27. Winona
Winona
Her godmother, who was a fairy, said,
“You would like to go to the ball, is that not so?”
~ Charles Perrault, Cendrillon and the Glass Slipper
“Declan!” I shout, barely containing my surprise.
“Hmmm?” he asks, grinning widely.
“We’re at the airport.”
“That’s where you go when you need to fly somewhere …” he says, a gorgeously mischievous smile on his face.
“We’re flying? To St. Thomas?”
He laughs. “Well, now you make me feel like I shot too low.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I would have actually fainted if you were taking me to St. Thomas.” Then I add, “You do know I’ve only flown once before.”
“I do know that. And you’re not afraid of flying. Cass told me.”
“Cass.” I picture my sister, trying her darndest to keep Declan’s secret plans from me.
“... was very helpful,” Declan says. “I owe her, big time. She threw herself into helping me plan all the details.”
The driver opens Declan’s door and hands him his crutches. Then he opens my door and I tug the coat around me to fend off the chill night air. A medium-sized airplane sits just a short walk away, with the stairs out.
“We’re flying in a private jet,” Declan says, as if it’s no big deal. “It’s a Dassault Falcon 6X.”
“Oh, good,” I say. “I never fly the five-X. Always the six.”
Declan laughs.
“Do you own this too?” I ask.
He smiles an amused smile. “No. I don’t own it. I just charter it.”
Declan makes light work of the stairs in his boot. At the top, a woman in a navy pantsuit greets me. “Good evening, Miss Carter. Welcome aboard.”
I grin at her and look at her name tag. “Thank you, Martina.”
I try not to show my complete awe once we’re inside. You can see straight through from the front of the plane to the back. It’s so posh—like Declan’s mom did the decorating.
Martina gives me a quick tour of the club seating area, the dining area and the rear lounge.
“These couches can convert into beds for longer or later flights,” she says. “We’ll only be in the air twenty minutes to Nashville tonight.”
“Nashville!” I say, glancing up to the front of the plane where Declan is settling into one of the club chairs.
His eyes meet mine and he smiles at me.
I return his smile and walk toward him, his eyes on me the whole way. I’m not even sure what to do once I reach him.
“The secret’s out,” Declan says, looking up at me. “But I’ve still got some surprises.”
“You’re incredible,” I say, softly.
No one knows. They might know bits and pieces. But I see the whole man. He lets me see so much more. It feels like the greatest gift I’ve ever been given.
I take my seat next to him and he reaches out and grabs my hand, smiling at me and leaning in to whisper, “You look amazing. And doing this—for you? It’s the most fun I’ve had in as long as I can remember.”
He settles back into his chair.
I squeeze his hand and stretch over to place a kiss on his cheek. “This is a dream. I don’t know how you plan to ever top this.”
When I pull back, Declan has a red mark on his face from my lipstick. I rub it off with my thumb and then I buckle into my chair.
The captain introduces himself, and Martina asks us if we want any refreshments before she retreats to her seat for takeoff.
I’m next to the window. I watch the scenery as we speed up, lift off the ground, and soar over wide open land and the small town of Waterford with its lights on in shops and homes.
I think of all my friends and family down below me.
I try to make out the locations of all my Winona for Hire jobs.
The further away we fly, everything seems to meld into one encapsulated piece—my hometown, my people, my life.
It’s all down there. And yet, tonight I’m up here, next to Declan, flying into Nashville.
This is my life too, as unbelievable as it is.
Declan gives my hand a soft squeeze. “What do you think?”
“I’m speechless.”
He smiles at me. Then he lowers his voice so his words are just between us. “One of the things I love about you is how you see the world. You’re not asking for more than it can give. You just show up and find the good. Not many people do that the way you do.”
“Thank you,” I say, my mind tripping over one word.
He said love. It isn’t lost on me.
It’s a turn of phrase, like, You know what I love? French fries.
But he didn’t say it like that. He said what I love about you.
“Do you know what I love about you?” I ask him quietly.
“My shriveled calf?” he teases.
“While that is close to the top of my list … no. I love your thoughtfulness—the way you watch people and really see them. You’re a patient and generous man, Declan.”
That’s just the tip of the iceberg of what I love about him. But it’s all I’m saying for now.
This outfit makes me feel like I ought to restrain myself just a little. For one night, I can be an elegant woman on the arm of a gorgeous man who flew her to another town for dinner. I’m not pretending to be something I’m not. I’m simply aware that my limo will turn into a pumpkin at midnight.
