Annie Kate squirmed in her seat on the bench. The April skies threatened a cold rain on their heads, but they had no where else to go. Her granddaughter grew bored quickly with her stories of Ireland, but she had to give her this lesson.
“Picture this, Agnes – County Meath, 1867. The day I met your grandfather. I was 15 years old, he was 20. As handsome as Ireland’s hills are green. Smart as a tack. A sing-song tenor voice and beautiful singing voice. You thought you got your musical ability from your mother’s side? No, sweetheart, you got it from Grandpa Andrew.”
For once, Agnes paid attention. “I always wondered what he was like, Granny.”
“I’m the only grandparent you ever knew, so of course you might have some questions about him, lass. But I’m mentioning my husband for a reason. I knew the first time I met him that I wanted to marry him. Oh, I didn’t tell him that, then or for many years afterward. Would’ve puffed up his pride too much. But I knew.”
“How’d you know, Granny?”
“Lass, I knew it in so many ways. The way he held my hand, the way he laughed at my stories, the way he turned his head when someone made an odd remark, the way his hair blew in his eyes. But most of all, his eyes. They were the only eyes in the room that danced for me. Everyone else’s eyes were flat, but his were always alive and sparkling for me. I knew all this the first time we met. Just like you knew it about your husband, sweetheart.”
Agnes laughed. “Oh, dear, Granny.”
“What, pumpkin?”
“If first impressions mean something, then I’m in trouble. The first time I met Norman, I thought he was an arrogant jerk. It wasn’t until the second time that his eyes came alive.”
“All right, forget what I said.”
They both laughed. The gray clouds had parted and blue peeked out.
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