My grandmother, Phyllis Jennings, is one of the upstanding members of the citizenry of Tanner Springs. Her husband — my father’s father — was a prominent banker in town. I never knew Grandpa Jennings. He died many years ago, when I was a child. And frankly, I didn’t know Gram growing up, either. My dad skipped town on my mom when I was a baby, and apart from a few grainy photos, I barely even knew what he looked like.

I met Gram right after my mother died of cancer, when I was nineteen. I barely knew of her existence, but I guess she had known of mine. Given that she didn’t know my dad’s whereabouts either, I counted as basically the only remaining direct family she had, apart from a sister-in-law who lived about an hour away. A few weeks after my mother’s funeral, Gram sent me a letter asking me to come visit her in Tanner Springs. We had an awkward but not entirely unpleasant first meeting, at the end of which she silently pressed an envelope into my hands that ended up containing several hundred dollars.

After that, we kept in formal and infrequent touch, mostly through cards and letters at holidays. About two years ago, Gram’s letters started coming more frequently. She told me her health was starting to fail, and eventually asked me if I would move to Tanner Springs, to keep her company in her last months. She had a fully furnished carriage house, she said, and it was mine to stay in for as long as I liked.

It just so happened that Gram’s request couldn’t have come at a better time. I was just pulling myself together after a breakup with the man who would completely sour me on the idea of marriage, and the prospect of getting out of town was an appealing one. I packed up the few possessions I cared to take with me into my little car and drove five hours south to Tanner Springs, expecting to find a frail, dying shadow of the grandmother I knew. Instead, she was as hale and hearty as ever — apart from a recent acquisition of hearing aids, which she despised and swore she didn’t need.

I probably should have been angry that my grandmother basically tricked me into moving to Tanner Springs. But frankly, it’s not like I had left that much of a life back in the city. So, in exchange for eating a few meals with her per week and listening to her complain about whatever’s pissing her off on any given day, I have a place to stay I could never afford on my own and the flexibility to build up my photography business.

When I find Gram in the main house, she’s standing at the large front window to the sitting room. She’s staring outside with a sour expression on her face. Her aging poodle, Mary Jane, is by her side, watching the goings-on with much the same expression.

“Those neighbors across the street have a tree service over there,” she sniffs disdainfully. “They’re going to pull down that beautiful old oak tree in their front yard. I just know it.” She shakes her head as if she can’t believe their audacity. “That tree has been there forever. It’s part of the neighborhood.”

My gaze follows hers. “It’s also taller than their house, and it’s leaning,” I remark. “One good storm and that thing would crash through their roof.”

Gram purses her lips. She doesn’t like to be contradicted. “Well, there must be something they can do,” she says stubbornly. Beside her, Mary Jane emits a low growl of agreement. “One doesn’t just tear down a tree like that on a whim.” The corners of her mouth turn down. “That tree’s been here much longer than they have.”

A small smile lifts the edges of my mouth. So that’s the problem. The neighbors across the street, the Cantwells, are a young professional couple who moved in a couple of months ago with their two twin boys. He’s a veterinarian and she’s a realtor, if I remember correctly. The house used to be owned by the former mayor of Tanner Springs, who left town a while ago under somewhat mysterious circumstances. Gram herself doesn’t know exactly what happened to him. It’s clear from the way she talks, though, that she enjoyed the prestige of living across the street from the mayor. I don’t think the new neighbors, with their two rambunctious sons, quite live up to her standards.

“You can’t just tear down a piece of history in a neighborhood like this,” Gram is muttering to herself. I know better than to argue with her, so I try to do the next best thing.

“Gram,” I interrupt her, changing the subject, “Lourdes said you wanted to see me?”

“Oh. Yes.” Reluctantly, Gram turns away from the window and faces me. “I got you a job,” she says with a satisfied nod.

I suppress a groan. This is exactly what I was worried about. Ever since I got to town five months ago, Gram has been trying to convince me that photography isn’t a real job, and that I need something more respectable, more steady. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve told her I’m getting a decent amount of work and don’t need any help from her connections. She is convinced that I’m wasting my time and energy on a career that will never pan out.

“Gram,” I begin, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “I really appreciate your concern, but I told you, I’m working on building up my photography business. I can’t take on any…”

“Oh, nonsense, Samantha.” Gram cuts me off impatiently. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time in between working to take your little photographs.”

My blood starts to heat up at the reference to my “little” photographs. It’s not news that Gram doesn’t think much of what I do, but it’s still amazing how quickly she can get under my skin with remarks like this. I start to repeat the mantra in my mind that I use whenever she’s making me crazy: She’s an old woman, she’s set in her ways, she doesn’t have any family except you, she’s just trying to help in her own way…

“My good friend RuthEllen Hanson is director of the library,” Gram continues, raising her chin. “She’s looking for someone to work there, perhaps part-time to start, and then eventually full-time.” Gram looks at me and gives me a thin smile. “Of course, when I told her my granddaughter would be available, she was immediately interested in hiring you.”

“But Gram,” I sigh, trying a different tack this time. “Wouldn’t it be better if, you know, I actually applied for positions I actually wanted?”

“Well, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want this position. It’s certainly not particularly challenging. Even someone with no education can do it,” she says pointedly, referring to the fact that I decided to skip college. “All you’ll be doing is checking out books and re-shelving things. How hard can it be? All you need to know is the alphabet.” She flashes me a look as though she can’t believe I’m looking her gift horse in the mouth.

I push down the urge to argue with her. “I’m sure it’s a lovely job,” I say instead. “And thank you for thinking of me. But I just think…”

“What?” she interrupts, her tone challenging.

Oh, God… She is just not going to let this go, I know. It’s really no use trying to fight her on this. And if I turn down this job, she’ll just look for another one for me. I take a deep breath and let it out.

“Okay, Gram,” I say wearily. “I’ll contact your friend…”

“RuthEllen,” she says promptly.

“RuthEllen. I’ll contact her for an interview.” Maybe RuthEllen will hate me, and Gram will be satisfied that at least I tried, I tell myself, but I know better. My grandmother is one of the stubbornest people I know, and she won’t rest until I have what she considers a “decent” job.

“Excellent, dear,” she says in a dismissive tone, but she seems pleased. She turns her attention back to the front window, and I understand I’m being dismissed.

“Oh, and one more thing, Samantha,” she calls after me as I turn to go.

“Yes?” I ask, glancing back.

“Please take Mary Jane for a walk.”