Chapter 33
Rhett
After a week of festivities, the Callahans are back in New York City.
My fiancée’s large and boisterous family made quite the impression on our small town. People will be talking about them for a long time to come.
The engagement and post-engagement celebrations forced me to delay today’s meeting.
My life is like a fucking rocket.
You know your notoriety has shot to the moon when industrialist Warren Blanchard requests to see you.
So here I am, sitting across from the wealthy magnate and his wife at one of Dallas’s prime restaurants.
The experience in itself is surreal, as mind-blowing as the outrageous prices on the menu. And this wine list… Ooh-Wee. I had to school my expression at the eye-popping prices, but I guess that’s how rich folks roll.
We’re nestled in a booth near the window. There isn’t a cloud spotting Texas’s blue sky. Since it’s two o’clock in the afternoon on a weekday, it’s quiet.
Although the couple also lives in Summerville, Mr. Blanchard was in the mood for a good old American steak at his favorite eatery. My kind of man.
Mr. Blanchard suggested we wait to order. He prefers to savor a nice glass of wine before digging into the food. Since he’s footing the bill, I won’t say no.
After filling our glasses with a cabernet sauvignon from Napa Valley that received a nod of approval from Mrs. Blanchard, the waiter scurries off.
Mr. Blanchard lifts his glass. “Here’s to us finally meeting.”
“Yes, finally,” Mrs. Blanchard says.
My eyes shift from Mr. Blanchard’s to his wife’s.
Both are looking at me with an expression I can’t decipher.
I’m a bit puzzled by the word finally, and this strange vibe running between us, but I can only assume they were looking forward to this meeting.
“Here’s to meeting fellow Summervillians,” I say.
“I’m an honorary Summervillian,” Mrs. Blanchard says. “I’m a south Texas girl through and through. I still can’t handle winters up here.”
We all laugh.
With a collective Cheers! we take a long sip of our red wine.
Wow.
I bring the glass to eye level, admiring it like it’s newly found treasure.
So, this is what a four-hundred-dollar bottle of wine tastes like.
Noted.
Mr. and Mrs. Blanchard make an elegant couple, oozing with sophistication, both wearing clothing that probably cost as much as Emmylou would be worth at a vintage car auction.
Thank God I wore a suit jacket and a crisp white shirt with my jeans, and a pair of brand-new cowboy boots.
I drop my glass on the table. “Mr. and Mrs. Blanchard, it’s an honor to have lunch with you. To say the New York Times Magazine’s feature is still paying dividends would be an understatement.”
“Actually, I have People magazine to thank,” Mr. Blanchard says.
Man, that feature is still paying dividends. “I fell off my boots when People magazine called.”
“I had never read the magazine before. Not my type of reading material,” Mr. Blanchard says.
“I have to admit, I don’t attend that many rodeos, but like most people in Summerville, I had heard of the local rodeo king who tried to save his best friend from an out-of-control bull. ” He shakes his head. “What a tragedy.”
A flashback of myself hovering over my friend’s lifeless body slams into me.
“It was,” I say.
“You’re such a courageous young man.” Mrs. Blanchard places a hand over her heart. “I’m so proud of you.”
Her statement puzzles me since we just met, but I’m touched, nonetheless.
“Dawson would’ve done the same for me,” I say with unwavering conviction.
The couple nod, their expression somber.
I take a sip of my wine to calm myself.
Years pass, but talking about Dawson is still so fucking hard.
“I’m still not certain what compelled me to pick up the People magazine from my executive assistant’s desk and flip through the pages of your article, but I’m glad I did,” Mr. Blanchard says. “Without it, I would never have known we were neighbors.”
“Although I’m proud of my farmhouse, I wouldn’t say we’re neighbors, sir.”
He pins me with a serious gaze. “What I mean to say is, you’ve been right under my nose all this time.”
I frown my confusion.
The waiter approaches our table, but Mr. Blanchard lifts a hand, stopping him. The lanky man bows before walking away backwards.
Talk about power.
“When I showed Lore the article,” Mr. Blanchard says, “she turned as white as a ghost. When her blue eyes met mine, they were shimmering with tears. For a long time, she couldn’t speak, and when she did, she said, Oh, my God.
The irony of it all wasn’t lost to me. We lived in the same state and we didn’t even know you existed. ”
“Mr. Blanchard, there’s nothing special about me.”
“Had I found you earlier, I would’ve never allowed Jocelyn McClad to adopt you.”
My head jerks back.
