12. Bobby
12
Bobby
When Flowers Bloom
The mansion has never been this silent.
It’s day and night from how it felt earlier this morning, with the usual pre-breakfast bustle of clattering of dishes, murmur of conversation, and the rhythmic thump of boots on the wooden floorboards. Now, there's nothing but the distant tick of a grandfather clock and the refrigerator's hum.
Maybe I should've joined the guys out on the ranch after all. At least the physical labor would've kept my mind from drifting to Claire. I can still picture the look on her face when we talked about last night.
Was she that disgusted with us sleeping on the same bed to even talk to me? Every time I call her on the phone today, it goes straight to voicemail. The single text I received simply said she was ‘ Checking out the town with Mike. ’
Frustration gnaws at me. Last night, everything felt electric. We talked for hours, the fire crackling a warm counterpoint to the easy flow of conversation. And then…the kiss…again. It started slow and tentative then progressed into something more intimate, stimulating more desire, evoking more questions. Then we said goodnight and collapsed on the bed.
She stripped first, claiming it was too hot, and then she kicked me out of bed and told me to get out of my clothes as well. The fact that she doesn’t remember makes my gut twist in worry. The image of Claire running out of the house in confusion sends me a fresh wave of despair. The last thing I ever want to do is make Claire uncomfortable.
The drunken kiss was a mistake, and I probably should have stopped it, but I was too lost in the heat of the moment.
"Robert."
I look up, startled, to see Claire's grandfather settling into the chair across from me. He raises an eyebrow.
"Didn't realize anyone was in here."
"Hey, Gramps," I nod. "Just going over some stuff for work. Figured the kitchen wouldn't be too crowded at this time."
Gramps chuckles, the sound warm and oddly soothing. "Can't blame you there. These guys can be a rowdy bunch sometimes." He reaches for the coffee pot. "Haven’t seen Claire today," he mumbles, pouring himself a cup. "Out with the others on the tour?"
I shake my head. "No, Sir. She decided to explore the town today instead."
Gramps grins. "Figures. Claire always did march to the beat of her own drum." He takes a sip of coffee, then adds, "Not a bad thing, mind you. Keeps life interesting."
For a moment, his words hang in the air. Then, he clears his throat. "Bob, Son," his voice is low. "Mind if I ask you something straight?"
I meet his gaze, a knot of apprehension tightening in my stomach. "Of course not, Sir."
He takes another sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. "How do you really feel about Claire?"
The question hits me like a sucker punch. My breath catches in my throat and for a moment, I want to come clean, explaining how this started and where I’m at now.
How do I feel about Claire? How do I answer that?
I’ve always had good feelings about Claire as my friend, but these past few weeks, I've realized how much more her presence means to me, how her laugh brightens my day, how her smile makes me melt, how she just gets me.
"She's amazing, Gramps. Funny, smart, sweet. Being around her makes me feel…whole. Like she’s enough." An understatement, a vast understatement, but it's all I can manage to voice right now.
Gramps nods, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. "That's good to hear, Son. That's really good to hear." He pauses, then adds, "You know, I felt the same way about Mimi when we first met. Still do, even after all these years." His gaze softens as he looks out the window, a wave of nostalgia washing over him. "Sixty years, and it hasn't faded a bit."
My heart sinks. Sixty years. A lifetime built on love and commitment. The weight of his words settles on me, a stark contrast to the complicated vortex of emotions swirling inside me.
"So," Gramps continues, his gaze returning to me. "Are you two planning anything?"
I stutter, caught off guard by his directness. "Planning anything? Like what?"
He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. "Making things official, Son. Isn’t that how you young folks say it these days?"
My cheeks burn. Does he mean marriage? The word hangs heavy in the air. Claire and I are far from that. We’re just friends . Confused friends because lately, things haven't felt so strictly platonic. Stolen glances, lingering touches, intimate kisses, and her laughter now seem to be the soundtrack to my happiness. It all adds up to something more, something deeper.
But that seems to be one sided. If she felt the same way, wouldn't there be some kind of sign? Well, she does kiss me back and sometimes, she makes the first move. Is this still a game to her?
"We haven't really talked about it, Gramps."
He nods. "No need to rush things. Just take your time. But," he leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't let go of the good thing you’ve got in your hands. I see the way both of you are around each other. That’s something to hold on to. That’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing you two got."
His words parade around in my head. Good thing. Don't let go. Once in a lifetime. But how can I hold on to something that doesn’t want to be held on to? I need to figure out if she feels the same way.
Gramps claps me on the shoulder, his touch surprisingly strong. "There you go," he says with a wink. "See you both at dinner tonight. Don’t miss out on Mimi's famous pecan pie and homemade ice cream."
