Page 31 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)
nineteen
EM
I stand in front of Grandma Penelope’s apartment door, ostensibly clutching a book I’d borrowed—Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex —but really, I’m here because my brain feels like it’s been put through a blender set to “hockey player purée.”
Three shallow breaths, and I knock.
The door swings open almost immediately, revealing my grandmother with flour dusting her hands and a knowing smile that makes me instantly regret coming. That smile means she can already see through whatever flimsy excuse I’ve concocted.
“Amélie!” she exclaims, her voice full of delight as she pulls me into a hug that envelops me. “What a wonderful surprise.”
“I brought back your book,” I say, offering the worn paperback like a peace treaty.
“ Bien s?r ,” she replies, taking it and promptly tossing it onto an already precarious stack of reading material. “But that’s not why you’re here.”
How can she always cut straight through my carefully constructed pretenses?
It’s like emotional X-ray vision.
“I was in the neighborhood?” I try.
One perfectly arched eyebrow rises in disbelief. “On a Sunday afternoon? When you should be drinking or doom-scrolling or sleeping or studying or whatever else it is young people do to avoid their feelings these days?” She steps aside. “Come. I’m making madeleines.”
I step inside, and the apartment smells divine—warm butter, zesty lemon, and the unmistakable comfort of baking that always reminds me of childhood weekends spent in this kitchen while Mom worked at her shop. These scents are my emotional anchor, the olfactory equivalent of a weighted blanket.
I follow her to the small but impeccably organized kitchen, where a bowl of pale yellow batter sits next to shell-shaped molds. Classical music—probably Debussy, her usual Sunday afternoon favorite—drifts softly from a speaker nearby.
“Finish mixing,” she instructs, handing me a wooden spoon. “Your hands need something to do while your mouth tells me what’s wrong.”
I take the spoon and begin stirring, watching the batter swirl hypnotically. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“ Mon petit chou , you have the face of a woman with man troubles.” She pulls a bottle of riesling from the refrigerator and pours two generous glasses. “Wine?”
“It’s barely two o’clock,” I protest halfheartedly.
“It’s the evening in Paris, chérie .” She pushes a glass toward me. “Drink. Then tell me about the boy who has you wound up.”
Where do I start?
I stare into the bowl of madeleine batter, watching it swirl hypnotically as my mind drifts back to the hockey game. To that moment of terror I felt when Linc got into a fight, and the electric moment when his eyes found mine across the rink, his gaze so intense it made my skin prickle.
“ Ma petite , you’re going to stir that batter into oblivion.
” Grandma Penelope’s amused voice cuts through my reverie.
She takes a delicate sip of her wine, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief above the rim of her glass.
“And you still haven’t told me about the boyfriend who has you mixing with such… enthusiasm.”
I pause my stirring, heat creeping up my neck. “He’s not—I mean, we’re not—” The words dissolve on my tongue as I try to explain what Linc and I are to each other. Friends with benefits? Sexual education partners? Two people who accidentally set an ice rink on fire with one look?
“Ah.” She nods sagely, as if my incoherent stammering has revealed everything, even as she puts the madelaines in the oven. “So it’s complicated.”
“It’s not complicated at all,” I protest, but even I can hear the lie in my voice. “We have an… arrangement.”
One perfectly sculpted eyebrow rises. “ Un arrangement? Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“ Grandmère! ” I laugh, then take a sip of wine.
“What?” She takes a delicate sip of her wine, completely unfazed. “I’m seventy-five, not dead. I know what young people do.”
I take a fortifying gulp of wine and explain our arrangement—how we met in statistics class, our encounter at his apartment, my hasty exit, and finally, our agreement for him to teach me…
well, everything. Grandma listens without interruption, her expression shifting between amusement and genuine interest.
When I finish, she nods slowly. “So, this boy, he is your… how do Americans say it? Sex tutor?”
I nearly choke on my wine again. “Please, please never say those words together again.”
She waves away my embarrassment with a flick of her wrist. “Oh, ma chérie , you’re more American than French, I’m afraid. And that means you have American squeamishness about pleasure. It’s exhausting.” She refills both our glasses without asking. “So why go to his hockey game in his jersey?”
My jaw drops. “How did you?—”
She smirks. “Your mother saw a photo and mentioned it.”
“I—it’s—” I stutter, then finally admit defeat. “Fine. Yes. I wore his jersey.”
