Page 8 of Just Beachy

My grandmother, who has always been slightly larger than life, has lost weight. Her smile is as warm and encompassing as ever and her green eyes are bright, but her red hair has faded and is streaked with white. When I wrap my arms around her, I’m careful not to squeeze too hard.

“I, um, got in early so I met Kyra at Harley’s out on Pass-a-Grille for a drink,” I say as I take my seat.

“You know alcohol never solves anything. It just distracts you from the problem temporarily,” my mother points out.

“Yes, well, sometimes a temporary reprieve is betterthan none.” I don’t mention the run-in with the hulks or the fact that the bartender refused to serve me a real drink because of Cassie Everheart’s issues with alcohol.

Her eyes narrow at my response, but she doesn’t argue.

When the waitress arrives at our table, her eyebrows shoot up and I can tell that she recognizes me. Which is the only reason I don’t even bother to ask for a drink.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Sydney,” my grandmother says.

“It’s great to see you, too, Grand.”

My grandmother grew up in Atlanta but went to New York to study art at a time when genteel young women didn’t do those kinds of things. Even after she came back to Atlanta and married Grandpa Henry and helped him run his commercial landscape business, she continued to paint, creating huge canvases that were as bold and bright as she was. The mingled scents of turpentine and pigment mixed with her Estée Lauder Youth-Dew perfume are forever stored in my memory. Her light-filled studio, where she kept smaller easels and a table in the corner for children’s projects—something too messy for my mother to ever allow in her perfectly structured world—was always my favorite place. Even though I was much better at acting like an artist than being one. Which seems to be an ongoing theme in my life.

Mom’s been attempting to turn her mother into an ordinary, rule-following, organized individual for as long as I can remember. Fortunately, she’s failed spectacularly.

• • •

When the foodarrives, I dig into my filet then slather the baked potato with butter and sour cream, ignoring the green salad that comes with my meal. If there’s any upside to losing a recurring television role, it’s no longer having to eat like a rabbit.

“I cried when they kicked you off the force and sent you off to rehab.” Mom is the one who introduces the demise of my career. She lowers her voice. “Those close-ups weren’t the least bit flattering.”

This, alas, is true. It’s hard to look your best while being “escorted” out of a police station and folded into a car against your will. I reach for a slice of bread and another packet of butter.

“I never thought you were suited to law enforcement anyway,” Mom says. “I’m sure a better role will come along.”

“Of course it will.” Grand gives me a smile. “I’m afraid I couldn’t bear to watch that final scene, but perhaps it will be nice to have some time off before you take on another role?”

I nod. “Absolutely.” I demolish the piece of bread and reach for another. “Are there any plans for tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

My mother and grandmother speak in unison then frown at each other.

“We’re taking a tour of Covington Arms at ten thirty tomorrow,” my mother says.

“No, we’re not,” Grand says with a roll of her eyes, which is not something you see an eighty-three-year-old woman do every day. “I don’t want to waste a perfectly good day with Sydney here. And I want to show her Myra’s town house community on Paradise Island—don’t you just love the sound of that? Can you imagine getting to tell people you live in Paradise?”

My mother’s jaw clenches. “You promised you’d take the tour,” she says tightly.

“I didn’t want to go in the first place and I’m definitely not going tomorrow.” My grandmother straightens and looks my mother squarely in the eye, but I can see the effort it takes. I know when someone’s acting. So does my mom.

“We have an appointment. And I’m going to have to get back to Atlanta soon. I have several closings scheduled.”

“Reschedule them.”

“Not possible.”

Stalemate. I keep my eyes on my plate and my mouth full.

Surprisingly, it’s my grandmother who budges first. “I’ll go if Sydney does,” Grand says. “That way I know you can’t check me in and leave me there without my consent.”

“It’s not an institution,” Mom hisses. “It’s a highly rated five-star retirement community.”

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