Declan smiles over at me. He holds my hand, running his thumb gently over my knuckles. We steal glances at one another the rest of the flight, smiling and occasionally saying something, but mostly just absorbing this unexpected sweetness between us.
We land at John C. Tune Airport and walk down the stairs to an awaiting car with a different driver.
Declan hired all these people just for tonight. I put all that out of my mind. I don’t like thinking about Declan’s money. I know he has it. He knows it too. But that has nothing to do with why he’s special to me. I’d be just as happy eating pizza on his couch as I am right now.
On the drive to wherever we’re going, I reach over and grab Declan’s hand.
“You went to a lot of trouble for this date.”
“We needed this,” he says. “Especially after being cooped in the house for so long.”
“Sometimes I forget how cooped up you’ve been,” I admit. “I’m running from job to job. By the time I get to your house, it’s a relief—a place to unwind and to see you. But you’re there against your will.”
“Waiting for the moment you show up,” he says.
We both know he’s waiting for much more than that. His return to football is getting closer every day.
We pull up on a main downtown street in front of a historic three-story, dark-red brick town house. The window frames and cornice are black with gold detailing. Two gold lions flank the low gate leading to a black awning that reads The Standard.
When the driver opens my door, I step out and take in the whole area surrounding this almost misplaced townhouse. It’s tucked shoulder to shoulder with a grand limestone building whose towering columns make it resemble a courthouse.
Across the street, a sleek limestone-and-glass civic building is set back on a broad lawn, while farther down the block, century-old painted-brick warehouses and modern glass towers share the skyline.
It's a mishmash of buildings, but somehow, it all works.
Declan reaches me on the sidewalk, placing a careful kiss on my cheek and wrapping his arm around my shoulders.
He smiles down at me. "Ready? Our reservation's at six thirty. We're right on time."
We step inside the old home turned restaurant and social club.
My eyes run up the broad carpeted staircase that rises from the entry.
I picture someone’s children getting yelled at for sliding down the polished chunky wooden banister toward the foyer a century ago.
They would have carried their toys through the framed doorways into a parlor or living room to play at their mother’s feet.
Now those rooms are filled with soft lighting over tastefully spaced dining tables covered in white linen.
My heels click across the hardwood floors as the hostess leads us to our table. She takes our coats and hands us menus.
Declan waits for me to take my seat and then he sits in the chair across from me.
I glance over the menu, stiff white embossed cardstock in a leather binding. One side has standard signature dishes. The other is labeled exotic.
“Turtle meat soup?” I say, quietly.
Declan shakes his head, smiling softly.
“I didn’t yell that, so I’m calling it a win. Camel? They serve camels here? Declan.”
“Flip the menu, Winona.”
I don’t. “Rattlesnake. Can you even eat snake meat? Over pasta. Well, that’s good. I’ll just have snake and macaroni.”
Declan laughs, deep and hearty, and the older couple at the table next to us turns to look.
“Well, hey there,” the man says to Declan.
His wife’s face scrunches as if she should know Declan since her husband obviously does.
“Declan O’Connell.” The man says the words like a statement. Then he glances at his wife. “Tight end for the Thunder. Out for the season on an ankle injury.”
She nods, returning her attention to her meal.
Her husband stands. He’s a substantial man, large frame, wearing an expensive-looking suit.
He walks over and shakes Declan’s hand. “I hate to interrupt.” He glances from Declan to me. “I’m a huge fan. So good to see you out and about. Must mean you’re on the mend.”
Declan nods, still not saying a word to the man. He’s not being rude, but he’s obviously not leaving the door open for this man to interrupt our first date.
“Can I trouble you for a photo?” the man asks. “Then I’ll leave you in peace to enjoy your meal.”
Declan stands, obviously understanding the principle of blackmail. Pay the guy to get what you want. He’s going to hold us hostage until he walks back to his table with a photo.
“Do you mind?” The man hands me his camera.
Declan’s mouth twitches as if he’s going to say something in protest.
I speak before he can. “Not a problem.”
I stand, aiming the phone camera at Declan while the man wraps his arm around him as if they’re old friends.
“Thank you so much,” the man says. “I hope you keep on healing and get back in the game real soon. We’re going to take the Panthers tomorrow, though.”
“That’s the plan,” Declan says. “Nice to meet you.”
His heart isn’t in his words. I know the difference. He’s being polite and professional.
