweet boy."
How does she even know enough about Post Malone to have an opinion of his character?Idon't even know enough about him to have an opinion. Actually, I don't want to know how she knows about him. Some questions are better left unanswered.
"Maybe we should find you a nice musician," Gran muses. "You can't carry a tune in a bucket. Having someone around here who can sing would be nice."
"I don't want a musician."
"Doctor?" Bets suggests.
"At least they'd be useful if we keel over," Gray murmurs, picking up her knitting again.
"No."
"Lawyer?"
"That'll come in handy next time you get a ticket, Lou."
"No."
"Hon, are you sure you even like men?" Gran asks me, straight-faced. "It's all right if you don't, you know."
"Gran, I'm straight."
