Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Out to the porch,” she commands once our sandwiches are assembled. “It’s too nice to eat inside. Makena, grab that pitcher of sweet tea. Parker, the bourbon’s in the sideboard.”
“Bourbon with lunch?” I tease.
“Honey, I’m eighty-two. I’ll have bourbon with my cereal if I please.”
The porch wraps around three sides of the house, furnished with mismatched wicker. We settle around a circular table with vintage erotica shellacked onto the surface, and I fall a little deeper in love.
“Now then,” Nana says, splashing bourbon into our tea. “Tell me how you two finally got together.”
Parker launches into the story about the wedding, the flood, the rescue, and the decision to be roommates. “And then I charmed her panties off,” he finishes with a wink my way that makes me blush.
I laugh. “He did. I was helpless to resist.”
“As you should be.” Nana takes a bite of her sandwich, humming her approval. “Though I have to say, it took you long enough. He’s been mooning over you since October.”
“Hush,” Parker says.
“What? It’s true,” she huffs.
“Thankfully, I came to my senses in the nick of time,” I cut in, saving Parker from further embarrassment.
After that, the conversation flows like bourbon-spiked tea—loose and easy and occasionally wild. Nana tells us about the time she hit a handsy sculpture professor with a stale baguette (“Gave him a lump the size of my fist. They don’t make bread like they used to.”) Parker shares some of our stories from the road, including our brave, witching hour battle with Crawford the crawfish. Then, I tell Nana about the restaurant, the issue with my flood insurance, and my mixture of excitement and terror at the thought of starting over.
She listens with her whole body before reaching over to pat my hand. “Starting over’s not the worst thing. Did it myself in my fifties. That’s when I met Dorothy.”
“Nana’s second marriage,” Parker supplies. “After my grandpa passed.”
“Oh, yeah?” I fight to hide my surprise, but my brows must have slid up a little.
Nana pats my hand again, assuring me, “Don’t worry, honey. I’m used to it. Not many bisexual women in my generation. Not many who were open about it, anyway. I didn’t think I was open to it, but then Dorothy walked into one of my shows with silver hair down to her ass, looking fabulous in the world’s ugliest pantsuit.” Nana sits back in her chair, glancing up at the leaves with a wistful expression as she adds, “She told me my nude series was the first time she’d seen ‘a female gaze that was genuinely feminine, not a male gaze living inside a woman gazing at a woman.’ I said, ‘Lady, I just like painting tits.’ Then she laughed, and it was…the best sound I’d heard in a long time.”
“Aw, and you fell in love,” I say.
“Eventually. Took me a minute to admit what was happening. I’d been married to Parker’s grandfather for twenty years, thought I was straight as a ruler.” She grins. “Turns out rulers can bend.”
“Did people around here give you shit?” I ask, then catch myself. “Sorry if that’s too personal.”
“Honey, the only thing that’s too personal is my bank account and my vibrator settings.” Nana refills our glasses. “Sure, people talked. Some of my colleagues at the university got their panties in a twist. But Dorothy and I were happy. Disgustingly, annoyingly happy. And that’s all that mattered to us.”
Parker meets my gaze across the table, and my cheeks flush again.
“Love finds you when it finds you,” Nana adds. “Doesn’t matter if it’s convenient or conventional or what people think. And when it happens, you’ve gotta grab it with both hands, babies. Love’s not the kind of thing you want to let slip by.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Parker says quietly.
“Good boy.” She stands, stretching with a soft groan. “Now, who wants to see my new series? I’m calling it ‘Don’t be a Dick, America: Penises as Protest.’”
“Obviously, we want to see that,” I say. “As soon as possible.”
The tour that follows is part art show, part archaeological dig through a life lived boldly. Nana’s studio takes up the entire converted attic—canvases stacked against walls, sculptures in various stages of creation, and an entire wall dedicated to penis paintings that look suspiciously like portraits of controversial politicians.
We wander through the house like it’s a museum. Every room tells a story. The guest bathroom wallpapered with rejection letters from galleries (“Motivation,” Nana explains). The hallway lined with photos—Nana and Dorothy at a pride parade, at parties, in their garden, growing old together with defiant joy.
I pause at a photo of Parker, maybe seven years old, covered in paint and grinning at the camera. Even then, his smile could light up the world.
“He stayed the whole summer that year,” Nana whispers, appearing at my elbow while Parker’s in the bathroom. “His parents were having one of their ‘rough patches.’” She makes air quotes. “Sent him to me for three weeks. Ended up being three months.”