A Groom of One's Own (Appies, #3)

by Emma St. Clair

“I told you—I don’t want whatever you’re selling.” A deep scowl on a pale, deeply lined face accompanies this proclamation. The look paired with her words almost have the power to make me feel ashamed, like I am a solicitor who knocked on her door with a clipboard selling magazine subscriptions. Instead of what I actually am, which is her only granddaughter. The one who brought the pho she really loves—rare beef, no onions of any kind—and her favorite flowers, peonies—which are not in season right now so a lot more expensive. Next time, I tell myself, maybe I’ll bring her carnations. I won’t. I know I won’t. Because she may not remember me, and she may not have been all that kind before she lost her ability to remember, but Gran is all I have. She glowers at me like a queen enthroned among the pillows, the perfectly curled blond wig atop her head acting as her crown. Today, it’s the Classy Dolly Updo wig, one of seven Gran purchased from an Etsy store specializing in custom wigs modeled after Gran’s number one hero, Dolly Parton. Out of the bunch, my personal favorite is the Dolly Layered Bouffant wig. I tried it on once and almost felt like I could conquer the patriarchy or solve the literacy crisis. So, I get the appeal. “It’s Bailey, your granddaughter.” I manage to dredge up a smile from somewhere. Feels like it was scraped off the concrete. “Your son Peter’s daughter.” I am very careful not to use past tense when talking about my dad. It’s better when I don’t have to ...