“ Mmm-hmm .” The sound carries several paragraphs worth of judgment. “So you’ve claimed him publicly but pretend it’s just educational in private?”
I let out a sigh that could power a small wind farm. “It’s not like that. I just went to support him. He’s been having a hard time.”
“And you thought wearing his number would help?” She smiles knowingly. “The French call this avoir le béguin . A crush.”
“I don’t have a crush,” I protest, though my cheeks betray me by heating up. “We’re just?—”
“Fucking?” she supplies helpfully.
I take another gulp of wine. “We’re not even doing that. Not yet. We’re… taking it slow.”
Her laughter is musical and completely without judgment. “Slow? This is what your generation considers slow? For my mother, slow meant years of letter writing and chaperoned walks in the garden, followed by the pomp and ceremony of a wedding, only to find your partner is terrible in bed…”
My mouth falls open. “Grandma!”
“Luckily, things change. When I was your age in France, I had many… how do you say… tutors .” Penelope’s eyes take on a faraway look, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her glass.
“Before I met your grandfather, I lived quite freely. It was Paris in the 1970s, chérie . The whole world was changing.”
I can’t help but lean forward, fascinated despite myself. “But then you met Grandpa and settled down, right?”
Something flashes in her eyes—amusement, mischief, and a hint of rebellion that I suddenly recognize in myself. “Your grandfather and I loved each other deeply, but we weren’t prison guards to each other’s desires. So, occasionally, we had other lovers. With full knowledge and consent, of course.”
Instead of the scandalized reaction I’m sure she expects, I find myself leaning forward, utterly fascinated. The woman sitting across from me—with her elegant French bob and perfectly applied lipstick—suddenly seems like a stranger with secrets I never imagined.
Grandma Penelope smiles, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Your grandfather and I had what the young people today might call an ‘open relationship.’”
“But how did that even work?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Weren’t you both jealous?”
“Sometimes,” she admits with a small shrug.
“We’re human, after all. But jealousy is like a fever—it tells you something is wrong, but it isn’t the disease itself.
” She swirls her wine thoughtfully. “The problem was never that he desired someone else or that I did, the problem came if we lied about it.”
“So you just… told each other everything?”
“Not every detail, ma chérie . That would be tedious.” She laughs, the sound light and musical. “But yes, we were honest about our desires. Each… arrangement was negotiated. Each boundary explicit. And I loved your grandfather more with each passing day, for forty-seven years, until our last day.”
Even as she goes quiet, time I can tell she needs to gather herself and her emotions, my mind races with this new perspective, so different from everything I’ve been taught to believe about relationships. “But what about commitment? What about?—”
“Americans,” she says with a dismissive wave, “they think love means ownership. The French understand that love means freedom within honesty.”
The timer on the oven chimes, saving me from having to formulate a response. As Grandma carefully removes the madeleines, their sweet aroma filling the kitchen, I find myself questioning everything I thought I knew about relationships.
“Perfect,” she declares, examining the little shell-shaped cakes. “Let’s take these to the balcony. It’s too beautiful to stay inside.”
I help her arrange the madeleines on a plate, and we migrate to her small balcony overlooking a courtyard where the afternoon sun dapples through the trees. She refills our wine glasses without asking if I want more, and I don’t protest this time.
“So,” she says, settling into her chair with the grace of a much younger woman, “tell me more about this hockey player of yours.”
“He’s not mine,” I say automatically, then bite into a madeleine to avoid elaborating. It is warm, buttery and perfect. “Although, when he got into a fight, I thought my heart was going to stop. It was like someone punched me in the stomach.”
“Yes?” Grandma prompts gently. “And?”
“Then, after, when he looked up and saw me in the stands…” I trail off, remembering the intensity of that moment. “It felt more intimate than when we’ve actually been… intimate.” My cheeks warm at the admission. “Like we were alone in the arena.”
Grandma Penelope studies me silently, her expression softening. “And this frightens you?”
“Terrifies me,” I correct her, surprised by my own honesty. The wine is definitely loosening my tongue. “We specifically agreed no feelings. It was meant to be a casual arrangement to help me get over my… hang-ups… and gain more confidence.”
She says nothing.
I take another large sip of wine, courage for what I’m about to confess. “But I think I’m falling for him. And I have no idea what to do about it.”
“Why must you ‘do’ anything?” she asks, tilting her head.