“Calling hours started four minutes ago,” Gram-Gram said. “I wanted to get there before Anita Duran. She’s like a fox in the henhouse. Or a fox in the rooster house, as the case may be. She’ll have that poor widower’s pants around his knees before we even get in the door if we don’t leave right now, Ainsley.”

Rachelle clapped a hand over her mouth. Jonathan just kept staring at me.

“Then by all means, off you go,” he said.

“Thank you, Jonathan,” I muttered. “I’ll make up the time.”

“Yes. You will.”

“Ticktock, honey,” Gram-Gram said.

The deceased, Darleen Richmond, had quite a crowd. My grandmother pointed out an elderly woman with jet-black hair at the front of the line, holding the widower’s hand and patting it.

“Oh, that Anita!” Gram-Gram hissed, “She’s such a slut. I knew I should’ve picked you up at three.”

“Well, we’ll have our turn.” The line shuffled along. “So how did you know her?”

“Who?”

“The lady. The deceased.”

“Oh, I don’t know her,” Gram-Gram said blithely. “I’m just here to check out her husband. I read the obituary this morning.”

The woman in front of us turned around and scowled.

“Do you see anyone for yourself?” Gram-Gram asked, oblivious. “There are some handsome men here. Maybe someone for Kate, too.”

What the heck. I did a discreet check. “Anyone catch your fancy?” Gram-Gram asked.

I shook my head. Smiled awkwardly at one of the actual mourners.

“The night is young. Don’t give up!”

“Do you mind?” snapped the woman in front of us.

“No, dear, not at all,” Gram-Gram said. “Go ahead, it’s your turn. Don’t take too long, all right?” The mourner went up, and Gram-Gram turned to me. “Oh, goody! The widower is quite handsome, don’t you think?”

“Uh...sure.”

“By the way, someone asked me if I wanted to have sex on that little phone game of yours!”

“Inside voice, Gram-Gram.”

“I thought it was a little soon, so I suggested we have dinner, and guess what? He never wrote to me again! Oh, it’s our turn! Come on, honey!” She dragged me to the casket, barely paused and trotted over to the grieving widow. She hugged him tightly for a long, long minute.

“She was a wonderful woman,” Gram-Gram said, holding his face in her hands.

“Thank you, uh...”

“Lettie. Lettie Carson.”

“And how did you know my wife?”

“Oh, gosh, we went way back. High school.”

“So you’re from Ohio, too?”

“Not exactly! So how are you, uh...Edmond?”

“Edward.”

“Yes, yes. How are you, poor man? Can I offer you some advice, since I’ve been a widow for thirty-four years? Don’t become a hermit. In fact, why don’t you come to movie night with me this week at Overlook Farms Retirement Community? That’s the official name, but I call it Village of the Damned. They’re showing The Ten Commandments.” She dug into her purse and handed him a piece of paper. “My name and all the details are here. I’ll see you Thursday!” She hugged him again, winked at me, then released him. “And this is my beautiful granddaughter Ainsley. Also single, in case you have any grandsons under forty. Her boyfriend strung her along for eleven years! Eleven years, can you believe—”

“And we’re leaving,” I said, taking my grandmother by the arm. “So sorry for your loss, Mr.... Uh. Yes.”

I steered her out of the funeral home, not missing the triumphant look she gave Anita. “Did you have fun?” I asked as we drove back to her apartment.

“Oh, yes, honey!” she said. “Your mother would lecture me, but where else am I supposed to meet someone?”

I was never really sure how much of Gram-Gram’s dottiness was her personality or dementia. But Candy was pretty hard on her, and Kate was a little too dignified to do things like pick up men at wakes or turn a blind eye when Gram-Gram crammed her purse full of jam packets and creamers at Denny’s. Me, I didn’t mind.

“Maybe we can do an event at the Village of the Damned,” I suggested, turning into the giant residence. “Speed dating or something.”

“Honey, the women outnumber the men five to one. Why do you think I’m reduced to scoping out widowers while they’re burying their wives?”

“Or we can start a local senior citizen matchmaking service. I met a widower recently. George. He’s very sweet.”

“Probably gay,” Gram-Gram said. “But sure, honey. Give it your best shot.”

“I could do a story for the magazine. Dating After 70—The Challenges and the Fun. What do you think?”

“I think I have to go to the bathroom, honey,” Gram-Gram said, opening the car door. I slammed on the brake, since we weren’t quite stopped yet. “Hurry up if you’re walking me in!”

We speed-walked to her apartment, and I managed a kiss on the back of her head before she bolted inside. “Love you!” I called, then headed back down the long hallway.

A senior dating story would be great. We could tie in some key advertisers, too—gerontologists and hearing aid places, a yoga studio that might offer special classes for seniors. We could do a contest on the website... Win a romantic date for two, limo included, home before 9:00 p.m.

My phone buzzed with a text. It was from Eric.

Ains, I’m working on my cancer memoir and I can’t remember the name of the chemo drug that made me so sick. Do you? Also, packing for AK! Super excited.

I had to read it three times before answering.

It was the yellow fin tuna that made you sick. You waltzed through chemo, Baron Munchausen.

It took only a few seconds for him to respond.

I understand you’re still bitter and hope you find a more fulfilling path.

I took a cleansing breath. Took another. Turned off my phone.

As I walked through the beautiful foyer, I heard a commotion down the hall. Two little girls, one significantly taller than the other, stood outside a room. From within, a man was yelling. A nurse or aide came running down the hall, and the girls looked wretched.

I hesitated.

Then Jonathan came out into the hall and knelt in front of the girls. He looked back in the room, where the man was still shouting, and ran a hand through his hair, ruining the perfect combed-back sleekness and allowing a few subdued curls to spring into life.

He was frazzled. Not something I’d seen before. Ever.

“Hi,” I said, walking toward them. “Can I do anything?”

“This is not my house!” yelled the man inside the room. “I want to go home! Right now!”

The smaller girl’s bottom lip trembled, and the older one—whose eyes were the same hypnotic blue as her father’s—had the same set to her jaw as Jonathan had when he was irritated with me.

There was a crash from inside the room. “Please stay calm, Mr. Kent,” the nurse said.

“I will not!” the poor old guy yelled.

“Maybe I can take the girls outside,” I suggested.

“That would be very helpful,” Jonathan said. “Emily, Lydia, this is my, uh, my friend Ainsley. She works at the magazine. She’ll watch you until I get Grandpa settled. I won’t be long. Is that all right?”