Chapter 7 #2
A back hall that leads to a laundry room is big enough to be its own apartment.
Every doorway opens up to another piece of family history.
Framed photographs of children in Halloween costumes.
A portrait of whom I assume is Robert Colley glowers down over the library fireplace with a dashing look that suggests he had absolutely stabbed someone at sea.
A collection of old maps. A case of strange artifacts that could have come from anywhere in the world and probably did.
I stop in front of a faded oil painting of a ship riding out a storm. “Was that his?”
Walker comes to stand beside me. “Supposedly.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Half the things in this house come with a story attached. Dad believes all of them. I believe about sixty percent.”
Tom’s voice floats in from behind us. “It’s seventy, if you could find the silver tucked in the walls.”
I turn slowly. “There is silver in the walls?”
Tom winks. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
I look at Walker. “Your father is impossible.”
“He really is.”
“I’m charming,” Tom calls over his shoulder as he heads back into the kitchen.
Walker leads me upstairs, though at a pace that would have embarrassed a snail. I dislike needing to stop halfway to catch my breath. He doesn’t comment on it. He only stays beside me, one hand hovering near the small of my back, not touching unless I need him.
That silent respect is becoming dangerous.
The guest room he shows me to sits at the front of the house and overlooks the drive lined with those amazing oaks.
It’s airy and feminine without being fussy, done in pale green and cream with a carved bed and an old quilt folded at the foot.
Fresh flowers are on the dresser. Real flowers, just like downstairs, and not arranged so much as gathered with affection.
I walk further into the room and turn slowly. “This is beautiful.”
Walker sets my bag down beside the dresser. “It was my oldest sister’s room and now a guest room. Dad put fresh sheets on the bed and gave it a good cleaning.”
I look at the flowers. “Did he pick these too?”
His ears turn pink. Interesting.
“Yeah,” he says. “I asked him to.”
“For me?”
“It seemed like the thing to do. My mom always had fresh flowers for guests.”
No woman in my life had ever warned me about a quiet man who kept bees and accidentally fake proposed would make sure I’d have handpicked flowers not once, but twice, and then act as if it meant nothing. He’d taken the flowers he’d given me at my apartment down to the store for Poppy to enjoy.
I don’t know what to do with that.
“They’re lovely,” I tell him, because it’s true and I appreciate his thoughtfulness.
His throat moves. “Good.”
The room goes quiet then. Too quiet. Big room.
Smaller air somehow. Maybe he’s just so big he takes up more oxygen than most. He’s standing by the door, all broad shoulders and sun-browned skin and watchful blue eyes.
Here in his sister’s childhood room, I fight to hold back a thousand thoughts that have no business taking shape.
I break eye contact first. “Where are my parents staying?”
That question brings the world back into sharp focus.
“The room across the hall. I thought you would want them close but not too close.”
That amount of thoughtfulness does not help my struggle to stay properly unfazed with him. “You planned this all very quickly.”
One brow raises like he has no idea what to do with that compliment. “We don’t have much time. Dad did most of it.”
We.
It shouldn’t have mattered that he said “we” instead of “you.” Like we’re in this together. As if he’s just as invested in my situation as I am.
I move to the window and look down at the drive, buying myself a second. “You know they’re going to ask questions.”
“They can ask.”
“They will expect us to act…” I turn back toward him. “Engaged.”
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe and crosses his arms. “Then I guess we should decide what that looks like.”
My mind goes blank. I have thought about getting through this. About seeing my parents again. About how to survive a visit that will dredge up ten years of hurt. I have not let myself think about the details of pretending to be with Walker Colley.
“What are people on this island going to say?”
“They’ll say whatever Poppy tells them to say.”
That’s true enough to make me laugh. His expression flickers at the sound, and his gaze goes to my mouth. A look crosses his face so quickly I might have imagined it. Might have. But I didn’t. Suddenly, I’m very warm.
“You know, I probably should rest,” I say before that moment can become anything.
He nods. “I’ll be going. You want me to unpack anything first?”
“No. I’ve got it.”
A beat.
Then, because he has been decent and because I’m trying very hard not to see things that aren’t there, I bring us back to the real reason I’m here. “Thank you for agreeing to go along with this. For bringing me here. For the flowers. For…all of this.”
Walker stands with his hand on the doorknob, the same calm, direct manner I’m getting used to. “You don’t have to thank me every five minutes.”
“That wasn’t five minutes.”
“The day is young.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re impossible too.”
His mouth tilts. “I learned from the best.”
I sink carefully onto the edge of the bed. Every bone in my body approves of the decision. A sigh of pleasure may have escaped my mouth.
“If you need anything, shout. Dad will hear you if I don’t.”
“I believe that.”
His smile deepens a fraction. “Yeah.”
He steps out and pulls the door nearly closed behind him, leaving me with the flowers, the gorgeous soft quilt, and the strange, unsettling comfort of knowing I’m not alone in the house. That’s a feeling I’d weaned myself off of.
I lie back slowly, my ribs protesting and then easing once I find the right position. The ceiling above me is painted a pale blue. Somewhere downstairs I hear Tom talking, his voice carrying through the old house. I can’t make out the words, only the tone. Warm. Familiar. Home. Just not my home.
My own home had never sounded this way. That thought should make me sad. Instead, it makes me angry.
At my father. At time. At how quickly my heart jumped at one call from my mother after ten years of nothing. At how much power they still have to bruise something inside me.
And maybe, if I’m honest, I’m angry at how easy it would be to sink into this place. Into its comfort. Into the simple kindness of a man who did not ask for anything back when he gave it.
That’s the real problem. Not the fake engagement. Not the lies. The risk of forgetting that none of this is real. I turn my head and look at the vase of flowers on the dresser.
Flowers from a man who does not waste words when a nod will do. A room readied without hesitation. A father who fussed and laughed and made space as if I had every right to be here.
No.
I close my eyes.
I will not get carried away by a pretty house and a kind family and a man with patient hands. I’m here to survive my parents’ visit. That’s all this is.
Yawning as sleep pulls at me, one thought slips through no matter how hard I push back against it. I don’t feel alone.