After I left James Foley’s office, I decided to drop by the home to see my grandparents. I met Granddad at the door as he was bringing in the last sack of groceries from his trip to the store.
Grandmama was unloading the sacks and already finding fault with their contents.
“Spencer Loudermilk,” she exclaimed, holding up a bottle of cherry red dish soap. “What is this vile liquid supposed to be?”
“Detergent,” he said, busying himself with the TV Guide. I wondered idly why he bothered with it, since he had every listing memorized by heart.
“Well, it’s not like any kind of detergent I ever saw,” she said. “You know I always use Palmolive verdant spring.”
“This kind was buy one-get one,” Granddad said, snapping on the television with the remote control and settling back in his chair.
“Well, yippee-doo,” Grandmama said. “Now I got two bottles of gunk I don’t intend to ever use.”
She went to the pantry, got a bottle of Diet Dr Pepper, and poured one over a glass of ice for me. “I have to buy this myself,” she explained. “Your grandfather keeps bringing home that generic mess. Tastes like battery acid.”
She motioned for me to sit down at the kitchen table, and I did as she suggested. “Now, what’s this talk about a new fella in your life? Your grandfather said you seem pretty smitten with this man.”
I sighed. “I was. But I don’t think it’s going to work out with Harry.”
“Harry. That’s a good, strong name. You don’t hear that name too often anymore,” she said. “I like it.”
“You’d like him too, I think. Come to think of it, this is the first Harry I’ve ever dated,” I told her. “Well, I don’t guess we ever really did date. Except for once, down in Fort Lauderdale, he took me out to dinner.”
She went on unloading groceries, putting the canned goods in the cupboard and the milk and eggs in the refrigerator. “What makes you think it’s not going to work out with this Harry person?”
“He told me so. Yesterday. And after he told me it wasn’t going to work out, he started packing up his stuff. He’s leaving me. And the Breeze Inn.”
She clucked disapprovingly. “That’s a shame. How do you feel about it?”
“Mad. Hurt. Confused. I finally get this mess of a life of mine halfway straightened around. I finally find a man I like—and respect. And he dumps me.”
“Did he say he doesn’t like you anymore?” she asked.
“No. He says he’s crazy about me. But he says we don’t want the same things in life.”
“That’s just plain ridiculous,” Grandmama declared, shaking her head. “And just like a man to make up some kind of hogwash excuse for running away. Honey, if you leave it up to this man, the two of you never will get married.”
“Married!” I yelped. “Who said anything about getting married? I’ve been down the aisle three times already. And it never works out.”
“But you’re allowed a mulligan,” Granddad said, strolling into the kitchen. He opened the cookie jar, reached in, and grabbed a handful of cookies.
“Put those back,” Grandmama said, slapping the back of his hand. “I’m not studying carrying you to the doctor after you make yourself sick eating cookies.”
With a sheepish expression, he dropped the cookies back into the jar.
“And I saw that Kit Kat wrapper in the bottom of the grocery sack,” she went on. “Don’t think you’re fooling me, Spencer Loudermilk.”
She shook her head again and folded the empty plastic sacks into neat bundles that she stashed in a cloth bag she kept on the back of the kitchen door for that purpose.
“Enough messing around,” she said finally. “Do you love this man?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you say he loves you?”
“So he claims.”
“Then you need to get married,” she said. “You’re not getting any younger, you know. If you wait too much longer, those ovaries of yours will be all shriveled up, like Raisinettes.”
“I’m not that old,” I protested.
“You’re nearly forty,” she said. “I was nineteen when I had your father. And your mother was twenty-seven when she had you.”
“I’m only thirty-five.”
“And how old is this Harry person?”
“He won’t tell me,” I admitted. “But I know he’s older than me. Anyway, who says I want children?”
“I do,” she snapped. “We need a new baby in this family. And heaven knows, your brothers’ wives aren’t about to have any more. Which is probably a blessing.”
“You are too much,” I told her. “Trying to turn me into a broody hen just so you can play with a baby.”
Grandmama slammed the cabinet door shut. “That’s enough,” she said. “I’m not going to sit around here listening to your sniffing and moaning about your love life. Now, if you love this fella, you go on out there to that motel of yours and tell him so.”
She flounced into the living room and snatched the remote control out of Granddad’s grasp.
“Go on,” she said, shooing me out the door. “My stories are fixing to come on. That’s enough soap opera for me.”