Page 7 of Class Act

My thoughts couldn’t keep up with my feet as Hillary zig-zagged me around the room and through another doorway into what must be the family space. I’d seen something about Hillary’s mom during my research. (Okay that thing was her obituary.) But I hadn’t really made the connection that her and her children all had H names. Mentioning her had stolen some of the color from Ford’s face, and while I knew I had no right to feel protective, I didn’t like my name being associated with painful memories for him.

And wait . . . wasn’t the plan for Grams to be in bed by now? I wasn’t opposed to meeting her but had thought I was the post-Grams backup buddy.

The room we entered next was all warm browns and tans with plush carpet and family snapshots placed on every surface. It looked lived in and comfortable, a stark contrast to everything else I’d seen so far. On one of the overstuffed chairs sat a thin woman with gray hair. Henry was sitting near her feet, and they were looking through what appeared to be a photo album on her lap.

“Grams!” Hillary yelled, her voice reverberating in the much smaller space. “She came.” I was going to need shoulder surgery after this night, I thought to myself with a chuckle as she yanked once again to get me moving. “Do you see her sparkles? She’s so glittery.”

“I do see, dear.” The older woman’s voice was rough, like her breath couldn’t support her words.

She made to stand, and I held up a hand. “Please don’t stand for me,” I said. “You must be Grams?”

Her smile was very much like Hillary’s, and I immediately felt welcome in her presence, an unexpected boon. “I’m Marlene Whittaker, Ford’s mother.”

“Hailey Thomas, Hillary’s former teacher,” I greeted.

“And friend,” Hillary added.

“Yes and friend.” I let go of her small hand to shake Mrs. Whittaker's.

“Well, friend, come sit down. We’re looking through Ford’s childhood photos, and then we’re planning to sneak an entire cake off to have for ourselves.”

Hillary and Henry giggled at the pronouncement, and I joined in, picturing them finding a way to hide a cake as they ran for it.

“I like that plan,” I said.

“Grams has the best plans. They’re always fun, and we almost never get in trouble for them,” Henry pronounced, looking back down at the photo book.

I didn’t know Henry well, but from what I did know, he was quiet and studious, a definite contrast to his bubbly sister.

“Those are the best kind of plans.” I sat on a nearby couch and watched the three heads lean together as grandmother told grandchildren about each photo.

Marlene Whittaker, from what I could tell, was soft-spoken and content to spend time with her two grandchildren in a side room rather than participate in the large event. In fact, I got the feeling that she was a bit of a sideline hugger like myself. I watched as the two children leaned closer, pressing their little sides against her legs and reaching out to place a hand on one of her arms as she spoke. It was obvious that she gave them all the love a grandmother could give. Along with being an only child, I’d had no living grandparents by the time I was five years old. Life had taken my grandparents from me before I’d truly been able to appreciate those precious relationships.

“Well, I’m afraid we’ve bored poor Hailey to death,” Mrs. Whittaker announced, slapping the book shut and catching both Hillary and Henry’s hands with it. They squealed and she joined in, a boisterous sound that did not match the breathiness of her speaking voice. “Are you ready to steal some cake?” she asked me.

I licked my lips and wiggled my eyebrows, purposely reacting how children would hope an adult would. “I’ve been waiting all night, Mrs. Whittaker,” I replied, lightly clapping my hands together.

“Oh, no, no, no. Marlene will do fine. Any friend of Hillary’s is a friend of mine.” Marlene stood, placing the photo album on an end table and shuffling toward the opposite end of the room. “Come along my little thieves.” Two giggling and whispering children fell into line behind her, and I followed suit.

Marlene was in stocking feet, wearing comfortable flowing pants and a t-shirt that said ‘I’m That Grandma’ in boxy lettering. She’d definitely stand out, big time, among the well-dressed crowd in the other room. I was guessing she didn’t care one bit. She led the way through a door into a huge open kitchen, all done in the same whites as the rest of the house. It was gorgeous. I couldn’t help but imagine how lovely it would be to cook in that masterpiece.

Right now, it was completely filled with servers in the same black and white outfit I’d seen bustling around in other parts of the house.

“Ma’am, where’s the cake?” Marlene walked directly up to a woman wearing a black suit and headset, marking her as the event coordinator.

She bobbed her head to the left and gave Marlene a wink, letting me know the staff was in on it. “In the butler’s pantry.”

“Excellent,” Marlene replied. “Very smart of you to give us what we’re after rather than fighting a battle you would have lost.” Hillary laughed behind her hand, and Henry’s little eyes glowed in awe of his grandmother. The coordinator bowed her head gracefully, playing along with Marlene who grabbed one leg of her flowing pants and swept it to the side as though she were wearing a ball gown. “Onward, my dears. The treasure awaits.”

The two children bounded ahead of us, aiming for a small doorway that I assumed led to the butler’s pantry and the cake treasure trove. Their nearly identical blond heads disappeared from sight, and I followed along, eager to see what would happen next.

“I bribed the coordinator, of course,” Marlene said to me over her shoulder. “I insisted that Ford’s assistant order a variety of smaller cakes and then informed her we’d be commandeering one for ourselves. It’s up to those darling cherubs to choose the flavor, but the coordinator will be glad she cooperated.” I had a feeling the event coordinator would be flush with some extra cash that night, but Marlene surprised me by adding. “I’ll be crocheting her an afghan starting tomorrow. She’ll never be cold again.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from expressing my surprise. “I applaud your bartering skills,” I said as we entered the butler’s pantry to find Hillary and Henry looking closely at a selection of no less than twenty small cakes.

“You don’t get to be my age without having a few tricks up your wrinkled old sleeves,” Marlene grinned. I returned the grin without any hesitation. “So,” she turned to her grandchildren, “what flavor stomachaches will we have tonight?”

“I was so full after the German chocolate last year,” Henry moaned, patting his belly. “I promised I’d never eat that one again.”

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