Life Without You. Liesel Schmidt

knew, they came back married.”

      I blinked and gaped some more.

      He finally ventured a glance my way, probably wondering at my long silence.

      “Is there something wrong with your soup? Do you need to take it back up there?” he asked, his tone implying that it was the most reasonable question in the world. Clearly, the fact that I had only managed to take one mouthful of my soup could have nothing to do with the information he’d so casually imparted only seconds ago.

      I shook my head vigorously. “Soup’s fine, Grandpa. Why have I never heard this story? Does Mama know?”

      He gave me a look that seemed just on this side of a scowl. Apparently, I was pressing for details that he wasn’t prepared to give.

      “It’s not that important,” he said with yet another shrug. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to wear his shoulders out from all the shrugging.

      “Not that important?” I asked incredulously. That was insane. Of course it was important—it was part of our family history. If Grammie had married George MacMillan, none of us would even be here.

      “Not really,” he replied. “It happened, and everyone just had to accept it. Then she met me, and we got married.”

      The End, Amen.

      “Yes, but—” I stammered, not willing to let it drop so easily.

      “But what? It’s not complicated. George was an idiot, simple as that.” He took another bite of his fries. “Finish your soup before it gets cold,” he prompted, ready to move on.

      “That still doesn’t explain anything,” I countered, hoping he would give me more.

      “Sure it does,” Grandpa insisted. “It explains why he left a smart, stable girl like your Grammie for someone as flighty as Annabelle was back then. He was an idiot,” he reiterated, his face showing his obvious boredom at this line of questioning.

      “Wow. How long had he and Grammie been engaged? And you still haven’t told me—does Mama know all this?” I couldn’t help but assume she didn’t. I would have known about it, too, if she’d had any clue.

      “No, your mama doesn’t know,” he replied, finally acknowledging the question. “Like I said, there wasn’t really any reason to know. It happened, life moved on.”

      Obviously, he wasn’t going to give me anything more than that. At least, not now. But I was determined to find out more. And if I had to go straight to the source of the scandal, I would. After all, she seemed more than willing to share.

      “Now eat up,” he said, sounding a bit gruff. “I want to mow the lawn before the rain comes.”

      I leveled my gaze at him and obediently took another spoonful of my soup, ice cold by now. Those gray-blue eyes of his had turned as cloudy as the sky outside, which now seemed portentous of a looming rainstorm.

      What wasn’t he telling me? Maybe there really wasn’t much more to the story than the rashness of youth, but this was a part of my grandmother’s life that I’d never known. She was gone now, and I would never be able to ask her how it had felt. How long had it taken her to give her heart fully, and had she loved my grandfather the same way that she had once loved George—or did he teach her to love more? These were all things that I wanted to know, needed to know, and wished so greatly that I could ask Grammie now. These were the things I’d never known to ask her, and now I would never have the chance.