Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“I don’t know, Grams. I didn’t press for details.” I picked up the apron from the back of the kitchen chair and slipped it over my head. “But he’s waiting for you at the front door.”
I thought I heard her hmph as she left the kitchen.
While the tenderloin was in the oven, I sat with Grams on the couch and drank a martini. We looked through more old photos, but my mind kept wandering to Ryan. What did I have to do to get him to talk to me? He’d been a little more friendly than the day before, but not much. Was I really that unappealing?
I drank a second martini during dinner, hoping to numb the feelings of disappointment and insecurity. By the time we finished eating dessert, I had a solid buzz going, so I blame the gin for what happened next.
“Stella, dear,” Grams said as she studied the second pie on the counter. “I just realized I don’t have room in the freezer for this. Why don’t you take it over to Mr. Woods?”
“Because he doesn’t like me,” I blurted, frowning into my empty glass.
Grams looked taken aback. “Nonsense.”
“It’s the truth, Grams,” I said, although I had a little trouble saying the truth. My lips and tongue were tingling.
“Of course he likes you.” Grams came over to the table and collected our empty pie plates. “He just can’t tell that you like him.”
“What? That’s ridiculous. I’ve tried to talk to him three times, and he barely says a word.”
“That’s because he’s looking for a sign that you’re interested. Men aren’t geniuses when it comes to women, Stella.”
“What kind of sign?” I asked, following her to the sink.
“Well, for one thing, you have to pay close attention to everything he says. Never take your eyes off his face. And then occasionally, make some remark that makes him feel appreciated. Something like, ‘Oh, how marvelous! I never thought about it that way before! You’re so fun to talk to!” She batted her lashes at me.
I groaned at her outdated advice. “No, Grams. I’m not saying that.”
“You could also try…dolling yourself up a bit before you go over to see him.” She made fluffing motions with her hands in front of me.
“Dolling myself up?” I stared at her in disbelief.
“Why, sure. You know—curl your hair, put on some makeup, wear a dress, maybe some high heels.”
“What is this, 1955? I didn’t bring a dress, Grams. Or high heels.”
“That’s okay, dear, I’m sure you brought something nice. Do you have any other shoes?” She looked down at my loafers.
“Running shoes. And flats.” The flats had been a birthday gift from Emme, and I’d thrown them in my bag at the last minute. They were ballet pink and much more her style than mine, but they were pretty, and definitely more girly than what I had on.
“Hm.” Grams pursed her wrinkled lips and tapped a finger on them. “Let’s try the flats. Now for your wardrobe. My dresses aren’t going to fit you, but”—she clapped her hands together, her face brightening—“I just remembered, I have the most darling little sweater set you can wear! I never wore it much because cashmere gives me a rash, but it’s just beautiful. And the color will be perfect with your skin.”
“Sweater set?” I pictured June Cleaver from Leave It To Beaver.
“Yes. And my pearls. You can never go wrong with cashmere and pearls.”
“Please don’t make me do this.”
“I’ll just plug in my hot rollers and find that set,” she said, scurrying away from me. “You go put on the nicest slacks you brought and meet me in my bedroom.”
I was already wearing the nicest “slacks” I’d brought, which were my dark blue jeans, and this whole makeover thing was absurd. I did not need my ninety-two-year-old grandmother to help me get a man’s attention!
Oh no? challenged a voice in my head. And why’s that, because you’re so good with men on your own? You just got dumped by Walter! Boring, bee-keeping Walter! Maybe he wasn’t what you wanted anyway, but you’re no expert on desirability.
And that, my friends, is how I ended up walking over to Ryan’s house in my grandmother’s cashmere and pearls, my Veronica Lake hair curled and swinging loose around my shoulders, carrying an apple crumble pie and muttering to myself.
“This sweater set smells like a cedar closet and it’s too tight. I can’t even button the cardigan. My hair looks ridiculous. What was I thinking letting her convince me to wear red lipstick? It is so not my thing. He’s going to take one look at me and burst out laughing.” At least I’d managed to escape the house before Grams drenched me in Chanel No. 5.
“Just be yourself, dear,” she’d said as I walked out the back door.
Myself. Right.
When I reached the bottom of his porch steps, I nearly turned around and went home. But then I remembered that redhead at the bar and how happy she’d looked coming out of the restaurant.