I’d have slit my wrists if I was a teenage girl spending all my beauty years at a damn nursing home.
Excuse my French, darling.” She fluffs up the pillow behind her. “Oldest children are always high-
achieving bores. My son Stanley is a frightful bore. He’s the worst. He’s a podiatrist, for God’s sake!
I suppose it’s my fault for naming him Stanley. Not that I had any say in it. My mother-in-law insisted
we name him after her dead husband. Good Lord, she was a crone.” Stormy takes a sip of her iced
tea. “Middle children are supposed to have fun, you know. You and I, we have that in common. I was
glad you hadn’t been coming around as much. I was hoping you were getting into trouble. Sounds like
I was right. Although you might’ve come around a bit more.”
Stormy’s terrific at making a person feel guilty. She’s mastered the art of the injured sniff.
“Now that I’ve got a proper job here, I’ll be around a lot more often.”
“Well, not too often.” She perks up. “But next time bring that boy of yours. We could use some
fresh blood around here. Give the place a jolt. Is he handsome?”
“Yes, he’s very handsome.” The handsomest of all the handsome boys.
Stormy claps her hands together. “Then you must bring him by. Give me advance notice, though, so
I look my absolute best. Who else have you got waiting in the wings?”
I laugh. “No one! I told you, I have a boyfriend.”
“Hmm.” That’s all she says, just “hmm.” Then, “I have a grandson who could be about your age.
He’s still in high school, anyhow. Maybe I’ll tell him to come by and see you. It’s good for a girl to
have options.” I wonder what a grandson of Stormy’s might be like—probably a real player, just like
Stormy. I open my mouth to say no thank you, but she waves me off with a shh. “When we’re done
with my scrapbook, I’m going to transcribe my memoirs to you, and you’ll type them up for me on the
computer. I’m thinking of calling it The Eye of the Storm. Or Stormy Weather.” Stormy starts to hum.
“Stormy weather,” she sings. “Since my man and I ain’t together... keeps rainin’ all the time... .”
She stops short. “We should have a cabaret night! Picture it, Lara Jean. You in a tuxedo. Me in a
slinky red dress draped over the piano. It’ll give Mr. Morales a heart attack.”
I giggle. “Let’s not give him a heart attack. Maybe just a tremor.”
She shrugs and goes on singing, adding a shimmy to her hips. “Stormy weather.. .”
She’ll go off on a singing jag if I don’t redirect her. “Stormy, tell me about where you were when
John F. Kennedy died.”
“It was a Friday. I was baking a pineapple upside-down cake for my bridge club. I put it in the
oven and then I saw the news and I forgot all about the cake and nearly burned the house down. We
had to have the kitchen repainted because of all the soot.” She fusses with her hair. “He was a saint,
that man. A prince. If I’d met him in my heyday, we really could’ve had some fun. You know, I flirted
with a Kennedy once at an airport. He sidled up to me at the bar and bought me a very dry gin martini.
Airports used to be so very much more glamorous. People got dressed up to travel. Young people on
airplanes these days, they wear those horrible sheepskin boots and pajama pants and it’s an eyesore. I
wouldn’t go out for the mail dressed like that.”
“Which Kennedy?” I ask.
“Hmm? Oh, I don’t know. He had the Kennedy chin, anyway.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. Stormy and her escapades. “Can I have your pineapple upside-
down cake recipe?”
“Sure, darling. It’s just yellow box cake with Del Monte pineapple and brown sugar and a
maraschino cherry on top. Just make sure you get the rings and not the chunks.”
singke
(singke)
#1