Kisses at Sunset

by Sarah Morgan

  “Ooh la-la, I think it sounds great.” Sophie grinned. “Just remember that the average age of Mimi’s friends is ninety. Don’t give them all heart attacks.”

  “I’m pretty sure Robert has his eye on Mimi.”

  “Mimi is a minx. I hope I’m like her when I’m ninety. She has this wicked twinkle in her eye… It must have been fun having her living with you when you were growing up.”

  It had been lifesaving. And that, of course, was why Mimi had moved in.

  It was a time she’d never discussed with her daughter. “She’s one in a million. You’ll be okay tonight?” She checked the kitchen was tidy. “There’s casserole in the fridge. All you need to do is heat it up.”

  “I’m eighteen, Mom. You don’t have to worry about me.” Sophie glanced out the window as a car pulled up outside. “Karen is here. I need to run. Bye.”

  Telling Grace not to worry was like asking a fish not to swim.

  Two minutes after Sophie had left, she slid on her coat, picked up her keys and walked to the car.

  Turning the heat up, she focused on the drive.

  Four mornings a week, Grace taught French and Spanish at the local middle school. She also tutored children who were struggling and occasionally gave lessons to adults keen to improve their language skills.

  She took the same route she always took, seeing the same houses, the same trees, the same stores. Her view only changed when the seasons changed. Grace didn’t mind. She savored routine and predictability. She found comfort and security in knowing what was going to happen next.

  Today the snow lay deep on the ground, coating roofs and gardens in thick slabs of white. In this little corner of Connecticut the snow was likely to linger for many weeks. Some people embraced it. Grace wasn’t one of them. By March, winter felt like a guest who had outstayed her welcome. She longed for sunshine and summer dresses, bare legs and iced drinks.

  She was still dreaming of summer when the phone rang.

  It was David.

  “Hi, Gracie.” That voice of his still made her insides melt. Deep and gravelly, but smooth enough to soothe life’s hurts.

  “Hi, handsome. You had an early start today.” And you left your breakfast plate on top of the dishwasher.

  “Things are busy at work.”

  David was editor of the local newspaper, the Woodbrook Post, and had been kept busy lately thanks to the astonishing success of the girls’ tennis team, the formation of a county children’s choir and a robbery at the local gas station during which the only things stolen were a box of doughnuts and a bottle of rum. By the time the local police had located the man responsible, the evidence had been consumed.

  Whenever Grace read the paper it reminded her of all the reasons she lived in this quaint town with a population of only 2,498.

  Unlike other journalists, whose sights might have been set on bigger targets, David had never shown a desire to work anywhere but this small town they’d both fallen in love with.

  The way he saw it, he was the voice of the community. He was obsessed with the news, but he also believed that it was what happened right here in their hometown that mattered to people. He often joked that all he needed to fill the entire newspaper was to spend an afternoon at a backyard barbecue listening to the gossip. He was friends with the police chief and the fire chief, which ensured that he was given all the major scoops.

  Of course in Woodbrook, a place most people had never heard of, there were more scoops in the ice cream parlor than there were in the local community, and that suited Grace.

  “Happy Valentine’s and happy anniversary.” She slowed as she approached an intersection. “I’m already looking forward to dinner tonight.”

  “Shall I book somewhere?”

  Only a man would think it possible to get a table on Valentine’s Day without forward planning. “Already done, honey.”

  “Right. I should be home early. I’ll fix something for Sophie to eat so you don’t have to bother.”

  “I’ve handled that. The fridge is full of food. You can relax.”

  There was a pause. “You’re superwoman, Grace.”

  She glowed. “I love you.”

  Her family was the most important thing in the world to her.

  “I’ll drop by the store and pick out something for Stephen’s birthday on my way home. He says he doesn’t want a fuss, but I feel we should buy him something, don’t you?”

  “I do—which is why I bought him a gift when I was shopping last week.” Grace waited for a gap in the traffic and turned in to the school. “You’ll find it under the bed in the spare room.”

  “You’ve already bought something?”

  “I didn’t want you having to think about it. Remember that great photo of Stephen with Beth and the kids?”

  “The one I took at the Summer Fair?”

  She pulled in to a space and undid her seat belt. “I had a print made and bought a frame. It looks great.”

  “That’s…thoughtful…”

  “I’ve wrapped it. All you have to do is sign your name.” She reached across and gathered her coat and bag. “I’m at school, so I’ll call you later. You sound tired. Are you tired?”

  “A little.”

  She paused with one leg out of the car. “You’ve been working long hours lately. You need to slow down. There’s nothing for you to do at home, so maybe you should lie down and rest before we go out.”

  “I’m not geriatric, Grace.”

  There was a sharpness to his tone that was unusual.

  “I was trying to spoil you, that’s all.”

  “Sorry.” The sharpness vanished. “Didn’t mean to snap. There’s been a lot going on lately. I’ll call a cab for tonight, so we can have a drink without worrying about driving.”

  “Cab is already booked for seven.”

  “Do you ever forget anything?”

  “It’s all down to lists—you know that. If I lose my lists, my life is over.”

