Page 76 of Practice Makes Perfect
“And you thought wearing his number would help?” She smiles knowingly. “The French call thisavoir le béguin. A crush.”
“I don’t have a crush,” I protest, though my cheeks betray me by heating up. “We’re just?—”
“Fucking?” she supplies helpfully.
I take another gulp of wine. “We’re not even doing that. Not yet. We’re… taking it slow.”
Her laughter is musical and completely without judgment. “Slow? This is what your generation considers slow? For my mother, slow meant years of letter writing and chaperoned walks in the garden, followed by the pomp and ceremony of a wedding, only to find your partner is terrible in bed…”
My mouth falls open. “Grandma!”
“Luckily, things change. When I was your age in France, I had many… how do you say…tutors.” Penelope’s eyes take on a faraway look, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her glass. “Before I met your grandfather, I lived quite freely. It was Paris in the 1970s,chérie. The whole world was changing.”
I can’t help but lean forward, fascinated despite myself. “But then you met Grandpa and settled down, right?”
Something flashes in her eyes—amusement, mischief, and a hint of rebellion that I suddenly recognize in myself. “Your grandfather and I loved each other deeply, but we weren’t prison guards to each other’s desires. So, occasionally, we had other lovers. With full knowledge and consent, of course.”
Instead of the scandalized reaction I’m sure she expects, I find myself leaning forward, utterly fascinated. The woman sitting across from me—with her elegant French bob and perfectly applied lipstick—suddenly seems like a stranger with secrets I never imagined.
Grandma Penelope smiles, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Your grandfather and I had what the young people today might call an ‘open relationship.’”
“But how did that even work?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Weren’t you both jealous?”
“Sometimes,” she admits with a small shrug. “We’re human, after all. But jealousy is like a fever—it tells you something is wrong, but it isn’t the disease itself.” She swirls her wine thoughtfully. “The problem was never that he desired someone else or that I did, the problem came if we lied about it.”
“So you just… told each other everything?”
“Not every detail,ma chérie. That would be tedious.” She laughs, the sound light and musical. “But yes, we were honest about our desires. Each… arrangement was negotiated. Each boundary explicit. And I loved your grandfather more with each passing day, for forty-seven years, until our last day.”
Even as she goes quiet, time I can tell she needs to gather herself and her emotions, my mind races with this new perspective, so different from everything I’ve been taught to believe about relationships. “But what about commitment? What about?—”
“Americans,” she says with a dismissive wave, “they think love means ownership. The French understand that love means freedom within honesty.”
The timer on the oven chimes, saving me from having to formulate a response. As Grandma carefully removes the madeleines, their sweet aroma filling the kitchen, I find myself questioning everything I thought I knew about relationships.
“Perfect,” she declares, examining the little shell-shaped cakes. “Let’s take these to the balcony. It’s too beautiful to stay inside.”
I help her arrange the madeleines on a plate, and we migrate to her small balcony overlooking a courtyard where the afternoon sun dapples through the trees. She refills our wine glasses without asking if I want more, and I don’t protest this time.
“So,” she says, settling into her chair with the grace of a much younger woman, “tell me more about this hockey player of yours.”
“He’s not mine,” I say automatically, then bite into a madeleine to avoid elaborating. It is warm, buttery and perfect. “Although, when he got into a fight, I thought my heart was going to stop. It was like someone punchedmein the stomach.”
“Yes?” Grandma prompts gently. “And?”
“Then, after, when he looked up and saw me in the stands…” I trail off, remembering the intensity of that moment. “It felt more intimate than when we’ve actually been… intimate.” My cheeks warm at the admission. “Like we were alone in the arena.”
Grandma Penelope studies me silently, her expression softening. “And this frightens you?”
“Terrifies me,” I correct her, surprised by my own honesty. The wine is definitely loosening my tongue. “We specificallyagreed no feelings. It was meant to be a casual arrangement to help me get over my… hang-ups… and gain more confidence.”
She says nothing.
I take another large sip of wine, courage for what I’m about to confess. “But I think I’m falling for him. And I have no idea what to do about it.”
“Why must you ‘do’ anything?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Because we had an agreement! He was very clear—he doesn’t have space in his life for a girlfriend right now.”
