Chapter 3 #2
The two finally look up and spot Grace, Renata, and Crew now standing at the edge of the table. They stand, the younger man jumping to his feet, while Crew’s father takes a little longer and grunts quietly as he lifts himself out of his chair.
“Boys, this is Grace,” Renata says, walking to what must be her seat at the left hand. “Grace, this is my husband, Clint.” She places a hand on Clint’s shoulder, then gestures to the other man. “And my youngest, Cooper.”
Grace smiles, making a point to lock eyes with both of them for a brief second and nodding. “So nice to meet you both,” Grace says, then does a quick scan across the room. “You have a lovely home. I appreciate you welcoming me into it.”
“Aren’t you sweet,” Renata says, squeezing Clint’s shoulder. “Isn’t she sweet?”
He gives his wife a lovingly amused glance before turning back to Grace with a quick nod. “It’s a pleasure to have you, Grace. Have a seat, now. Ronnie’s just about done with lunch.”
Grace nods, walking up to the seat at Clint’s right and pulling out the chair. She doesn’t notice until he’s stepped into her space that Crew is right behind her. She has to crane her neck to look up at him as he stares downward, eyebrow kinked.
“That’s my seat.”
From across the table, Cooper barks out a laugh. “As if you ever eat in here.”
Crew doesn’t look at his little brother as he says through hard-lined lips, “Well, I’m eatin’ in here now, aren’t I?” He points to the vacant place setting a seat down. “You can sit there.”
The more time she spends in his presence, the more Grace is beginning to understand this man is a walking contradiction.
Accommodating but also impatient, like he was on the drive, and now, boldfaced rude but also polite, evidenced by the way he pulls out the chair next to his and gestures for her to sit in it.
When she does, he even goes out of his way to tuck her into the table.
She feels something akin to whiplash with how quickly he seems to switch between hot and cold.
Once everyone is seated, a quiet settles—not uncomfortable, but appraising.
Grace can feel them all looking at her, even if they aren’t doing so with their eyes.
The thought makes her gaze drift down to her jeans, insecurity rearing its ugly head as she looks at the stubborn coffee stain on her left thigh and the ever-expanding hole above her right knee.
She’s generally pretty diligent about showering—even when she lived at Braxton and only had hot water once or twice a week—but compared to the cozy, clean scent that seems to pump through the air vents of this home, she can’t help but wonder if, even after three months away, she still reeks of manure.
The panic settling under her skin is interrupted by the sound of two French doors swinging open.
An apron-clad woman holding a giant platter emerges, smiling warmly at everyone as she walks toward the middle of the table.
Behind her, two men come out holding more ornate-looking vats, and they all begin to set them down gently on the runner that spans the long table.
Grace sits up a little straighter and observes a tray of enchiladas topped with bubbly melted cheese, beans, and rice bespeckled with little bits of tomato and onion.
The plate of sopapillas, fried tortillas dusted in cinnamon sugar and covered in honey, sits toward the end nearest to Clint, and the warm, sweet scent rolling off them has Grace almost licking her lips in anticipation.
“Thanks, Ronnie,” Clint rasps, a white porcelain coffee cup at his lips. His eyes scan the plate and the steam emanating from the various dishes. “Smells good.”
Ronnie, who can’t be a millimeter over five feet tall, looks more like a kindergarten teacher than a chef.
Her curly hair is tied in an artfully messy bun atop her head, and bright, colorful flowers are scattered over every inch of her apron.
She returns to the doors that lead to the kitchen, claps her hands together, and looks around the room with the same smile on her lips.
Her journey comes to a halt as her eyes land on Crew, lingering for a brief second before moving to Grace.
“As I live and breathe,” she says, placing a hand at her hip.
“Is this what it takes for you to come to lunch, Crew Lee? A pretty girlfriend to sit next to?”
Grace’s eyes widen, and beside her, Crew chokes on a sip of water. Renata lets out a barking laugh from across the table.
“Rons, you know Crew doesn’t date,” Cooper says. “He’d actually have to talk to a woman to do that.”
Crew’s head swings, and he shoots Cooper a look that says a thousand words, a classic older-brother scowl that has Cooper raising his hands in mock surrender with an equally classic cheeky, little-brother smirk.
“This is Grace,” Renata says. “She’s here to see if she might be a good fit to replace Gary.”
