Page 75 of Just Beachy

Grand and I exchange shocked glances. My mother’s tune has certainly changed.

My grandmother’s expression turns mischievous. “Thanks so much for letting me know, darling. I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.”

• • •

The package offorwarded mail arrives the next day as promised, but it sits on the kitchen counter for a few days while Grand debates the pros and cons of selling her home in Atlanta, which I think is more about torturing my mother than an unwillingness to sell.

When Grand makes no move to open the large, padded envelope, I do it for her and casually leaf through it. There are long expired invitations, ancient copies ofAARP The Magazine, cruise brochures, and all kinds of flyers and junk mail.

I’m about to ask Grand to double-check that I’m not throwing out anything that might matter when I notice a small envelope with Grand’s name and address written in what looks like a shaky hand. The return address is New York.

“Grand. Come look at this.” I remove the envelope from the pile and hand it to my grandmother.

“I’m sure it’s just a…” Her voice trails off as she glances down at the envelope then back up at me. “Oh my God.”

“What? What is it?”

“It’s…it’s from Phillip. The return address is his studio.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Even with the smears and shakiness, I’d know his handwriting anywhere.”

She stares at the envelope. Then she looks up at me. The hand holding the envelope trembles.

“Are you okay?”

Grand doesn’t respond.

“Do you want to open it or should I?”

She rips the envelope open without answering and unfolds the stationery. Her eyes skim the handwritten note. A tear slides down her cheek.

“What is it, Grand? What does it say?”

She swallows. And even though her hand is shaking, she begins to read.

Dear Lillian, this comes far too late but apparently it becomes easier to tell the truth and finally attempt to correct your mistakes when you know you are dying.

I cannot explain why I hurt you so badly and then claimed your work as my own. There’s no accounting for it except that even though I loved you dearly and have never for a moment forgotten you, my jealousy of your talent proved stronger.

The time has come to do what I should have done all those years ago. And while I know you’ll never forgive me, I am determined that you be recognized for the talented artist that you are.

Therefore, I hereby freely admit and confess that The Madonna was never stolen nor was it painted byme. It is the work of Lillian Wilde, and should be recognized as such. My family and I have no claim on it, nor did we ever.

Tears stream down Grand’s face. “Look.” She places the open note on the counter, where I can see it. “It’s witnessed and notarized.”

She wipes away her tears, and for the briefest moment, I see her not as my grandmother but as the young budding artist and woman she once was.

“Phillip always had a spotty moral compass,” Grand says with a wobbly smile. “But in the end, he finally did the right thing.”

Thirty-Six

With Grand validated by technology,and Phillip Drake’s notarized deathbed confession, the furor intensifies. Although it’s only a matter of days, it feels like an eternity until the craziness finally dies down and things go back to normal.

It’s Saturday, and as soon as I finish story time at the bookstore, I give an acting lesson to a young girl who reminds me of myself at nine—a true Sarah Bernhardt determined to take the world by storm. Her mother is only humoring her, but I know a kindred spirit when I meet one.

“I knew when you were her age that you had the talent and the drive to succeed as an actor,” Grand says. “But I don’t think you fully realize even now just how talented you are.”

“Thanks, Grand. Your confidence in me has alwaysmeant the world to me.” I give her a hug and hold her tight, grateful that she’s safe. Grateful that she’s my grandmother. “I love you.”

“And I love you, Sydney. I’ve always been proud of you but never more than now.”

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