My grandmother called him a “tall glass of water.” She seemed to think that towering height corresponded to suitability. She paid no heed to his idle nature, how he preferred to spend his days lazing on her wrap-around porch drinking sweet tea and eating snickerdoodles by the dozen. I don’t think he kept any job for more than two days, usually getting fired within an hour of walking in the front door.
That he was a nice looking young man, and that we would “make beautiful gran’babies,” apparently her top priority. As she so often pointed out, I could hardly do better.
He saw me as his invitation into genteel society. Gram, quite taken with his charms, introduced him to the creme of her cronies, intimating our betrothal.
My pending inheritance was well-known. Any man selected as my bridegroom also became a beneficiary to a vast fortune. Once I reached my majority, I became an extremely wealthy woman on my own, a salaried profession unnecessary for either me or my husband. He counted on that, playing on Gram’s desire to have a stable of little scions to dote on and spoil.
Neither expected my mutiny. My rejection of Gram vetting all of suitors, and rejection of him specifically. Once banking accounts were settled and all control directed solely to me, I left town, choosing instead to live life by my rules.
What I didn’t expect, was Gram’s reluctance to waste such a good catch, and of course her cougar nature.