The man takes his seat with his wife, and she says, “They’re on a date, Darren.”
“It wasn’t a big thing,” he defends.
Declan leans over and whispers, “Sorry about that.”
“Can’t be helped,” I tell him. “It’s sweet that people want you back on the field.”
I turn my attention back to the menu. “What are tobacco onions?”
Declan laughs and quietly says, “You don’t smoke them.”
He knows me too well.
“They’re thinly cut onions that are dredged in flour and cooked until they’re the brown of cured tobacco leaves. Think of the best onion ring you’ve ever had.”
“Mmm,” I say, my mouth literally watering.
“Let’s get the filet,” he says.
“To share?” I ask, looking at the price.
Declan just laughs, setting his menu down and looking me in the eyes.
“You’re breathtaking.”
“We’ve established that Ann did her job,” I say.
“You. Not Ann. You’re gorgeous.”
“Declan,” I say, feeling my blush rise.
When the waitress arrives, Declan orders for both of us. I get the spinach walnut salad and Declan gets a Caesar. He insists that we have to try the lobster dip. Apparently they're famous for it. I can see why. We each get the filet mignon with tobacco onion and truffle hash cake.
When the food comes, it literally melts in my mouth.
We laugh over our meal, sharing stories about our childhoods in Waterford.
That leads to Declan telling me some funny stories about traveling with the guys on his team.
He ends up talking about their away game last Thanksgiving.
Marcus got the bright idea of having Thanksgiving dinner catered to the hotel rooms after the game.
“By the time we played, finished up in the locker room, got our treatments, and did press, the bus rolled up to the hotel at ten p.m.” He shakes his head, smiling at the memory.
“Thing was, the caterers had dropped the feast to Delaney’s room at eight.
He got up to his room and found a meal that was already fit to be leftovers. ”
“Oh no!” I say.
“You know what he did?”
“No. Tell me.”
“He DoorDashed five loaves of sourdough and some mayo and we made turkey sandwiches. Best hotel picnic I’ve had in years.”
“That sounds awesome,” I say.
“It really was,” he says. “And the best part was that everyone called Delaney Cold Turkey for weeks.”
Declan smiles at me over the candlelight. “We don’t have a game this Thanksgiving. Can you believe it’s the first year we aren’t playing a Thanksgiving or Black Friday game since I started with the Thunder and I’m not even on the roster?”
“So, you’re free on Thanksgiving?” I ask while the busboy clears our dinner plates.
“I am.” He pauses. “My parents asked me to come here, to Nashville.”
“Does your mom do a traditional Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“Usually she has it catered and invites a group of their friends over now that we’re all grown. Maeve hosts something in Waterford. Patrick and Daisy will be at her house this year.”
He smiles at me, setting his hand on the table, palm up. I rest my hand in his.
“How about you?” he asks, staring into my eyes and smiling.
The couple from the table next to us stands, smiling over at us before they walk out. I turn my attention back to Declan.
“Mom and Dad do a traditional meal. Cass and I make a few of the side dishes and bring them over.”
“Sounds nice,” he says.
I’m not sure if I’m imagining the wistful tone in his voice.
“You could come,” I say.
“To your parents’?”
“Not in a meet-the-parents way,” I assure him. “Just … come. Unless you need to be at your parents’?”
“No. Believe me. I’d rather not come to Nashville. I love my parents, but chances are they’ll have a woman there as my unspoken plus-one. I’d rather avoid that if possible.”
I don’t flinch at the mention of his mom trying to fix him up. He’s not interested. I know he’s waiting to tell them about me. And I understand why the reveal has to be timed just right.
“What about Marcus and Jaxon?” I ask. “And Linc?”
“Some of the guys are planning to fly home, or if they have family nearby, they’ll spend the holiday with family. I don’t think Brady, Marcus or Jaxon have plans.”
“They could come to my parents’ too,” I offer.
We’ve always opened our home up to stragglers over the holidays. These guys aren’t your usual stragglers, but to me, they’re just men without any holiday plans. Declan’s friends.
“I mean, they’re welcome to join us. Unless that’s weird.”
“Shouldn’t you ask first?” Declan asks.
“No. My mom loves hosting people. She’d be thrilled to have extra guests. We always brought friends when we lived at home. Anyone’s welcome. That’s her way.”
“I can see where you get that quality.” His eyes shimmer in the candlelight.
“You say the absolutely sweetest things.”
“All true,” he says, lifting my hand and kissing my knuckles.