Chapter 4
4
“ I lived with my mother and sister until I bought this place.” He waved his hand behind him, indicating the small house.
Nodding, Carlisle tried to keep her expression blank. He wasn't in his twenties, he’d already told her, and he seemed old to be living with his mom. A major red flag. Except, she told herself, this wasn't a date. He was her neighbor. Hell, he could bring his mom to live with him here and it would have nothing to do with her.
Simon opened his mouth as if to explain, then quickly closed it.
That, she'd always been taught, was a signal not to ask more. People would explain when they were ready. They’d already managed to veer into some interesting topics. He’d asked a few questions that she never would have dragged out on a date or at any kind of formal event. But they were sitting on his back deck, and she was just being neighborly to the man she’d woken in the dark hours the night before.
Carlisle didn’t pry. She’d also known plenty of women who could run their mouths with gossip all day long. She didn’t want to be in either situation right now. He was just the man next door; he could live with his mama and keep his secrets.
She did know now that he'd moved here from out of state, taking the job almost sight unseen. “I lived in an apartment for about three months until I found this place and closed escrow.”
“Oh?” He’d been in town for several months, but she’d not crossed paths with him? “Where?”
“Over on Canterbury.”
Carlisle nodded. “I know which ones you're talking about. My cousin's fiancé owns them.” Lennon and Gabe would be getting married in the spring. Carlisle smiled at the thought. Somehow Lennon, who'd always sworn off all the girly parties and painted nails and fashion shows, was talking bridesmaid dresses in her own roundabout way.
Carlisle had no sisters—only the two brothers—but her Mayfair cousins had talked about embroidering archaeological symbols along their hems for the wedding. The thought quickly slipped through her mind as Simon threw his head back and laughed, deep and hearty.
“What?”
“Of course, you're related to the person who owns the building I lived in.”
She frowned at him. “Small town.”
“The real estate agent, when she sold me this house, pointed at your place and said—” Once again, he clamped his jaw shut and stopped himself.
Carlisle took a deep breath. Oh hell, this should be good . She tried to remember whose smiling, glossy-haired picture was on the sign that had been in front of his house. “Go ahead. Tell me, what was the gossip?”
He looked chagrined.
Nothing good . Carlisle thought.
“She said not to judge the neighborhood, that you were fixing up your place next door. ”
“That’s all true.” Carlisle understood. She’d bought her place as a fixer and had been told the same thing about the neighborhood. She had done more with the interior than the exterior, so far. Though she'd started with the basics on the front, it still wasn't quite up to her mother's standards. Clearly, not the real estate agent’s either.
“She said it was going to be a showpiece soon because you Mayfairs had great taste.” He paused as if remembering something. “You're not a Mayfair though.”
Carlisle tipped her head from side to side, as if to waffle on that one. “Technically, I'm a Weaver. But my mama?—”
He raised one eyebrow at her at her easy, accented use of the word. She started over, not holding back with the drawl that came naturally. “My mama was born a Mayfair. Westerley Lynn, but she married my daddy and now we're Weavers. So I kind of am a Mayfair.”
“Mayfairs founded the town, right?”
“At one point it was actually called Mayfair, Georgia.” And didn't everyone in her family love to talk about that? She’d bragged about it herself, though this time she noticed it didn't roll off the tongue quite as easily. She was still proud of her family, but a switch had been flipped. And once it had happened, she couldn't quite go back to seeing things the way she had before.
So instead, she talked about her house. “When I bought it, the grass in the yard was up to my waist.” She held her hand up as if she needed to demonstrate. “The outside was Pepto Bismol pink.”
She watched as he visibly recoiled. She understood. “And the previous owners had spray painted the house number along the side.” Turning, she pointed at the corner where the paint had been.
She watched his head swivel, as if he could see backward in time. She’d had the siding redone. It was a soft colonial blue now. The shutters had needed to be replaced. They were now black, as her mama had insisted her only real options with blue were black, white, and cream.
Carlisle had defied convention and found a gorgeous dusty teal for the rest of the trim. In her ideal world, she was going to put in a small picket fence across the front to keep the workers from occasionally driving on her grass and just to help spruce the place up. But so far, she hadn't quite managed to get herself out of bed to pick up a shovel or a hammer or even to buy the wood.
She didn't tell Simon about that part either. She did add, “You can say it.”
She’d defied her mama’s conventions with the colors—which everyone at least said they loved—and she defied it again now. The meal done she pushed her plate aside and leaned forward, arms crossed, elbows on the table.
Westerley Weaver would never put her elbows on a tabletop, even on an unfinished wooden picnic table.
“What should I say?” He was frowning as if genuinely confused.
“About my screaming the other night. About the accident.” She waved her hand around as if it were nothing, but it was anything but nothing.
Though Simon didn't look quite as confused as he had, he didn't look like it had snapped into place either. “I was going to ask if the nightmares were going to be a regular thing. And if you would like me to check on you or just leave it alone?”
“Leave it alone.” She shrugged. “I guess, let me know if it's bothering you too much. I can soundproof my room.” She looked away for a moment, feeling her fingers tapping against her other elbow. She didn’t stop herself though. “I'm sure the real estate agent told you about the accident.”
“What accident?”
Did he really not know?