Page 13 of Just Beachy

There’s a brief silence as I absorb the blow.

“Wow,” I finally say. “That was low. And for your information, I didn’tlosethat role, it was intentionally taken from me.”

She huffs. I sniff. Then I turn my back to her and pull the covers over my head. As any five-year-old might.

• • •

In the morning,we act as if we never argued then pack up our cars. Mom checks out of the hotel while I go pick up Grand so that the three of us can have a farewell breakfast during which I hope we can avoid an argument or rehashing who’s right and why.

We meet at a place called Foxy’s, and I’m relieved that we all seem to be on our best behavior. I settle into my meal, and after a couple of bites of my French Toast Combo, I can see why this restaurant has been around since 1981. And as Ahhhhnold Schwarzenegger used to say,I’ll be back…!

When we’re duly stuffed, we kiss my mother goodbye and I see what it takes for her to drive off without issuing admonitions or comments. When her taillights disappear into the distance, I turn to my grandmother. “Shall we stop off for some groceries? I think I saw a Publix supermarket a few streets over.”

“Absolutely.” She smiles and gives me a wink. “Because we definitely need some staples. And I need to find something for us to bring to the Friday evening potluck mixer tonight. And maybe something new to wear to it.”

I look at my grandmother and blink. “Mixer?”

“Oh yes. I understand they’re a lot of fun, and it’s a good way to meet other residents.”

I study my grandmother’s face but am unable to read it. There is, however, no doubt that she has something up her sleeve…

Seven

It’s a gorgeous seventy degreesand the pale blue sky is streaked with wispy white clouds, so I drop the top on the Mercedes, and Grand and I drive south on the aptly named Gulf Boulevard enjoying the salt breeze that riffles our hair and caresses our cheeks.

Our destination is historic Corey Avenue on St. Pete Beach, where Grand has gone with Myra. It’s peppered with shops and restaurants and extremely pale-skinned people (the word “albino” springs to mind) who have apparently not yet found the beach and painfully red crusty-skinned people who have.

I stop thinking about the skin abuse of strangers when we step into Annabel’s, where we have an absolute blast putting together a “Florida wardrobe” for Grand. Rebecca, our saleswoman, opens a dressing room, shows us aroundthe store, then steps back, available but experienced enough not to spoil our fun.

Soon the dressing room is packed with capris, flowing linen pants, breezy tops, sundresses, gauzy jackets, brightly colored dusters, and adorable short summer-weight sweaters.

Grand loves bright whites and vibrant colors so we focus on abstract patterns and florals drenched with color until her dressing room looks like an art installation.

“Is it my imagination,” Grand asks, twirling in front of a three-way mirror, “or is everything absolutely perfect?”

“Everythingisabsolutely perfect. Onyou,” I agree, looking at the bulging rack of “keepers.” “Now all we need are a few accessories.”

Minutes later, Grand is choosing from handbags, sandals, scarves, and bold costume jewelry that Rebecca and I deliver to the dressing room.

“Oh, Grand! You look like a forties pinup girl,” I say as she steps out of the fitting room mimicking a model on a catwalk in a sleek black swimsuit with a full-length mesh coverup and adorable kitten-heeled sandals. A wide-brimmed straw hat and oversized sunglasses complete the look.

By the time we’re done, Grand and I are giddy—they don’t call it retail therapy for nothing—and Rebecca looks happy, too, which I’m guessing means she works on commission.

In fact, we buy so many things that it takes me, Grand, and the glowing saleswoman to carry and stow everything in my trunk.

“I probably don’t even need to have my winter clothesshipped down,” Grand muses as we drive back up to Treasure Island.

“Probably not,” I agree. “But you might keep a few things—for when you come up to Atlanta to visit or when we go to New York in the fall.” Grand has been taking me and my sisters, Francis (Frankie) and Melissa (Mel)—Did I mention my father kept hoping for a boy?—on a yearly “girls trip” up to New York City, where she once studied art, since we were kids. While there, we hit museums, stores, and restaurants. We also see as many Broadway shows as we can fit in. (Yes, we sometimes do a matineeandan evening performance the same day because that’s the way we roll.)

“Good point,” Grand concedes as we park at the Treasure Island Publix, where we choose a variety of freshly baked cookies for tonight’s potluck mixer.

• • •

At six onthe dot, Grand puts on one of her new multi-hued pants outfits topped by a bright turquoise sweater, and we take our drinks (one piña colada and one vodka tonic—I’ll let you guess which belongs to whom) and the box of bakery cookies to the pool, where people are already mingling. At eighty-three, Grand is not the oldest attendee, but she’s also not the youngest. There are lots of welcoming smiles as we set down our drinks and place the open box of cookies with the other desserts. We’ve just affixed our name tags to our chests when Myra arrives.

With spiky silver hair, hazel green eyes, and a cushionybody encased in a Hawaiian print kaftan, Myra’s an inch or two over five feet, which puts her and Grand at eye level. Her chin is firm, and her nose is slightly too large for her face, but her smile and air of good humor make her sum even more attractive than her parts.

She gives Grand a hug and offers me a cheery smile. “It’s great to meet you, Sydney,” she says. “I’m so glad you’re able to stay on for a while.”

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