Because Agnes wraps her arms around me and squeezes, and while it might feel a little like being choked by a boa constrictor, I recognize the warm feelings behind it.
“Thank you,” she says, the hint of tears in her voice. “Thank you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Cal
Is there anything so delightful as a happy reversal of expectations?
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
I push out a huge sigh of relief, resting my hip against the hallway wall as the adrenaline drains from my body.
Agnes grabs Molly by the shoulders and extends her arms, holding Molly out for a thorough perusal. “You’re all wet.”
Molly shrugs. “There was a bit of a mishap in the bathroom.”
Agnes looks into the bathroom and takes in the damp towel on the floor and the open cabinet. Her gaze flits to me, and she must realize the problem’s under control, because she hugs Molly again—not quite so tightly this time—before stepping back. “Do you have any idea what a gift this is?”
“Having a handyman next door to take care of a busted pipe?” Molly asks. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving.”
“No,” Agnes says, casting another wary glance at the sink. She clearly wants to ask, but instead she says, “You’re writing my mom’s stories. She’s been telling them for years, but I never thought to see them in print.”
“Most people don’t,” Molly says, enthusiasm spilling from her like sunlight. “That’s why I love doing it so much. Plus your mother’s had an amazing life.”
“Mom said you won’t let her pay you. That doesn’t seem right. You’re taking your own time to do this, and you’re getting nothing out of it.”
It’s taken me a few moments to catch up, but I think I’ve finally gotten it straight. The whole octogenarian swingers thing was a smoke screen—Molly is writing about Mrs. Dahl’s life for her family. That doesn’t fit the image she projects, but it fits her. It fits the woman who charmed my friends so thoroughly they mutinied. It fits the woman whose eyes filled with wonder as she looked from me to that sunrise and back again. It fits her hunger for information, for truth.
I find myself thinking about the owner of the tea shop, Dottie, and something she said to Molly that didn’t compute at the time. I’m grateful for what you did for me, my dear. It’s the best present anyone’s ever given me. She must have written up some of her stories too.
Molly isn’t a blogger intent on ruining men for other people’s amusement. That was just a box she was stuck in, one much too small for her, clearly. She’s a writer.
Molly shakes her head. “Occasionally, I’ll ask a family if I can submit a story to a publication, and if it’s accepted, I’ll receive a small payment for that, but I never do it without the family’s express permission. Older people have led such interesting, full lives, and it’s a tragedy that more of them don’t get the opportunity to share their stories.”
“Don’t paint me as some milquetoast miss,” Mrs. Dahl grumbles. “If you publish anything, make sure it represents me as wild and free.” She throws out an arm for dramatic effect.
Molly lowers her voice and searches Agnes’s eyes. “If I were to submit something about your mother, I would naturally make sure you were both happy with it first.”
“Speaking of wild,” Mrs. Dahl says as she walks to the front door. “I’m leaving for a date.”
Agnes turns toward her. “You aren’t driving, are you?” she asks in a stern voice.
Mrs. Dahl’s back stiffens. “May I remind you that you are the child, Agnes, and I am the adult.”
“No, Mom,” Agnes says gently. “I may be your child, but I’m an adult too.”
A slightly confused look crosses the older woman’s face. “Oh.” Then it’s gone, and she’s indignant. “I know that. I’m not blind.”
“Actually, Mom,” Agnes says none too patiently, “you might as well be. The doctor said you can’t drive until you get your cataracts fixed. Are you finally ready to do that?”
The older woman harrumphs. “I’m not letting some quack cut out my eyeballs. That’s how all those horror movies start.”
I have yet to see a horror movie start that way, but I decide to keep that to myself.
“He’s not going to take out your eyeballs, Mom. He has to replace the cloudy lenses.”
“With some high-tech computer gizmos like something out of The Six Million Dollar Man?” Mrs. Dahl shakes her head. “No, thank you. I can barely handle online dating.”
“If you get your eyes fixed, maybe you’ll be able to tell me apart from your gentleman callers,” I say with a laugh.
Her gaze jerks to me. “What are you talking about?” she snaps in disgust. “You may be Molly’s type, but I’ve never been into beefcake men who look like they moonlight as strippers.”
Molly bursts out laughing, but Agnes looks horrified.
Mrs. Dahl wanders to the front door and peers out of the glass. “Where is he?”
“Who?” Agnes asks.
“My date, of course. I called him and asked him to pick me up right before I knocked out that pipe with a hammer.” Wonder fills her eyes. “It was surprisingly easy to do. Just a couple of whacks.” She reenacts swinging the hammer. “They just don’t make houses like they used to.”
“This house was built over a hundred years ago, Mrs. Dahl,” I say, trying not to laugh and encourage her. “That era is usually what people reference when they say they don’t make them like they used to.”
“Huh.”
Agnes looks horrified. “Mother, you did what?”
Mrs. Dahl looks out the door and her face brightens. “There he is! Ta-ta, darlings.”
Then she’s off like the whirlwind she is.
Agnes gives us an awkward look. “Mom busted a pipe? She must be getting worse.”
“Actually,” Molly says with a cringe, “I suspect she was playing matchmaker. She saw Cal mowing the neighbor’s grass next door, and I guess she got into her head that I was interested in him.” Her cheeks turn pink.
Imagine that. Molly O’Shea blushes.
“In any case,” Molly continues, “she busted a pipe with a hammer, then called Cal over to fix it.” She shifts her weight. “I’ll be happy to pay for the repair.”
“Don’t be silly,” Agnes says. “That sounds exactly like something Mom would do, even before her bouts of dementia.” She pauses, and tears fill her eyes. “Thank you again for recording her life. I don’t know how much longer we’ll have her, but it’s a comfort to know we’ll have her stories even after her mind is gone.”
“It’s truly my pleasure,” Molly says softly. “But she’s a busy woman. I may have to start following her around to get them out of her.”
Agnes laughs, then offers to pay me for the trouble of fixing the pipe, but I refuse compensation. Upon closer inspection, the old metal pipe isn’t broken—Mrs. Dahl just knocked it loose and bent it—and it can be easily fixed with some plumber’s tape from the repair I’m currently doing for Mrs. Carlton.