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I smooth my skirt over my legs and pause, smiling before I give the answer I’ve perfected. “Are there any teachers in the room?”
A few hands tentatively rise.
“In addition to my grandmother—” I nod Gram’s way and catch her wave in return, “—it’s because of my teachers that I am where I am right now. It was a teacher who acknowledged my talent when I was young, others who nurtured it in adolescence. They encouraged me to set goals and work toward them. We all owe them our gratitude for what they do, all day, every day. Let’s give them a round of applause.”
The room fills with the sound of golf claps and a few cheers.
A few more questions come my way (my favorite: Have you planned your dream wedding for your own happily ever after? my answer: No, but I’d probably wear black glitter or hot pink or something very unexpected), and once I’m done speaking, I take a seat at a long table near the register and start signing copies, smiling politely and making small talk as attendees step before me.
The woman who launched me into Ode to Teachers beams at me when it’s her turn. “Thank you for saying what you said earlier. About the teachers.”
“Absolutely! I really meant it. They’re underappreciated, but they do so much.”
I credit my teachers with providing some of the most invaluable advice in my life and launching me into my career. But I don’t dare say that anywhere near Gram; if she heard that, it’d break her heart.
“Any chance you’re single? I think you’d love my grandson,” she jokes, in the forward way that grandparents do. I can only imagine her doing this with her grandson next to her and the shade of red his cheeks might turn, or how his jaw might hit the floor.
“Sorry, but I’m spoken for at the moment.”
“I believe it. So talented, and pretty to boot. Well,” she says, taking back her book, still smiling. “It was great chatting with you. Thanks so much.” She carries off her hardcover and disappears into the crowd.
There’s another half hour of signing books and shooting the breeze, and as things wind down I refill my cocoa, hunting for Gram. She’s hugging the woman, waving goodbye.
“Make a new friend, did ya?” I always tease her at these things, and at the grocery store, or on the sidewalk when she strikes up a conversation with a complete stranger about which custom orthotics they’re using to have such a spring in their step. The woman makes friends everywhere she goes.
“I did indeed,” she smiles. “New pen pal.”
She truly means pen pal, because Gram hates email. Finds it too impersonal.
“That sounds nice.”
She nods and surveys the store. “Whadaya think the over/under is on clean-up time?”
Gram loves gambling as much as she loathes electronic communication.
We pack up the easel and the display board on it, then help Mr. and Mrs. Charles fold up the chairs they’d brought in for this event. Within twenty minutes, the place is back to normal. Mental note: I owe Gram ten bucks.
“Did he call, at least?” Gram asks as we step out into the evening air.
I haven’t even bothered to check my phone these last two hours, but I feel confident in my response. “No. He hasn’t.”
“Sorry, dear. I know you were looking forward to him being here tonight.”
I shrug, not wanting to let Gram see me upset. “It’s fine. Probably had to work late. I know how that goes.”
In reality I’m annoyed and, frankly, pissed off. Tristan’s traveling all month for work, and the one time my speaking gig is in the same city he’s in, he can’t even bother to show up. Can’t or doesn’t, it doesn’t matter. It sucks either way.
We walk a block back to the hotel, planning our room service order. Gram pushed hard for a New York book signing, and I think a swanky hotel and room service were her motivating factors. I’m just grateful for practice speaking with much smaller crowds in the last few weeks before having to speak to a crowd the size of the one at Books Off Broadway.
“You okay, Sweetheart?” Gram rests a hand on my forearm as I reach for the elevator button.
I shrug. “Fine.”
She doesn’t believe me, and for a second her lip twitches down and I think she might tell me to “ditch Tristan’s ass” (because, yes, she has said exactly those words to me before), but instead she smiles gently, full of pity, and pats my arm. “You were fantastic tonight. Nancy was very impressed.” My head tilts and Gram clarifies. “The woman I was talking to at the end.”
“Ah, the woman who tried to set me up with her grandson?”
Gram shrugs. “High praise, for a woman to think someone is good enough for her grandchild.”
