Meredith muffled her chuckle. Arthur Hale was as likely to make a claim of elderly discrimination as she was to announce Rick-the-Dick had “found” himself and confessed his sins like today’s New York Times had reported.
Jemma crossed her arms. “What if I’d like to treat you for being such a nice man and my best friend’s grandpa?”
He coughed to cover his reaction. “You’re a sweet girl, Jemma. That Collins boy was an idiot to let you slip away.”
A tear slid down her pixie-like face. Poor kid.
“Here, now,” Grandpa crooned. “Don’t cry, honey. Come give an old man a hug.”
She came around the counter, and he enfolded her in his arms, patting her hair. She sniffed and pulled back. “Thanks. Now it’s really on the house.”
“No. Take my money. Gotta support my granddaughter’s business.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hale.” Jemma kissed his weathered cheek and accepted the bill.
“As I said, a sweet girl. Come over to dinner with Jill soon.” He winked, picked up the coffee, and walked away after waving away his change.
When he sat on an overstuffed ottoman and drew out some papers and his faithful red pen, Meredith’s first impression was confirmed. He was here for her.
“I think my grandpa wants to talk to me.”
“No problem. I figured he was distracting you. I’ll call you later about this weekend.”
His head darted forward to deliver a kiss, but his long nose smacked into her cheek when she jerked back. Was he nuts? Her grandpa was sitting a few yards away.
“Bye, Meredith.” He hurried out of the shop, fumbling with his briefcase.
She took a deep breath, picked up her purse, and walked over to her grandfather, taking the adjoining ottoman. “Hi, Grandpa.”
He lifted his gaze, clicked his red pen, and shoved it into his shirt pocket. “Meredith.”
She leaned forward, balancing her elbows on her knees.
“Another kid went to the ER last night puking his guts out,” he said to her. “Same MO. Booze and marijuana.”
“I know you think your famous gut is telling you something, but there’s nothing funky in the marijuana. The tox screens don’t show anything else. It’s alcohol poisoning, and I’m not researching it anymore. There’s no story.”
He harrumphed and poked his belly. “There’s nearly forty years of gut in here.”
“Then you look.” She flicked the paper he was marking. “Is that my article?” There were only a few red slashes. It would be nice to receive a near-clean copy. He was always changing her articles, and making them better. She didn’t like to admit to herself how much she was still learning from him day in, day out.
“No. This is Tanner’s op-ed. Nice piece. He has a good voice. Strong style. Knows how to put what he sees on paper.”
She couldn’t help the jolt of…jealousy? Envy? Her grandfather always praised her, but his opinion mattered to her more than ever, especially since she’d taken over her dad’s duties. To be pissy, she crossed her arms and asked, “How’s your coffee?”
“About as shitty as the coffee I had in Moscow in 1962 when I interviewed Khrushchev.”
Snorting, she reached for it and took a sip. “Tastes pretty good to me.”
He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Well, your tastes are a bit in question at the moment. Who was Big Bird over there?”
She muffled her laughter with a cough.
“Got a cold, girlie?”
“Yes, there’s a little tickle in my throat.”
“Hah! Don’t be a smart ass. You know as well as I do that if you had children with that man, your kids would sprout wings and fly.”
“Grandpa!”
“Well, it’s true. Hales have better taste than that. Where’s yours gone?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You damn well do.” He pushed his papers aside. “You’re off gallivanting with every man in town—even ones who resemble birds. I heard Jill mention the Cheese Man.”
“Are you listening through keyholes again, Grandpa?”
His brows slammed together. “I told you it was a good way to get information. You telling me to stop being a reporter?”
“I’m not a story.”
“No, but you’re a real piece of work. People are talking about how you’ve got the word rebound tattooed on your butt. I hope that’s a euphemism.”
“Oh, God, Grandpa!”
“People are also saying you’re on a Man Bender. I know my granddaughter, and she’s not the town slut like Rita Bellins.”
“Thanks, Grandpa.” Meredith leaned back in the ottoman, her head buzzing from his words. This is what people were saying about her?