“I was living in Dallas when you became an orphan—so, not far from Summerville. I should’ve been the one taking you under my wing. After all, you’re my flesh and blood.”
What the fuck?
Mrs. Blanchard places a hand on her husband’s arm. “Honey, you promised you would approach this with finesse,” she says. “You just clobbered the poor young fellow, and then proceeded to pull the rug from under his feet.”
What is she talking about?
Mr. Blanchard rubs impatient hands over his face before running his fingers through his gray hair. When his eyes meet mine, they’re stormy. Troubled, even. “I promised my wife I’d ease you into this”–– his voice cracks––”get acquainted first––”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Blanchard, but none of this makes any sense to me.”
He stares at me for a few long beats.
I squirm in my seat.
“Son, you may have lost your parents and your adoptive ma, but you’re not alone in the world––”
“I’m not. I have my fiancée and her family,” I say, my chest puffing with pride.
Mr. Blanchard shakes his head.
Who the fuck does he think he is disapproving of Carina?
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
I knit my eyebrows together. “What are you talking about, then?” Because I sure as hell don’t understand.
“In the People magazine,” Mrs. Blanchard says, “you talked about one of the things you cherish the most––”
“The frame that contains a patch of a baby blanket that belonged to my dad,” I say.
The couple exchange a silent conversation before Mrs. Blanchard focuses in on me again. “Do you know how your father got that blanket?”
“I remember asking Dad about it. He told me the adoption agent who was working with his adopted parents handed them a healthy newborn baby boy and a blanket from his birth mother. His adopted mom had been trying to conceive for a long time and couldn’t believe God finally answered her prayers.
To honor the gift Dad’s momma gave him, his adopted mom framed the part of the blanket with the crocheted letters L + W’s.
She figured using the blanket would end up in it being soiled over time, or worse, lost. Framing the sentimental part of it would ensure it became a treasured gift Dad would have for life.
When my parents died Ma—Mrs. McClad—made sure I inherited it.
” My gaze slides to Mr. Blanchard. I’m a little pissed off by his comment about Ma.
“She even had it reframed because the matting was yellowing.”
“What a wonderful idea about framing a part of the blanket as a keepsake,” Mrs. Blanchard says.
“Real smart,” I say. “Presumably, L + W are Dad’s parents’ initials.”
“They are,” she says.
I sit straight in my chair. “Did you know them?”
“You could say that…”
I can’t believe my ears. Hope burgeons in my chest, along with a sense of astoundment. “You knew my grandparents, Mrs. Blanchard?”
She offers a warm smile. “I know them well.”
My mind is blown. “God Almighty.” The words drop from my lips.
I run a hand through my hair in an effort to regain my composure.
“I’d like to meet them— If that’s okay with them.
” This stranger has the power to reunite me with Dad’s parents— What if meeting me brings back too many painful memories? “Maybe they wouldn’t be—”
“You’ve already met them.”
I scrunch my nose.
“L stands for Loretta,” she says. “W stands for Warren. Translation, Loretta + Warren’s.”
Realization hits me.
My eyes widen in shock.
I grip my chest, my heart drumming in rapid thumps, and every inch of my body is covered in goosebumps as my whole world topsy-turvies at her words.
Dear God. Hell just froze over.
“I gave birth to your father, Rhett,” she says. “L + W’s was my silent love note to our son.”
The second time around doesn’t soften the blow. “You–– You’re–– We’re––” My brain rattles inside my head, so many questions bouncing around.
Mrs. Blanchard nods. “Yes, Rhett, I’m your grandma and this handsome man by my side is your grandpa. We’re family.” She manages to make sense of my jumbled thoughts.
My pulse trips over itself at her confirmation.
I have family in this world—flesh and blood.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, and I bite the inside of my cheek to avoid crying.
“My maid was my partner in crime for Operation Baby Blanket,” Mrs. Blanchard says.
Holy Jesus, Mrs. Blanchard is Grandma. My grandma.
“We were so wealthy, I had my own personal maid, and thankfully, she was fiercely loyal.” She laughs a little.
“I gave her money and sent her on a mission. She bought a bunch of yarn options for me to choose from for my masterpiece. I crocheted the letters and the plus sign in a light-blue yarn I selected to sit nicely against the forest-green yarn––blue like my eyes. Green like Warren’s. ”
My gaze ping-pongs between theirs, settling on Mr. Blanchard’s. For the first time since sitting across from the magnate, I notice the similarities in the shade of our eyes.
He offers a sad, knowing smile.
I can only blink in shock.