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Adele had never imagined she’d become one of those women whose world shifted completely with the arrival of grandbabies. But here she was, finding reasons at least twice a week to drop by George’s and see her granddaughters.

Harriet Mayes had called and invited her to lunch, which gave Adele an excuse to drive into town. She liked to offer George a reason for stopping in, although George always insisted none was required.

Harriet Mayes no longer possessed a single opinion of her own.

Whenever Adele ventured one of hers, Harriet cocked her head to one side and said, “Paul says ...” Invariably, whatever Paul Mayes had to say on the matter was the exact opposite of what Adele had just said.

“But,” Harriet always finished, “it’s certainly something to think about, isn’t it?

” Adele overlooked Harriet’s absolute refusal to think for herself in exchange for a reason to be in dropping-by proximity to her granddaughters.

She was also cultivating Harriet as a future potential customer.

She wanted to start her own car repair business.

A place where women could get an oil change or have fan belts and spark plugs replaced without fearing some dishonest mechanic would take advantage of them.

Men like Paul Mayes would never bring their cars to her.

But men like Paul Mayes wouldn’t live forever, and their widows might form a solid, reliable customer base.

She dragged out the lunch as long as she could, but it was still nap time when she exited the restaurant.

She dropped into Herzberg’s and was idly browsing a rack of shirtwaists when Helen appeared.

“Oh, those girls,” exclaimed Helen. Her delight in the twins meant Adele felt freer than usual to rattle on about Ruth and Ivy’s latest milestones.

Helen murmured, “So sweet ,” at appropriate intervals.

And when Adele finally ran out of steam, Helen said, “Oh, they are the most darling things. And I really do think,” she added, her face suddenly grave, “that little tic in Ivy’s eye will clear up all in good time. ”

Adele had cataloged every inch of her granddaughters’ bodies. She’d never noticed a tic in Ivy’s eye and doubted that one actually existed outside Helen’s imagination.

“Of course, Frank Jr.’s eyes are clear as a bell, so I’m no expert,” finished Helen.

“And how is Frank Sr. doing?” asked Adele, poking at Helen’s weak spot. “George told me about his troubles finding a position. It’s been so difficult for our men coming home.”

“Well, we’re just delighted, absolutely delighted about it—he’s gone to work for Plains Insurance.”

“Your uncle Robert’s company? How wonderful. I’m glad to hear it.”

“Yes, Uncle Rob’s been wanting Frank for months, but Frank was just being stubborn—he’d gotten some notion about real estate into his head.

Not anymore, though. He loves it at Plains—I tried to get him to meet me for lunch out today, but he just has so much on his plate.

Insurance is steady. And steady is best after all the turmoil of the war, don’t you agree? ”

Adele had never in her life agreed that steady was best.

This was one of the many ways in which she and George differed.

George had been a placid child. “She doesn’t have much rough-and-tumble in her,” Adele had once said to Charles, who chuckled and said he thought Adele had enough rough-and-tumble in her for all of them.

She missed Charles. Her chest still tightened when she thought of him.

Even so, she would never have considered interrupting him in the middle of his workday and proposing they meet for lunch.

( Why didn’t I? she thought now.) But they had .

.. reveled in each other. It was more than good conversation, company, or even sex.

It was a special sort of ease, one she couldn’t quite pin down.

But she could see that George didn’t have it with Tom, and that was a shame.

George, at nearly sixteen, had surprised her—in the best rough-and-tumble way—by asking for an airplane.

Perhaps she was just a late bloomer, Adele had thought.

And though it was a pinch—times being what they were—the Ectors had the means to provide a plane, when other families struggled to put a half-decent meal on the table every day.

Then she’d gone off to fly for the WASP, and Adele had had to squelch her prideful impulse to mention it to everyone she met.

But since the decommissioning of the WASP, since taking on marriage and motherhood, George had veered back to her natural placidity.

Adele worried her daughter might become like Harriet Mayes—a vessel for someone else’s expectations and opinions, an attractive shell of a person.

She resolved to stop by George’s more often.

She’d watch the girls and send George out.

To do what, she didn’t know. But there must be some way to nudge her daughter back to the rough-and-tumble side of herself.

She’d start today, she decided as she opened the front door to George’s house.

She never knocked, nor would she expect George to knock on her door.

“Hello!” she called. She heard a scuffling sound from the direction of the kitchen.

The twins must be having a postnap snack. “I was just downtown ...”

In the kitchen she found George and Frank Bridlemile, both shoeless, Frank with his shirt open at the collar, though he appeared to be working on that.

“Mother,” said George, cheeks flushed and her skirt askew, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Evidently not.”

“You remember Frank Bridlemile. Frank, my mother, Adele Ector.”

Frank gave up on his top button and nodded at her. “Oh yes,” said Adele. “Yes, I remember Frank.”

It was not the sort of rough-and-tumble Adele had had in mind—she would never admit to approving—but it was something.