Ronnie nods, then smiles at Grace. “My apologies, honey,” she says, shrugging. “Thought I might be witnessin’ a miracle.”
“All right,” Crew huffs out, setting his hands on the table and folding his lips into a line. He’s staring straight ahead at the food as he says tightly, “Thank you for the meal, Veronika. I’m sure it’ll be delicious, as always.”
Ronnie gives him an affectionate eye roll and says, “Y’all, enjoy. Holler if you need anything,” before leaving the dining room.
Hands begin to reach inward to grab the platters, spoon food onto plates, and then pass to the right, almost like clockwork.
They don’t even look at the dishes as they’re passed, as though this is a practiced, expected motion they’ve grown used to after hundreds of meals eaten together.
Grace is impressed by the fluidity and ease of it all, but part of her can’t help but feel a tinge of sadness.
To know one another so well they don’t have to wonder what someone’s next move may be—she’s never known that kind of intimacy. With family, or otherwise.
Cooper passes her the enchiladas, and Grace nods her thanks as she accepts.
On and on the carousel of food moves until she’s gotten a little bit of everything.
When the first bite of the freshly made enchiladas and delectably savory refried beans hits her tongue, tears almost sprout in her eyes.
It’s already the best meal she’s ever eaten.
No contest. A goblet—likely made of the finest glass south of the Mason-Dixon Line—filled with ice water sits before her, and as Grace reaches for it, Renata’s voice cuts through the low hum of dining and the clink of utensils striking plates.
“So, Grace—I understand you worked at Braxton with Maryann and trained horses, but that’s about the extent of my knowledge. How long were you there?”
The morsel of food in Grace’s mouth suddenly tastes slightly sour at the thought. She swallows it, dabs her mouth with the cloth napkin from her lap, and says, “A little over nine years, ma’am.”
“Sweetheart, I know you were raised in Texas, and from what I can see, probably don’t have a disrespectful bone in your body,” Renata says, then holds out a hand. “But please stop callin’ me ma’am. Renata’s just fine. You’re making me feel like a senior citizen.”
“If the orthopedic shoe fits,” Cooper says under his breath.
Renata doesn’t look at him but snaps a finger in his direction and responds, “Bite your tongue, Cooper Matthew.” Clint uses his coffee cup to hide his smile, and a quiet snort sounds from where Crew sits.
“Anyway,” Renata continues. “Nine years. My word, that’s quite a long time for someone so— Actually, I don’t think I ever asked: How old are you?”
Grace lops a piece of enchilada off with the side of her fork and says, “Twenty-five, ma’a—” She stops herself just in time, snapping her mouth closed before the word is spoken in full. “I’m twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five,” Renata parrots, then looks at Grace curiously for too long a moment. Grace knows she’s connecting the dots, doing the mental math and figuring out in real time that Grace was a child when she started working at Braxton. “So, you were, what? Sixteen, when—”
“Honey,” Clint interrupts, gently covering his wife’s hand with his own. “Let’s not give her the third degree while she’s eating her lunch.”
Renata and Clint share a look, and an unspoken conversation happens between them in the span of seconds. Renata gives him a soft, quick nod and turns back to Grace. “I’m sorry, Grace. You’ll learn soon enough that I’m notoriously nosy.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Grace counters, but doesn’t supply anything else. She glances at Clint, overwhelmed with gratitude that he rescued her from that line of questioning. She smiles, and he gives her a wink before returning to his meal.
“Surprised you’re still here,” Crew grumbles from where he sits, and Grace looks over to see him eyeing his brother across the table. “Is showing up for work not a requirement at your job?”
Cooper’s fork stops on the way to his mouth, and he flashes Crew a wide, sardonic grin before taking the bite. Muffled by the food he’s still chewing, he replies, “I’m on sabbatical.”
Crew huffs. “Didn’t know they let interns take sabbaticals.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about corporate America, brother. It’s a brave new world out there. Just wait until you learn about internet stipends and on-site masseuses.”
“Cooper,” Clint cuts in. His stare isn’t unkind, but it isn’t soft, either. He seems to be the type of father who offers little quarter to his children, because there’s a glint, a sharpness in his eyes that has Cooper sitting up straighter in his chair.
“I didn’t find it especially fair that I was getting coffee and picking up dry cleaning for executives when I was promised actual finance experience, so I quit. I’ve decided to take my long-awaited gap year.”