I watch him walk out of the kitchen, and once again, I’m left alone with the churning mess of confusion that are my thoughts.
What did I get myself into?
Taking a deep breath, I push myself away from the table. Maybe a walk around the grounds will clear my head. I need to remember that I’m here to help my best friend get what she needs, not complicate things by falling in love with her.
***
There’s still no sign of Claire by dinner time. The dining room air is thick with the aroma of roasted chicken, potpie, mashed potatoes, corn, and Mimi’s pecan pies. Clear warmth radiates from the family gathered around the table, but a cold knot of discomfort sits heavy in my stomach.
Every time my gaze sweeps across the table sitting here with everyone except for Claire feels wrong.
I steal a glance at Mike across from me, catching his eye with a silent question. He raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a knowing smile. Leaning closer, I lower my voice enough to avoid prying ears.
"Where'd Claire disappear to? I thought you two were exploring the town together?"
"We did,” Mike confirms, taking a bite of his mashed potatoes. “Came back a while ago. Said she wasn't hungry and had a headache."
Headache? My brow furrows. Is Claire just bailing on the family dinner again, or is there something more serious going on?
Pushing back from the table with a gibberish excuse, I make my way upstairs. The hallway is quiet, bathed in the subtle gleam of antique lamps. I find her on the open balcony door.
She’s standing in the halo of the moon, back turned to me, the silver light tracing the soft curve of her dress, emphasizing the delicate line of her body beneath. I swallow and step forward.
Then, she speaks. Her voice, soft and laced with a hint of melancholy, floats across the night air.
"Claire?"
She turns, a flicker of surprise crossing her features before a subtle smile touches her lips. "Bobby. Dinner's over already?"
Not wanting to add to any more confusion, I fight the urge to sit her down and confess my feelings for her.
"I left early,” I manage, my voice gruffer than intended. "Where have you been all day?"
She raises her eyebrows. “Is that a boyfriend demanding to know the whereabouts of his girl, or just Bobby worried about his friend?”
Is there a difference at this point? We said we’d let each other know if we were going outside of the mansion.
An awkward silence settles between us, thick with tension. I clench and unclench my fists, frustration simmering beneath the surface.
She’s right, though. She did tell me she was with Mike and that should be enough. I calm down, realizing that there was a tinge of possessiveness in my tone. I need to understand that Claire isn't mine… right? But the kisses would tell me otherwise.
Ugh. The questions!
"It’s the ‘your fake boyfriend is annoyed you left him having to explain to a horde of people that you’re just taking a day off in town without him.’ "
She blinks at me, a tinge of confusion crossing her features.
"The least you could do is give me more than a ‘I’m in town with Mike’ response,” I grunt.
“I’m sorry.”
She takes a cautious step towards me, but I turn away quickly, my gaze drifting towards the distant horizon.
"So, how was your day?"
She hesitates, her voice vulnerable. “All I could do was think about last night.”
"Nothing happened last night," I blurt out.
My gaze locks with hers, the air crackling with unspoken thoughts about our feelings. There's a question in her eyes, a flicker of something I can't quite decipher.
"I know that, I think," she postulates.
Before we continue, sharp clicks of heels fill the air.
"Claire? Bob? You in there?"
The trite, impatient voice belongs to Fiona. A chorus of murmurs that follows proves that she’s not alone.
I take a look at Claire, and she winces. I nod in understanding. Fiona is the kind of trouble anyone would want to avoid.
Fiona's voice comes again, this time a little more insistent. "Claire, it’s tradition that everyone in this house comes down for dinner. We’re worried you’re sick or something."
A chorus of other voices fills the air, asking if Claire’s okay and saying they just want to see her. Even a deaf man can hear the lack of sincerity in the tone of Fiona and her minions.
“Wanna escape?” I mouth to Claire.
“How?”
I glance around the room desperately, searching for an escape route. My eyes dart toward the open patio doors leading to the grounds below. I point at the doors, and then at the bed sheets, indicating my plan.
She hesitates for a moment, but then nods curtly in silent agreement to follow my plan. I begin to pull the sheets together, tying them tightly.
"Okay," I say after a few minutes. I keep my voice steady despite the nervous flutter in my stomach. "I've tied the sheets as securely as I can. It should hold for us to climb down from the first story window."
She peers over the ledge, her eyes widening at the drop. "Are you sure about this?"
"We don't have much choice," I respond, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "I'll go first to make sure it's safe. Then I'll talk you through it."
Gripping the makeshift rope tightly, I ease myself out the window. The knotted sheets strain under my weight as I slowly descend, my heart pounding. After what feels like an eternity, my feet touch solid ground.
