granny panty.
And I had to have them.
“My George would have loved those,” a voice quipped behind me.
A guilty ripple of shock ran up my spine, and I snatched my hand away.
“George had a wicked streak, that’s for sure,” the voice continued. While the voice bore distinct traces of age and years of a cigarette habit, it was still melodic. There was feistiness and spunk, and I could imagine the speaker, even as I turned around.
I tried to arrange my face into a confident smile rather than a guilty, self-conscious grimace to face this person, this interrupter of my hunt for the perfect panty.
The face that greeted me bore no resemblance to the image I had conjured in my head.
I was expecting to see Shirley MacLaine but was greeted, instead, by someone whose features seemed a strange mash-up between Estelle Getty and Ellen Albertini Dow, that weird little old lady who played the rapping grandma in The Wedding Singer. Needless to say, I had to shift my gaze down to meet her eyes—so short was she.
Not that I’m all that tall, but still.
She was positively itty-bitty.
“And boy, could we make some trouble together,” she said, reaching up, up to stand on tiptoe and trace over the sequins. “George would have loved these,” she said again.
“George sounds like quite a guy,” I murmured, not quite sure how else to respond. I’d never met this woman before in my life, so the randomness of this encounter—while it certainly had all the components of an interesting story—was something I felt unprepared for. I don’t generally start up conversations with women who are obviously pushing ninety in the lingerie store, and the fact that I’d been fingering a pair of such racy underwear felt a bit…taboo?
“Oh, he was,” said the aged little woman who stood before me, her eyes crinkling in a smile. “We shocked everyone when we got married. It was quite the scandal,” she tittered.
By that point, I couldn’t help the smile that crept across my lips. There was no way around it. In the two minutes we’d been in one another’s company, I had no choice but to be absolutely fascinated by the impossibly impish little sprite in front of me, and the writer inside of me was dying to know more.
“Really? Why?”
“Because he was already engaged to someone else, and we ran off together and eloped!” she stage-whispered, leaning closer to me and widening bright green eyes that were positively vivacious.
“You stole him from his fiancée? How did you do that?” I marveled.
She simply smiled. “A lady has to have some secrets, now doesn’t she?”
“That’s what my grandmother always said; not that you’d have much to worry about if you told me. I’m not even from here—I’m here from Pensacola, visiting.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” she replied sweetly. “Do you have family here?”
I nodded. “My mom’s family is all here. My grandmother died about six months ago, so I thought I’d come and spend some time with my grandfather.” It was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Not that I owed her the whole story, but I still felt a little guilty at the spin I was putting on things: dutiful, loving granddaughter on a trip to comfort her grieving grandfather. Again, partially true, but to get into the details of my own need for the trip would have taken too long. And been a little too personal, really. Better to keep it all simple.
“That’s a shame,” she tutted, her previous smile replaced by a look of concern. “What was her name? I might have known her. When you’re as old as me and you stay in one place your whole life, you know everybody.”
“Meredith Samuelson. Everybody called her Merry, though.”
The sprite’s eyes grew wide. “You’re one of Merry Samuelson’s granddaughters? Oh, my dear.” She clucked. “Dear, dear, I’m so sorry,” she added, reaching up to rest a light hand on my arm, just the right mix of sorrow, sympathy, and social propriety. She may have had a thing for racy lingerie, but the lady also had class. No doubt this woman had been to many a cotillion in her youth. “You must miss her—she was such a sweet lady. And she certainly lived up to her name.” She paused. “Now, which one of the grandchildren are you?”
“I’m Odelle.”
“No,” she protested. “Dellie’s only a bitty little girl. You’re a young woman; you can’t be Dellie,” she said, looking square into my face. “Well.” Headshaking ensued as she searched my eyes. “Time does fly, doesn’t it, Dellie?”
I nodded.
“Your grandmama and I didn’t really run in the same circles, but I always thought she was lovely. And her cakes were to die for. She made every wedding cake, anniversary cake, and birthday cake I ever needed. If it wasn’t Merry’s cake, it wasn’t at one of my parties; and every lady in the League always called her, too,” said the tiny woman in front of me, whose name I had yet to discover.
“She did make some wonderful cakes,” I agreed solemnly. “You’re going to have to forgive me, though—I don’t remember ever meeting you. And it’s been a very long time since I last visited, I’m sorry to say,” I said, meaning every word to my core.
It really had been far too long since I’d made my last trip up there, and the changes I saw everywhere seemed to make it glaringly obvious. Now, it was too late. Grammie was gone, and I’d never again get to curl into her arms for a hug as she sat in her blue La-Z-Boy recliner or watch her whip butter into the sugar for her frosting, her generous frame moving about in the familiar process of mixing magic. She wore no chef’s jacket in her small kitchen, but the housecoats she always donned may as well have been her uniform as she worked, tunelessly singing the words to some old song from her youth.
I felt a swell of emotion run through me.
“Well, it’s good that you’re here now.” The white head nodded, then stopped abruptly as she remembered that she still hadn’t properly introduced herself. “But Lord, where are my manners?” she scolded herself.
Given our earlier conversation, I doubted that she was one to stand on ceremony and had a certain relish for thwarting the etiquette books to create a stir. Not that she hadn’t memorized every word on every page, but one got the distinct impression that she didn’t often heed the rules unless they served to her benefit.
“I’m Annabelle MacMillan,” she said at last, her face once again wreathed in a smile. “Like I said, your grandmama and I didn’t really socialize much; but I knew her well enough to know that many, many people loved her and will miss her.” Her hand remained on my forearm as she spoke.
I nodded in agreement. “So how did you find out about her and her cakes?” I asked, my curiosity sufficiently piqued.
Her smile turned mysterious, and it seemed to hold the barest hint of sadness.
I took a second to survey this tiny woman again, my imagination running wild with all the possible tales that were locked into her memory. No doubt she had some tales to tell—but was she willing to share? And really, how did she know my grandmother, aside from
