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buddy who still had his own teeth. Granny Gert didn’t deserve to spend all of her remaining years alone, and she was right; Grandpa Henry wouldn’t have wanted her to.
    “I’ll try to help you hook up with Rowdy, but like I’ve told you before, finding people isn’t exactly what I do. I meet with them, read their emotions by what they say—or don’t say—and guide them toward the relationship that both parties typically want, but are either too afraid or too stubborn to admit.”
    “Oh, I know, child. You’re a fence-mender, and I don’t exactly have a fence that needs mending, but I still think you could help me locate him.” She stirred the sauce. “It’d add to your repertoire, you know, if you started locating long lost loves as well, or lost friends who potentially could be more, in my case. I just need you to tell me where in the world he’s living, what he’s doing now, that kind of thing. It must be near Tuscaloosa, if he was shopping at the Super Wal-Mart there, don’t you think? I figure I can plan some, you know, coincidental meeting or something.” She winked. “Maybe you can even give me some pointers on how to do that. I’m afraid I might be a bit rusty on that kind of thing, flirting and all.”
    “I highly doubt that,” Babette said, grinning as her grandmother slathered gobs of garlic butter across the sliced bread.
    Granny Gert finished with the garlic and slid the pan in the oven, then dusted her hands over the sink before slapping them together in a when-do-we-start move. “So, how much do you charge? And don’t give me some cheap family rate. I want to pay full price, and I know you need the money.”
    “I’m doing fine on money, and I’m not charging you.” Babette held up a palm when Granny Gert inhaled to argue. “I mean it. I’d love to help you find this Rowdy guy. It really shouldn’t take more than keying in his name on Google. I’ll need his real name, of course.”
    Granny Gert clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, then frowned. “That’s the hard part. I can’t
remember
his real name, and neither can Sally Mae. She went with me to the fortieth reunion, since I didn’t want to go by myself and all, after Henry passed. I talked to Rowdy, and I remembered her chatting him up a spell too, so I thought she might have gotten his real name.”
    “But she didn’t?”
    “No. Well, she might have, but she said if he told her, she’d already forgotten it. That’s probably the case, since none of our memories are what they used to be.”
    “What about your high school yearbook? That’d have his real name, wouldn’t it?”
    “In our yearbooks, it says Rowdy Slidell. I did an Internet search for Slidells in Tuscaloosa, but there are fifty-seven, and none of them ring a bell.” Granny tasted another spoonful of sauce. “Lord help me, that’s good stuff,” she said, smacking her lips. “Okay, on to the particulars. I’m going to pay you, young lady, so don’t even try to argue with me about that. Think you can find him?”
    “I’ll give it my best shot, and you can pay me by teaching me how to cook.”
    Her grandmother’s mouth fell open, then slowly closed and curved into a grin. “Well, I’ll be. You really are starting to settle, aren’t you? Paying off your bills, getting a real job, one that has lasted longer than any of the others, I might add.”
    “Six months,” Babette said with pride.
    “And you want to learn how to cook. Shoot, maybe I’ll get a little meat on your bones after all.”
    “Maybe so,” Babette agreed, though she doubted it. She was doomed to be skinny and shapeless, and while men didn’t seem to mind the Paris Hilton look, she dreamed of the kind of curvy frame Clarise and Granny Gert sported so well. She hadn’t been blessed with what Granny Gert termed the Robinson Treasures, aka big boobs, or the Robinson Rump (no aka necessary). Then again, you always want what you don’t have. Case in point, her hair.