“She’s been generous,” Liv said stiffly. “I think she realizes she gave me some bad advice.” Grandma Edith—her father’s eccentric, wealthy mother, who lived in Paris—had been the one to insist on a prenup before Liv had married Eric, one that stipulated that if the marriage ended, neither was entitled to anything that originated with the other. It had obviously been intended to keep Eric from getting his hands on what would one day be Liv’s inheritance, but since Grandma Edith was still alive, and Eric was making mid–six figures while Liv was unemployed, the document now seemed like an insane mistake. At least Grandma Edith had offered to pay for Liv’s apartment while she figured out her life, but Liv felt guilty enough for taking the money without Eric rubbing it in.

“And yet she was so sure of it at the time.” He chuckled. “Anyhow, Liv, I’ve got to get back to the office. But let me know if you need anything, all right? I guess I’ll see you around.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He left without a look back, and as Liv closed the door behind him, she had the sense she was finally shutting out the past and stepping into an uncertain future.

? ? ?

An hour later, Liv had finally worked up the courage to open the final box Eric had delivered. She felt as if she’d been punched in the gut when she sliced through the tape, lifted the flaps, and realized it contained their wedding album and two shoeboxes full of pictures from their life together, pictures that obviously meant nothing to Eric anymore. She flipped through the ones on top—honeymoon photos in which she and Eric held coconut drinks while standing on the beach in Maui, beaming at each other—before jamming them back into the box and backing away as if their mere proximity could wound her.

There was a sharp rapping on the door, and Liv looked up. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and she’d only given her new address to a handful of people. Her sole friends during her marriage to Eric had been her coworkers at Bergman, and when she’d left her job last year, none of them had stayed in touch, which had only added to her feeling of being erased from her own life. Had Eric come back to discard another box of memories? She considered not answering, because she didn’t want to face him again, but then there was another knock, louder and more insistent this time.

When she stood and peered out the peephole, she had to blink a few times to process what she was seeing. There, in the dimly lit hall, stood her ninety-nine-year-old, impossibly spry grandmother, white hair wound into a meticulous bun, gray tweed Chanel jacket perfectly tailored, black slacks impeccably cut. “Grandma Edith?” Liv asked in disbelief as she opened the door.

The old woman pursed her lips, her penciled-in eyebrows knitting. “Honestly, Olivia, is that how you dress when I’m not here to supervise?” The dig sounded almost polite wrapped in Grandma Edith’s soft French accent. “Have I not taught you better than that?”

“I, uh, wasn’t expecting you.” Liv looked down at the torn jeans and ratty sweatshirt she’d changed into after Eric had left, perfect clothes for moping in. “Should I have been expecting you?”

“Well, I am here, am I not?”

“But . . . what are you doing in New York?” When Liv had last spoken with her—three days earlier, when Grandma Edith called to crisply ask when the divorce would be final—there had been no talk of a transatlantic trip from Paris. Considering Grandma Edith’s age, a flight to New York should have merited at least a mention.

“Well, I have come to get you, of course. Aren’t you going to invite me in? I’m dying for a martini. And do not dare tell me you are out of gin. I would have to disown you immediately.”

“Um, no,” Liv said. “I have gin.” She stepped gingerly aside and watched as Grandma Edith swept past her. She wondered fleetingly why they never hugged like normal people did.

“D’accord. Have you any blue cheese olives on hand?” Grandma Edith asked over her shoulder as Liv followed her in and shut the door. It was then that Liv realized Grandma Edith didn’t have anything with her aside from her familiar Kelly bag.

“Where’s your luggage, Grandma Edith?”

The older woman ignored her. “I would even take a garlic olive in a pinch.”

“Um, I think I just have regular ones.”

Grandma Edith harrumphed but seemed to accept this as she settled onto Liv’s living room couch.

Liv was silent as she prepared her grandmother’s drink, a task that had been hers from the time she was nine. A healthy dose of gin, a splash of dry vermouth, a few drops of olive juice, shaken with ice, and then strained.

“You really should chill the glass first, Olivia,” Grandma Edith said in lieu of a thank-you as Liv handed over her drink. “Aren’t you going to have one, too?”

“It’s two in the afternoon, Grandma Edith. And I’m still trying to figure out what you’re doing here.”

The older woman shook her head. “Honestly, need you be so uptight?” She took a long sip. “Very well. If you must know, I’m here because today’s the day you are officially free of that soul-sucking salaud. I hate to say I told you so, but . . .”

“So you’ve come to gloat.”

Grandma Edith took another swallow of her martini, and Liv noticed fleetingly that her grandmother’s hand was shaking. “I most certainly have not,” she said. “I have come to help you pack your bags.”