10. The Shape Of A Secret
ten
The Shape Of A Secret
Nora
"Son of a bitch," I whisper to myself as I slice the silver paring knife through the thick, muddy skin of a russet potato with a wet thwack.
The blade bites deep into the wooden cutting board beneath, the vibration rattling straight up my forearm and jarring my elbow.
I yank the metal free, drag the edge across the remaining skin, and slash through the flesh again. Cubes of starchy white potato tumble wildly across the counter, a few bouncing off the Formica and clattering onto the linoleum floor.
I don't stop to pick them up before I grab another one from the brown paper sack.
"The arrogant, blind, thick-headed mechanic," I mutter to the empty kitchen air, my voice hissing over the steady hum of the old refrigerator.
Another thwack.
"How dare he?" I ask the window screen. "Who the hell does he think he is?"
Another thwack.
"He knows absolutely nothing about me," I say, my breath hitching as I slide the blade dangerously close to my thumb. "Not a single damn thing. Yet he stands on my porch and spews that disgusting, arrogant bullshit."
I toss the mutilated pieces into a large ceramic bowl. The water inside sloshes over the rim, soaking into the front of my gray cardigan, but I barely spare it a thought.
"A real estate flip," I mimic, my tone bitter and dripping with venom. "He thinks I'm a vulture. He thinks I'm some corporate parasite looking to cash a check on his mother's dirt."
Thwack.
"I'm trying to cherish it," I whisper fiercely, the knife slicing through a thick carrot now, orange coins scattering like shrapnel. "I'm trying to keep a monster from getting to it. I'm trying to keep Clara's grave from becoming a hotel parking lot."
I'm trying to keep the only place I still get to be her mother.
I stare at the blade, my vision blurring slightly with a fresh, hot surge of angry tears. I wipe my face brutally with the sleeve of my sweater, leaving a smear of dirt on my cheek.
"I should let him sell it," I tell the cutting board. "I should let Stanley bring the bulldozers. Let's see how much his precious pride is worth when the concrete mixers show up."
Thwack.
"No," I correct myself instantly, my knuckles turning white around the wooden handle. "No, because it isn't about him. It was never about him. He's just an obstacle. A giant, stubborn, calloused obstacle who looks at me like I'm trash."
"Nora."
A warm, heavy hand settles firmly onto my left shoulder and distracts me.
I gasp, my entire body violently jolting. The knife slips, the sharp tip grazing the side of my index finger before embedding itself half an inch into the wood. I freeze, my chest heaving, and my pulse jumping wildly.
I turn to see Gran Iris standing directly behind me. Her blue eyes are filled with a heavy, patient look that cuts right through the manic energy vibrating in the small kitchen.
"That is enough, sweetheart," Gran says.
She gently reaches down, her fingers wrapping around my wrist. She applies a firm, unyielding pressure until my fingers slowly unlock, letting her slide the knife out of my grip.
She sets it out of reach on the back of the stove.
"You need to calm down before you take your own finger off. "
I turn around to face her, my arms crossing tightly over my damp chest, my breathing ragged. "You are saying that because you don't understand, Gran. You didn't hear him."
Gran Iris looks at me, her expression soft but completely unmovable. She leans her hip against the counter, crossing her own arms. "Then make me understand, Nora. Tell me what he said."
"The stubborn mule has the mind to think I'm a thief," I burst out, gesturing wildly toward the window that faces the eastern property line.
"A thief?" Gran murmurs, her brow furrowing slightly.
"He thinks the only reason I want to purchase that land is so I can flip it over to the highest bidder. He thinks I'm trying to hustle him for a profit."
Gran Iris blinks, her dark eyebrows rushing together. For a second, the patient matriarch vanishes, replaced by a woman genuinely taken aback. "He can't possibly mean that."
"He does," I say, a harsh, breathless laugh escaping my lips. "He stated it without mincing a single word, Gran. There is no mistake."
Gran lets out a long heavy sigh that deflates her shoulders. She looks down at the scattered potato peels on the counter, her fingers tracing the edge of the ceramic bowl. "Does Jackson know about Clara, Nora?"
"No," I snap instantly. "Of course he doesn't."
"Why haven't you told him?"
"Why would I tell him anything about that?
" I demand, my voice cracking with all the emotions I am trying desperately to suppress.