  It occurred to her that if she died someone would be able to pick up her “To Do” lists and carry on with her life as if she’d never inhabited it.

  What did that say about her? A life should be individual, surely? Would someone looking at the lists be able to learn anything about her? Would they know that she loved the smell of roses and indulged her love of French movies when no one was home? Would they know she listened to Mozart piano concertos while she cooked?

  “Is there anything you need me for?”

  Grace gave a smile that her daughter would have said was very like Mimi’s minxy look. “I can think of a few things… I plan on showing you later.”

  David ended the call and she walked into school, waving at a couple of parents who were delivering their precious cargo.

  Twenty-five years. She’d been married for twenty-five years.

  She felt a glow of pride.

  Take that, universe.

  She and David were a perfect team. They’d had their ups and downs like any couple, but they’d handled everything together. Grace had become the person she wanted to be, and if a tiny voice occasionally reminded her that underneath she was someone quite different, she ignored it. She had the marriage she wanted. The life she wanted.

  The day deserved a special celebration, and she’d made a reservation for dinner at Bistro Claude, the upmarket French restaurant in the next town. Claude himself was from Texas, but he’d seen a gap in the market, cultivated an accent and modeled his restaurant on something he’d once seen in a French movie.

  Even Grace, a purist and Francophile, had to admit the place was charming. She would have loved to take Mimi there, but her grandmother no longer enjoyed eating out.

  Bistro Claude was the perfect setting for tonight, because Grace had planned a big surprise. Organizing it had been a major undertaking, but she’d been careful to leave no clues or hints.

  Fortunately David had worked long hours over the past couple of months, or it would have been impossible to keep her research
a secret.

  She pushed open the doors and headed into school.

  The children in her class were at that age where anything to do with sex or romance was treated as either hilarious or awkward, so she was fairly sure Valentine’s Day would evoke plenty of giggles.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  “We’ve written you a poem, miss, to celebrate your anniversary.”

  “A poem? Lucky me.” Grace hoped they’d give her the PG version. “Who’s going to read it?”

  Darren clambered onto his chair and cleared his throat. “Twenty-five years, that’s a very long time. More than you get for a life of crime.”

  Grace wasn’t sure whether to laugh or put her head in her hands.

  By the time she headed back to the car park at lunchtime she felt exhausted, and relieved she only worked mornings. Fortunately the drive to the assisted living center where her grandmother lived would give her time to decompress.

  It was a scenic route that wound through woodland and sleepy villages. In the fall the road was clogged with tourists admiring the sunset colors of the foliage, but now the trees and the rolling hills were coated in snow. The road followed the curve of the river, which had a tendency to flood as the snow melted.

  Grace drove past the wildlife sanctuary, turned right into the road that led to Rushing River Senior Living and parked the car.

  When Mimi had first announced her decision to move here Grace had been horrified.

  As well as having a love of dance and all things hedonistic, her grandmother was a celebrated photographer. She’d traveled the world with her camera at a time when it had been rare for a single woman to do such a thing. She was famous for her photographs of postwar Paris, and Grace had always marveled at how her grandmother could capture people’s personal struggles in a single frame. Mimi’s vivid, exuberant personality was at odds with her dark, atmospheric photos of streets drenched by rain, or couples clinging together in a desperate embrace. The photographs told a story that her grandmother rarely shared in words. Of hunger and deprivation. Of fear and loss.

  The last thing Grace had anticipated was that her well-traveled, worldly grandmother would choose to move somewhere like Rushing River. She’d tried to persuade her otherwise. If Mimi had reached the age when she could no longer manage alone, then she should live with Grace and David.

  Mimi had insisted that she enjoyed her independence far too much to live with other people—even her beloved granddaughter. She’d gone ahead and paid the money without giving Grace any say in it.

  That had been five years ago, but it had taken only a couple of visits for Grace to understand why her grandmother had chosen the place.

  It was a haven. On busy days, Grace fantasized about living there, too. There was a fitness center, including a pool, a spa and salon facilities, which Mimi loved. But the best thing was the people. They were interesting, friendly and, thanks to excellent management, the place felt like a community.

  Her grandmother lived in a two-bedroom garden cottage, with views across the lawns down to the river. In the summer, with the doors and windows open, you could hear the sound of the water. Mimi had turned one of the bedrooms into a darkroom, where she still developed her own photographs. The other room, her bedroom, looked like a dancer’s dressing room, complete with a mirrored wall and a barre that her grandmother used for stretches.

  The front door opened before Grace had lifted her hand to the buzzer.

  “What do you think? Je suis magnifique, non?” Her grandmother did a twirl and then immediately reached out to steady herself. “Oops!”

  “Careful!” Grace grabbed her hand. “Maybe it’s time to stop dancing. You might lose your balance.”

  “If I’m going to fall, I’d rather do it while I’m dancing. Unless I fall out of bed having sex. That would also be acceptable—although unlikely, unless the men around here get their act together.”

  Grace laughed and put her bags down. She loved the mischievous look in her grandmother’s eyes. “Don’t ever change.”

  “I’m too old to change—and why would I want to? Being yourself is the one thing every person should excel at.” Mimi smoothed her dress. “So, what do you think?”

