Chapter 17 #2
I’m not ready to break the hug. It’s resetting my adrenals too, so I hang on for an extra few seconds.
His shirt has been laundered in lavender and I breathe it in.
“Okay, that was crazy,” I say when I pull away.
I reach up and touch his face again. I run my thumbs along his cheekbones.
Last time it was diagnostic, but this time I just feel like it.
We have broken the touch barrier and are standing inches apart, looking at each other with new eyes.
“I’m fine,” he says. “A little embarrassed, but fine.”
“Don’t be. Your dad’s kind of terrifying.” I rest my hand on his chest. “Your heart is still beating fast, let’s walk around a little bit.”
He loops my arm through his and we make our way through the gardens in silence. We pass snapdragons and white spray roses. I stop to run my finger over the tiny sharp petals of a red dahlia.
Beyond the formal gardens is an ivy-covered archway that’s dripping with cherry tomatoes in all stages of ripeness.
Without thinking, I pick one and pop it into my mouth.
It explodes with unexpected sweetness. These are not Stop n’ Save tomatoes.
He reaches a hand toward my mouth, then stops himself.
“Just there,” he says, as I lick a tomato seed from my lip.
His eyes stay on my mouth. I blush and look through the archway.
“Can we go in?” I ask.
“Into the vegetable garden?”
I nod. “I bet it’s totally calming.” I think we could both use that at this point.
“Okay,” he says. I go first, ducking under the tomato archway, and emerge into a circular garden.
Eggplant, peppers, zucchini, and string beans.
Red leaf lettuce and kale. There’s a separate raised bed for herbs, and I lean down to pick a bit of the rosemary.
Stewart sits on the edge of the bed, so I do too.
“Do you mind?” I ask, and hold up the rosemary. “This smells so good, and now I want to make an olive oil cake.”
“That sounds delicious.”
“So do you want to talk about it?” I ask. “What just happened?”
He shakes his head.
“Give me your hand,” I say, and take it on my lap, palm side up. I run a finger along his lifeline. I trace his thumb and each of his fingers over and over again. I am hypnotizing myself with the rough feel of his skin and the smell of the rosemary and basil.
“This is really relaxing,” he says. “Should come in pill form.”
I look up at him and smile. I place a hand on his heart again and feel how he’s calmed down a bit. “Saved your life, no extra charge,” I say. He smiles at me and it’s different, softer. His guard is down, and I feel like it might be possible to climb right inside him.
After a while, he says, “I hate mansion tours. My dad knows that. Just the idea of ogling someone else’s failure.
Looking at people’s bathtubs beyond red ropes.
Those were real people whose families no longer live there.
They built something that a later generation let slip away.
” He takes a full breath and lets it out.
“That’s not going to happen to you.”
“History says otherwise, Dolly.” He holds his hand out to me again, and I start tracing it, running my finger up and over and down the outside of each of his, like my kindergarteners do with a crayon to draw a turkey.
“What does history say?” I ask.
“We were a big shipping company originally, but all that business moved out of Boston to New York in the 1800s.”
“Everyone knows this, Stewart.” I roll my eyes dramatically. I’m joking around but fail to lighten the mood. “And then you evolved into a real estate company.”
“But before that we were on a major downward financial spiral for two generations. My grandfather had the foresight to save us by redeveloping all our waterfront property and pivoting into real estate. My dad took it from there, and I don’t know what I’d do if it was on me and things started going south again.
The idea that strangers might walk through our home someday, listening through their AirPods to the story of how Stewart Whitfield screwed it all up.
As you saw tonight, it’s the thing panic attacks are made of. ”
He looks up and I see it on his face, the truth of what he’s just said.
“I’m terrified of letting my family down,” he says.
He waits for me to say something, but I just keep running my fingers between his.
“I want to be CEO, especially if the alternative is Grant. But I don’t know if I have the vision or the instincts or whatever it is that my dad’s always talking about.
If the bad thing comes, I don’t know if I’ll know how to pivot. ”
I unbutton his cuff and trail my fingers up his forearm. We’re both watching my hands, and I hear his breathing slow.
“Why doesn’t Oscar work with you?” I ask.
“I think he feels left behind. And he probably looks at my life and wants no part of it. And Busy. I think she feels she’s supposed to show up as an executive somewhere, you know? I wish she had an entry-level job like I did, right out of school.”
“Busy will find her thing,” I say, brushing his palm with my fingers.
“She will. She’s a big thinker under all the”—he waves his free hand in the air in a chaotic way, and I laugh.
“Ah, you’re feeling better,” I say.
He takes a breath. “Yeah, I am. Thank you for this.” He folds his hand over mine. “Second time I’m being rescued by the same tiny little woman.” He’s giving me his softest smile.
“Do we have any more engagements this week?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” he says. “I have a lot of work on my plate.”
I nod, an unwelcome disappointment bubbling up. “I might take a few extra shifts at the fish house, and they’re dropping off shingles for the new roof at some point.”
“Still not starting till August?”
“Yes, and it’s all on budget. Just under fifty thousand, as expected.”
“You only needed fifty?”
I smile. “A deal’s a deal. And a girl should have a little cushion.”
He laughs and it lights up his face. When his eyes land on mine, there’s something happy there, like he’s just gotten great news. “Is there anything else that needs fixing?”
“Just a bit of the sleeping porch, from the fire. But I’ve started that on my own.” I don’t mention the way I’ve reattached the screen with duct tape from the outside. “I sleep out there. With the frogs and the cool night air.”
“Sounds like heaven,” he says. We sit and look at each other for a bit.
I hold up my rosemary bouquet, and he closes his eyes and smells it.
I’ve never seen him with closed eyes, and even though it’s for just a few seconds, I have a flash of us in bed, his hair splayed out on a crisp white pillow.
His mouth soft and unworried. Maybe an arm thrown across my hip, one leg out from under the covers.
He’d smile when he opened his eyes, just like he’s doing now, and I’d kiss him.
It’s my imagination, I’m sure, but he leans in a bit toward me. Lips slightly parted.
“I should really get home,” I say, because I have clearly been drugged in this garden.
“Yes,” he says, pulling away. “You can really lose track of things out here.”