When his insistent hand moved below the white cotton lace of her bra, Elizabeth froze for a moment. She remembered one sunny Sunday afternoon when she and Grams were baking oatmeal raisin cookies as the a.m. radio played sweet oldies songs about hoping your husband would come back safely from the trenches of Germany. As the cookies cooled on their racks near the windo in the breeze from the summer afternoon, Grams sat her down and talked to her about grown up love and how important it was to “save yourself for the man who really loves you, honey, and who you really love.”
“But how will I know that he’s the right man, Grammy,” she’d asked.
Grams’ faded blue eyes twinkled a little, like the way starlight flickers on water just before the dawn, and she laughed.
“Oh, honey,” she said, and hugged Elizabeth closer, “when it’s the right man, you’ll just know.” And they talked on about Respect and Dignity and Love until the sun was a pale glow as it set on the horizon and the crickets were a beautiful orchestra just tuning up to play a lullaby for the night.
Was Michael P. Denny the right man? She didn’t know.
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