  “Is that the dress you wore when you were in the ballet in Paris?”

  She’d seen photos of that time. Her grandmother, impossibly delicate, standing en pointe with her hair swept up. According to Mimi half of Paris had been in love with her, and Grace had no trouble believing it.

  “I didn’t know you still had it.”

  “I don’t. This is a copy. Mirabelle made it for me. She has such a talent. Of course I was younger then and my legs weren’t as scrawny as they are now, so she made it longer.”

  “I think you look incredible.” Grace leaned down and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “I have everything ready for French Club. I need to go and help the staff set up, but I wanted to give you this first.” She handed over the macaron box, which she’d tied with a beautiful bow. “I made them.”

  “A gift you make yourself is the best gift of all.” Mimi slid her fingers over the silk ribbon. “I had a pair of ballet shoes with ribbon exactly this color.” She opened the box with an enthusiasm that ninety years on the planet hadn’t dimmed. “They look exactly like the ones I used to buy in Paris. They were there in the shop window like jewels. I remember a man once sneaking out of my apartment early in the morning to buy me a box for breakfast—we ate them in bed.”

  Grace loved hearing about her grandmother’s colorful past. “What was his name?”

  Could Mimi be talking about the man who had made her pregnant?

  Grace had tried on numerous occasions to persuade her grandmother to talk about the mysterious man who was her grandfather, but she never would. It was a fling, was all she would say.

  As usual her grandmother was vague. “I don’t remember his name. I only remember the macarons.”

  “You’re a wicked woman, Mimi.” Grace took the box from her and closed it. It felt odd to not know anything about her grandfather. Was he even still alive?

  “Since when has it been wicked to enjoy oneself? And why are you closing the box? I was about to eat one.”

  “You’ll have plenty to eat in French Club. There are more where these came from.”

  “I like to enjoy the moment.” Mimi opened the box again and helped herself. She took a delicate bite and closed her eyes. “If you focus on living well in the moment, you will never have regrets about yesterday.”

  Grace wondered if she was thinking of Paris, or of the man who had brought her macarons in bed. She knew her grandmother had stories she hadn’t shared, and that there were times she didn’t like to think about. Grace understood that. There were times she didn’t like to think about either.

  “Good?”

  “Excellent.” Mimi opened her eyes and reached for her coat and a silk scarf. Today’s choice was peacock blue. “How is Sophie?”

  “Enraged about the plans to close the animal shelter. She’s writing letters and calling anyone who will pick up the phone.”

  “I admire a person who is prepared to stand up and fight for a cause they believe in. Even more so when that person is my great-granddaughter. You should be proud, Grace.”

  “I am proud—although I’m not sure the way she is has much to do with me. She has David’s genes.”

  Mimi read her mind. “Relax. She has nothing of your mother in her.” She tucked her arm into Grace’s as they stepped out of the apartment onto the covered walkway that led to the main house. “When is Sophie coming to see me?”

  “At the weekend.”

  “And David?” Mimi’s expression softened. “He popped in yesterday and fixed the broken handle on my door. That man is perfect. He has time for everyone. And did I mention that he gets more handsome by the day? That smile.”

  “I know.” She’d fallen in love with David’s smile. “I’m lucky.”

  Mimi stopped walking. “No, honey. He’s the one who
is lucky. You went through so much and yet you have a family like this—well, I’m proud of you. You’re the glue, Grace. And you’re an excellent mother.”

  Her grandmother was her biggest supporter. Grace hugged her in full view of anyone who happened to be watching. It was only when she held her grandmother that she was aware of her frailty. It scared her. She couldn’t imagine a life without Mimi.

  “I love you.”

  “Of course you do. I’m the buttercream frosting on the stale cake that is life.”

  Grace let her go. “Twenty-five years today. Had you forgotten?”

  “I have creaking bones and varicose veins, but my memory is fine. I know what day it is. Your anniversary! I am happy for you. Every woman should love deeply at least once in her lifetime.”

  “You didn’t. Were you never tempted to get married? Not even when you discovered you were pregnant?”

  Mimi flipped the scarf around her neck and slid her arm through Grace’s. “I wasn’t the marrying kind. You, however, always were. I hope you’re wearing your sexiest underwear to celebrate.”

  “I refuse to discuss my underwear with you, but I can tell you that I’ve booked dinner. And that’s when I’m giving him his gift.”

  “I’m envious. A whole month in Paris. Sunlight on cobbled streets, and the gardens… Paris has a special atmosphere—do you remember that? It slides under your skin and permeates the air you breathe…”

  Mimi seemed to be talking to herself and Grace smiled.

  “I remember—but I have only been once, and just for a short visit. You were born there. You lived there.”

  “I did. And I really did live.” Mimi was never so animated as when she talked about Paris. “I remember one night we stripped off our clothes and—”

  “Mimi!” Grace paused at the door to the dining room. “You’re about to appear in public. Don’t scandalize everyone. We don’t want to shock them with your sinful stories.”

  “Boredom is a sin. You’re never too old for a little excitement. I’m doing them a favor.” Mimi snapped her fingers in the air. “Pierre! That’s it.” She looked at Grace, triumphant.