She'd left me the friendship she'd lost.
My phone rang.
Eleanor's daughter.
"I heard you collected my mother's books," she said.
"Yes."
"Do you know what they're worth?"
"Yes."
"So she left you money after all."
"She gave me books."
"Don't insult my intelligence, James."
I walked into the hallway.
"You expect people to believe a 22-year-old boy wanted to marry my mother because he loved her?"
"I know how it looks."
"Then give them back."
"Your mother arranged this herself. I didn't ask her for anything."
"She wasn't thinking clearly."
"She argued with me about everything. Including whether I should finish school before making decisions about my future."
"That doesn't prove anything."
"Maybe not to you."
I looked toward the living room, where Grandma was holding a book she'd given Eleanor more than 50 years earlier.
"I'm not selling them," I said.
"Why not?"
"Because they mean more to someone I love than the money ever could."
"Who?"
"My grandmother. She grew up with your mother."
