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and dance about how he was related to my husband. In retrospect, I probably should have just let it
pass, but since Stuart does have a father, and since he is very much alive and coherent, and since I had
no idea if Desmond Connor was a close personal friend of the director of Coastal Mists, I announced
that Eddie was my first husband's grandfather. No relation to Stuart whatsoever. "Of course I have to
take him home with me," I said. "My daughter needs to know her great-grandpa, and I won't be able to
sleep knowing I didn't do everything in my power to take care of Eric's grandfather."
Melinda oohed and aahed about how sweet I was, and while I hung my head and tried to look modest
and unmartyr-like, Eddie crouched down to Timmy's level. "You can call me Gramps," he said. At which
point Tim reached out and yanked Eddie's eyebrow.
"Caterpillar," he said. "Fuzzy caterpillar."
Not being entirely stupid, I figured that was our cue to leave, and we gathered Eddie's things, signed the
necessary papers, and headed out the door.
To my relief, Nurse Ratchet was nowhere to be seen. I had mental images of her chasing after us, not
letting us leave, and hoards of demons descending on us, intent on slaughtering us first, then burying us in
the basement. I told myself I was being paranoid, but I knew I really wasn't. I had no doubt that my
geriatric demon had been a Coastal Mists resident, and I fully intended to let Larson in on the problem,
and he could relay it up the Forza chain of command. It wasn't my problem, though. My problem was
about five-eight, a hundred seventy pounds, with a stubbly gray beard and eyebrows that vaguely
resembled caterpillars.
I got both my problems safely into the car. (For those of you keeping track, Eddie was problem number
one. Timmy, as a toddler, automatically qualifies as a problem in any situation that involves moving from
point A to point B.)
I'd come up with the Eddie-as-grandfather story solely to ease our departure from Coastal Mists, and,
frankly, it hadn't occurred to me that Eddie would adopt the story as his own, much less believe it. For
that matter, I didn't know if he really did believe it. All I knew was that as soon as I got him to the house,
he made himself at home (witness the potato chips), tucked Timmy on his lap (who immediately
continued his rapt inspection of the eyebrow insects), and told Allie that she looked just like her mother,
and was I training her well?
To Allie's credit, she registered less shock at encountering the old man in the living room than I would
have expected, and I deflected his questions by sending her upstairs to do homework before dinner.
Eddie and I needed to have a talk, that much was for sure.
Unfortunately, Stuart got home before we could have the talk. (In case you're wondering, springing
elderly in-laws on unsuspecting spouses particularly where you're proposing a live-in arrangement of
some unknown duration is not the key to a laid-back evening.)
As usual, Stuart entered through the kitchen, his tie askew and his briefcase weighing heavy in his hand. I
could see in his face that all he wanted to do was drop his stuff in his study and change into jeans and a
T-shirt. Too bad for him, I wasn't about to let him pass.
I cornered him near the refrigerator. He shot me a "later, honey" look and pushed past. I counted to five.
Sure enough, as soon as he rounded the corner and saw Eddie on the couch with Tim, my husband
backtracked. "Okay," he said. "Who is he?"
And that, of course, was when I started to regale him with the long-lost-grandfather-in-law story. Never
once did I expect Eddie to announce that he was Stuart's grandfather, or for me to gently correct him
with, "No, Gramps, Eric's your grandson, remember? Stuart's my second husband."
All of which would have been fine (well, relatively speaking) if Allie hadn't overheard the whole thing.
"Daddy's grandpa?" Her tentative whisper sounded from behind me, and I drew in a breath. As I turned
around, she moved toward him, then took his gnarled hand in her own. "You're my daddy's grandfather?"
Tears filled my eyes, and as I looked up at Stuart, I saw my own pain reflected there. His parents had
been nothing but sweet to Allie, and I know she loved them dearly, but this was blood. A bond with the
past that she'd never known existed (in part, of course, because it didn't exist).
I had to tell her the truth, though. Eric and I had both been orphans. We didn't know who our parents
were, much less our grandparents. But as I started to take a step toward her, I hesitated. Allie's eyes
were bright, her cheeks pink, and when Eddie (who must have been quite the charmer in his day) told her
she had her father's eyes, I swear, she melted a little.
This was a lie, yes. But was it really so bad? Allie craved a heritage, after all, and that wasn't something I
ever thought I could give her. Somehow, though, I'd managed. I'd brought home a family history. So
what if it was an illusion?
Besides, how did I know that Eddie wasn't really Eric's grandfather? Stranger things had happened. I
know. They happened to me all the time.
With Allie and Eddie safely (I hoped) ensconced in the living room, Stuart decided it was time to
recommence his interrogation of me. "Once again," he said, "how long is Gramps there going to be our
houseguest? And why can't he stay at a hotel?"
"Long story," I said, then added a sbhhh. "Do you want Allie to hear?" This is what's known as a
diversionary tactic.
"Don't change the subject on me," he said. (As a lawyer, Stuart's pretty adept at picking up on the
nuances of diversion. Too bad for me.)
I made a show of sighing. "I tried to call you," I said. "Just after lunchtime. Your secretary said you'd
stepped out." This was where I expected him to take the opening and explain to me why he'd gone to the
cathedral.
"Did you try my cell phone?"
"Um, no," I said. That wasn't the comment I'd expected, although his answer did remind me that I had a
nicely wrapped phone in the trunk with Allie's name on it. First things first, though, and I came up with a
reasonable-sounding fib. "My phone was dead." I knew Stuart would understand. I didn't bother to
memorize numbers I just kept them programmed in my phone. If mine had no juice, there was no way I
could call Stuart or anyone else. I figure I'm doing good on any given day to keep track of all my kids'
various appointments. Adding the memorization of phone numbers would be cruel and unusual.
"Late lunch," he said. "I met with some members of the zoning commission about a project, and some of
them seemed amenable to talking politics "
"And so you did," I said. I lifted myself up on my toes and kissed his cheek. "Darling Stuart. Always
campaigning." My voice might be cheery, but my insides were churning. Not only had my husband not
volunteered his business at the church, he'd flat out lied to me about where he'd been.
I didn't know what that meant.
But I knew that I sure as hell didn't like it.
I spent the next two hours feeding my expanded-by-one family and pondering my own hypocrisy. By the
time the meat loaf was gone and the string beans devoured (or, in Timmy's case, mushed into tiny pieces
and methodically dropped on the floor), I'd decided that while I had a Get Out of Jail Free card for my
lying, my husband did not.
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