"Alright, your turn," I call up softly. "Just take it slow and steady."
She takes a deep breath, then begins her descent. I position myself beneath her, ready to catch her if needed. As she nears the bottom, her grip slips, and she gasps.
I lunge forward, managing to break her fall. We tumble to the ground together, our bodies tangled. For a moment, we lie there, our bodies snug against each other as her weight shifts on mine, the heat of her skin searing through my clothes, sending an unexpected jolt of electricity through my veins.
I can smell the familiar scent of lavender on her, and something else uniquely Claire. The world seems to shrink down to just the two of us, the frantic pounding on the door now a distant melody in the background.
Resisting every urge to keep her in my arms, I help her to her feet.
"You okay?" I step back, my heart thumping against my ribs.
She straightens her dress, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Yeah, I'm fine."
Her voice is slightly breathless as she glances back up, then towards me. Her face is spread in a mischievous grin that makes her look so beautiful under the moonlight.
Our eyes meet, and a knowing look passes between us. The tension of the escape melts away, replaced by a different kind of tension altogether.
"Nice catch," she whispers, her breath warm against my ear.
"We should keep moving," I say, but there's a new lightness in my tone.
"Do you think Fiona's still knocking?"
"Probably," I chuckle. “She’ll probably lay a sleeping bag down and camp out in front of our door all night.”
"Yeah, right! More like, run and get the spare key," Claire adds.
"Why don't you wanna go to dinner?"
Her eyes fill with sorrow. "It's Carter History night," she reveals softly. "This is why Fiona insists on bringing me out. It’s just another way to talk about my parents and rile me up.”
I nod in understanding. Reliving painful chapters every year must be excruciating.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know."
She shakes her head, forcing a gentle smile. "It's not your fault. You actually helped me escape."
"So now what?"
Claire takes a deep breath, her eyes searching mine. "I want to show you something," her voice gaining a hint of confidence. "Follow me."
She turns and starts walking towards the back of the mansion and I follow her through the pristine gardens. The whole situation feels surreal, sneaking around the grounds of Claire's childhood home like two teenagers forbiddingly in love. I can't help but stifle a laugh at the absurdity of it all.
We tiptoe past a few outbuildings, the moonlight casting long shadows across the landscape. Suddenly, Claire stops, holding a finger to her lips in a silent command for me to be quiet. I strain my ears, hearing the faint sound of voices coming from somewhere up ahead.
Two security guards patrol the main house, their flashlights occasionally cutting through the darkness. We duck behind a large hedge, waiting for them to pass. I feel like I'm in a spy movie, only instead of stealing state secrets, we're sneaking off to look at paintings. Call it ‘Mission Impossible: Art Gallery Edition.’
After what feels like an eternity, the voices fade away and we continue our journey. Claire eventually leads me to a large clearing nestled amongst the trees. In the center of the clearing, there’s a quaint, two-story cottage.
Claire walks up to the front door, reaches for the doorknob, her hand hesitating for a moment before turning it. The door swings open with a soft creak, revealing a dimly lit interior. She steps inside, gesturing to me to follow.
I enter the cottage, my eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness. She pulls a lever, and lights illuminate the space. The walls are adorned with massive paintings–vibrant landscapes, serene portraits, and abstract expressions bursting with color.
"Wow," I breathe, awestruck.
Claire smiles faintly. "Used to be my mom's studio. She used to spend hours here, sometimes days."
"These are amazing." I walk closer to one of the landscapes displaying a rolling field bathed in the golden light of sunset. "She was incredibly talented."
She nods, a flicker of sadness crossing her features. "She was. Art was her passion, her escape. This place became my escape later as a kid."
We slowly make our way through the dusty room. I brush my fingers along the canvas of a portrait, the texture rough beneath my fingertips.
"Did you paint, too?" I ask, turning towards her.
"As a kid," a wistful smile plays on her lips. "I used to come here with her all the time. She'd set me up with my own paints and brushes, and we'd spend hours creating together."
She gestures towards a corner of the room where a group of paintings are lined across the floor. “Those are mine. I stopped painting at sixteen.”
I walk up and pull a set of paintings from beneath a dusty sheet. One has Gramps on a horse. Another one features the great white Carter mansion on a hill. Another is a man dressed in all black with a black umbrella standing in the storm.
“Why did you stop?”
“Because my painting reminds the family too much of my mother.”
My heart aches for her, for the little girl who used to find solace in creating art alongside her mother. Without thinking, I reach out and place a hand on her shoulder, offering silent comfort. She turns towards me, her eyes seeking mine for hope and connection. Then she smiles and wraps an arm around my waist. At this moment, it feels like flowers are blooming in my heart.