“It’d let me see you as you really are.” It struck me anew about how much of my grandmother I apparently didn’t know, what she must’ve gone through over the years, all of which she kept away from me. It stung a little, even though a part of me understood why. I mean, what if one day I had a grandchild? How much about myself would I really want them to know? Especially if it was deeply personal, like this. I’m thinking not a lot. Maybe my grandmother and I were more alike than I realized.

Her expression relaxed the tiniest bit. “I’m sorry for not telling you. It’s hard sometimes to remember that your generation’s view is different on these things. At least outside of this town.”

She had a point. Connecticut’s perspective on sexuality and gender identity and everything in that range of discussion was significantly different than what one could find in wide swaths of Middle America, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been changes over the past few decades. There had been. Even I saw them. And, sure, our small town was conservative overall, but there were good people here who loved each other just as they were.

“Have you tried?” I asked. “You know, telling folks in Christmas?”

She shot me that piercing look, the one with the raised eyebrow that always made me shrink back.

“Finley, I’ve heard people talk my whole life.” Her hazel eyes sharpened. “Starting with GGB. She made her feelings for ‘those people’ very clear. And I’m aware the environment in parts of the country is better, but there are parts where it’s the same as when I was your age.”

“You’ve known since you were my age?”

“Essentially.”

Grandma Jo moved to sit down in the cream-colored armchair and I took that as my cue to do the same on the sofa opposite her.

“And . . . Dad?” Might as well go there, I thought.

She linked her hands in her lap, her spine straight enough even Arthur would approve. “When I was younger, I attempted to deny my feelings by proving they weren’t real.” That was a heckuva euphemism. It made Mom’s “life happened” seem so tame. “They were real. Obviously. But being a single mother, and running this inn, I could pretend they weren’t far longer than I should have.”

“So, I mean. You don’t have to tell me, but what happened? Why did Arthur and Esha leave?”

Her jaw clenched. “Because I fucked up again.”

Aaaand my grandmother dropped the F-bomb. That happened. Then I zeroed in on “Again?”

She absently picked up a brushed-nickel decorative owl from an end table, and looked at it. “Do you remember Ms. Brooke from Dallas?”