He glances around the room and his eyes light on the pile of charity-shop paperbacks on the rickety table. “What about those?”
I shake my head dismissively. “No room for them. I can’t keep books.”
I wonder whether he caught the note of sadness in my voice, because he immediately switches the suit to one hand and gathers the books up under his other arm. “There’s plenty of room in my house for books,” he says briskly and nods as if to emphasise his point. “There’s a couple of titles here that I fancy reading myself.”
Moisture pricks the back of my eyes. Who is this man?
Grandma turns to her junior picture. The girls all wear black dresses with pearls. Grandma’s freckles pop out in the black-and-white picture. She’s adorable, but her hideously high hair finally makes me understand the term rat’s nest. It’s a less flattering style than I’ve seen on sixties-era TV shows, and looks especially bad on Grandma’s corkscrewed locks.
“What’s with the hair?” Ginnie asks. “Mallory, I won’t let you do that to yourself or the ozone.”
“It’s a bouffant,” Grandma says. “That was the style. My mother would do it for me every other day. I grew it out after high school, wore it really long and wild.”