"It is my business. It is our family's grief.
He is a stranger who happens to own the dirt next door.
I am not going to hand him the most broken piece of my life just so he can use it as leverage. "
Gran nods slowly, her gaze returning to my face. "Then you have your answer, sweetheart. That is exactly why he thinks you want to flip the land. He is operating in the dark. To a man like Jackson Rowe, a city girl showing up with a blank check usually means a corporate scam."
"I don't care what he thinks," I lie, my chin trembling. "But that isn't even the worst of it. Is the land also the reason he's stalking me?"
Gran Iris stops moving and her eyes narrow. "Stalking you?"
"Yes," I say, my hands waving through the air as the indignation bubbles back to the surface. "He had the absolute nerve to ask me why I was meeting with Stanley. He demanded to know why we were sitting in a booth together, like it is any of his business who I have coffee with."
Gran clears her throat. The heavy, worried look on her face suddenly shifts, and a tiny, slow, incredibly frustrating smile begins to curve the corners of her lips.
I stop short and stare at her, my hands dropping back to my sides. The sudden switch from shared anger to whatever expression she is making right now makes my blood run hot for an entirely different reason.
"Why are you smiling at me like that?" I ask, my voice narrowing into a suspicious point.
Gran Iris doesn't answer immediately. She reaches out, grabs my hand, and pulls me toward the small wooden kitchen table.
She presses down on my shoulders until I sink into one of the mismatched chairs, then she slides into the seat directly opposite me. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, her eyes glittering with a sharp, maternal intuition that I have never been able to hide from.
"Nora," Gran says softly. "Is there something between you and Margaret's boy that I don't know about?"
My throat hitches. I force my face to go completely blank, pulling my professional mask down over my features like a visor. "What would be between us? All we have is a boundary dispute."
"You are a terrible liar, Nora Beckett," Gran says pointedly.
"Gran…"
"You always have been. You wouldn't be this worked up, this completely unhinged over a business insult, if there wasn't something deeper going on under the surface. A man like Jackson Rowe doesn't get under your skin this badly unless you let him inside first."
"There is nothing," I insist, my voice tight. "He is just an incredibly frustrating, rude individual who happened to see me through a window."
Gran Iris lets out a soft, knowing chuckle. "Do you remember when you were eight years old, and you broke your mother's blue porcelain vase?"
I blink, thrown off by the sudden derailment. "What?"
"You came into the kitchen, your face completely white, your posture stiff as a board," Gran says, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"You told me a stray cat had climbed through the window and knocked it over.
You were so furious at the imaginary cat, you cried for an hour. That was lie number one."
"Gran, that was over two decades ago…"
"And then there was the time you were sixteen," Gran continues, completely ignoring my interruption.
"You claimed you stayed late at the library to study geometry, but you had pine needles in your hair and your shirt was inside out.
You yelled at me for twenty minutes about how oppressive the school system was because I asked how the test went. Lie number two."
"I don't see how this is relevant…"
"Lie number three was your university application," she says, her tone softening but remaining relentless. "You told your father you wanted to go to Houston because of the historic preservation program. But you didn't look at the buildings once, Nora. You looked at the highway out of Galveston..."
"Gran, please," I say, my hands tightening on the edge of the wooden table.
"And then there was your master's thesis," she murmurs.
"You told us you stayed in the studio for three days straight because the blueprints were complicated.
But when I brought you groceries, your eyes looked exactly like they look right now.
Ruined. Scraped raw. You were hiding what Stanley did to you behind a wall of work. Lie number four."
I throw my arms up into the air, letting them drop heavily onto the tabletop. "Stop. Okay? Stop. You made your point. You know me."
Gran Iris leans back in her chair, a look of quiet, triumphant satisfaction settling onto her face. "I do. I carried your mother, and I helped raise you. Now, tell me what is actually going on between you and Jackson."
I look down at my lap. The starchy potato residue is drying on my skin, tight and chalky. I look out the window, where the first hint of evening twilight is beginning to paint the sky in deep shades of violet and bruised blue. The unspoken stakes are suffocating.
"Do you remember..." I start, my voice barely audible over the ticking clock on the wall. "Do you remember when I told you that I ran into Stanley several weeks ago in Houston? At that networking mixer?"
"I remember," Gran says, her posture straightening instantly, all humor vanishing from her face.