I knew it. The old man’s face turned red, and the old woman looked green. Great combination if this was Christmas.
Wills took my hand. “Theo and I are—”
“No! I will not permit such vile practices—”
“Grandpa, Theo and I love each other. What we feel for each other isn’t vile.”
“It’s vile and disgusting, and you’re going straight to hell! You and this abomination beside you!” the old man spewed venomously.
“Grandpa, no! Theo is the best thing—”
“Anthony was right about you! You’re no better than your father! I curse the day I ever agreed to let my daughter see him. If she’d just married Junior….”
“Who?”
His grandfather scowled at him. “I just thank God she isn’t alive to see what a disgrace you’ve become! Get out of my house!”
“But Grandpa—”
“Go! I no longer have a grandson!”
For a second it felt as if time had rolled back thirteen years and my father was telling me more or less the same thing. God, I wished Wills didn’t have to face this.
The loss and bewilderment on his face was devastating. He turned and walked blindly to the car.
“So it wasn’t all his uncle’s doing.”
“I don’t even want to know what you’re talking about. You corrupted our grandson!”
“I didn’t, but you’ve broken his heart. Listen to me. Wills is gay, whether you like it or not. This wasn’t a choice: that’s just the way he is. We’re getting married whether you like it or not. He would appreciate it if you came to celebrate this occasion with us, but if you can’t see beyond your bigoted beliefs, then he’s better off without you. I just have one question for you. How did you manage to raise a daughter as wonderful as his mother?”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I strode down the walk. The box of tiramisu was still in my hand, and I tossed it aside.
“I want to go home.” Wills was behind the wheel, but I could see him shivering.
“Okay.”
“Your parents—”
“Don’t worry about them.” We’d sent Ma a humongous basket of Godiva chocolates. “I’ll call and cancel.”
“They’re going to hate me. Just like—”
“No, because I’m going to tell them something at your grandparents’ house disagreed with you and I need to get you home.” They liked Wills, but if I told them his grandparents had rejected him for being gay, I knew how they—or at least Poppa—would react. He’d say that was what happened when you chose this lifestyle.
I didn’t think he’d ever accept it wasn’t a choice.
“I’m sorry,” Wills choked out. “It’s going to cost a fortune to change our tickets.”
“I’ve got a fortune to spend. Don’t worry about it.”
“If I drive, I’m going to crash the car.”
“Then I’ll drive, babe.” Fortunately, this one had an automatic transmission. I got him into the passenger seat. His skin was pale and felt clammy, and his hands were shaking so hard I had to buckle him up.
I knew what he was required to do for his job at the WBIS—when he troubleshot, there were times people actually got shot—but to be repudiated by family, who were supposed to love him….
I glanced back at the house. The bouquet of lilacs was scattered across the porch. If he’d had his gun on him, I’d have taken it, gone back, and shot those poor excuses for grandparents.
Once I was behind the wheel and had the engine running, I turned on the heater full blast, and then made a U-turn and drove to the cross road that would take us back to the Trail.
“My mom used to make these things for me; they were just flour and water, and she’d fry them. When they were done, she’d sprinkle them with salt or sugar.” Wills squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Grandma taught her how. She called them crispelettes. I haven’t thought of them in ages.”
“I’ll make them for you, babe.” But I didn’t think he heard me.
“The year I was nine, Grandpa said he was going to teach me how to make wine.”
“Excuse me?”
“I told you I’d stay with them for a few weeks every summer. That year, Dad put me on a jet, and when Grandpa picked me up at the airport, he told me it was time I learned how to make wine. The next day we drove up to this vineyard in Clermont. The owner was Italian, and Grandpa said he knew him from the old neighborhood. We stayed overnight, and when we drove back to Naples, the trunk was filled with crates of Muscadine grapes.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I followed the signs to the Interstate, kept my mouth shut, and let him talk.
It was obvious the memory was one he cherished, but how was he going to reconcile the grandfather who had so loved him with this version, who wanted nothing more to do with him?