Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Holt
“I’m absolutely stuffed,” Blaire says.
She rests her head against the side of the leather armchair. Her dark hair splays against the material as she closes her eyes and sighs happily.
I finish the rest of my manicotti and then place the empty container on the coffee table between us. The meal was excellent, but the conversation was even better. Who knew that discussing criminal litigation over dinner could be so fun?
I pick up my wine and settle back on the sofa. Blaire looks right at home with her legs curled up under her. There’s a peace on her face—a look of pure contentment—that’s as lovely, or even lovelier, than when she’s smiling or laughing.
The cool, outside air breezes in through the open French doors. It’s offset by the soft warmth of the electric fireplace next to my companion.
“I could fall asleep right here,” she says, opening her eyes again.
“Do it then.”
She smiles a sleepy smile. “I’ve already been rude once today.”
The fireplace crackles next to her as she reaches over and picks up her wine glass. She takes a long sip and gazes around the room filled with some of my favorite items.
“This is my favorite room in your house,” she says. “Well, this is my favorite of the rooms I’ve seen so far. I’m not sure how many others there are.”
“This happens to be my favorite room as well. And I’ve seen all of them.”
She grins at my joke. “What makes it your favorite?”
“I don’t know. I think it just represents all the things I hoped this house would feel like when I bought it.”
“Which is …?”
I blow out a breath and take a sip of my wine.
Gazing around the room, I try to figure out why it’s my favorite part of the property. I’ve wondered this a number of times and never boiled it down to a simple answer.
“It has a good vibe,” I say, figuring that’s a good enough answer. But I should’ve known better.
Blaire presses her lips together. “Good try.”
“What do you mean good try?”
“I mean, that answer is insufficient.”
I laugh. “Remember that whole conversation we had earlier about you not making me feel like I’m at work?”
“Remember that whole conversation when you told me you wanted me to feel like we’re friends?” She cocks a brow. “So answer my question. Why is this room your favorite?”
I set my glass back down and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
“This room reminds me of my grandmother’s library when I was a little boy.
It had tray ceilings and these grand bookcases that she had stuffed with books.
I’d stand in front of them and just revel in the colors of the spines.
And she had this yellow birdcage with two finches with little orange faces. ”
Blaire’s face softens. “That sounds wonderful.”
“It was. She was such a powerhouse and emitted this energy that just captured you when you got close to her. It was crazy. But then you stepped into her house, and it … it had this calmness. This tranquility, I guess. As though she left all the craziness of the world at the end of the driveway.”
“What was she like?”
I try to imagine summing up my grandmother in an easy word or phrase. The idea is almost hysterical.
She was a firecracker. The best adventurer. The best homemade pie baker and the dirtiest joke teller I’ve ever met. It’s impossible to condense her life and all that she was into one statement.
“Well, she was a lot of things,” I say slowly.
“She owned a bookstore and managed a bank. But then she got into real estate after her father died, and she inherited a lot of money.” I stand and stretch my arms over my head.
“She bought houses and sold them. She had a huge rental portfolio. One day, she broke down on the outside of town, and a homeless man changed her tire. It changed something in her. Soon after, she started a charity in town called Shelters for Savannah and donated all of her rentals to the cause.”
“Wow.” Blaire’s eyes go wide. “You meant it when you called her a powerhouse.”
I nod. “She was generous and kind, but make no mistake about it, she wasn’t weak. And when anyone misjudged her, she made them regret it.”
I walk around the sofa to burn some energy that showed up out of nowhere. Blaire watches me but doesn’t move except to pull her legs up under her again.
“What was her name?” she asks.
“Annabelle Hickman. She was my mother’s mother.”
“This room is your ode to Annabelle.”
My heart tugs at the sound of her name. “It is, I guess.”
“May I ask what happened to her?”
“She went in for a routine surgery and died on the table. There was a heart problem that went undetected.” I grip the back of the sofa. “Her husband, my grandfather, died before I was born.”
Blaire grips the armrest. Her lips turn down. “I’m sure she’s very proud of you. You know that, right?”
I give her a shrug in lieu of words because the truth is, I hope she would be proud of me. She always said her grandchildren were her most important contributions to the world. I’d hate to think she’d be disappointed in the life I’ve chosen.
But I don’t say that.
Blaire seems to understand my need not to elaborate beyond the physical gesture.
She takes a long breath. “You still have your dad’s parents, right?”
“We have Gramps. Gramma passed away a few years ago.”
I walk around the sofa and sit down again.
The breeze kicks up and rocks the French doors back and forth. They somehow swing in time with the crackling of the fire.
“What about you?” I ask.
“I just have my nana.”
She shrugs as if it’s no big deal. I’d believe it, too, if there wasn’t a brief shot of pain in her beautiful blue eyes.
“You’ve told me a little about her,” I say. “She sounds like a powerhouse too.”
“Oh, most definitely. She had to be to put up with us like she has—especially Peck and Machlan. She’s practically raised them.”
“Who is Peck?”
“My cousin. His mother is a real gem,” she says in disgust. “But Nana raised Mach too because …” She takes a deep breath and holds it for a long couple of seconds before blowing it out. “Our parents died in a boating accident many years ago. Machlan was still a teenager.”
My heart breaks at the look on her face. Not because it’s sad, but because it’s trying really hard not to be.
I wonder if she’s always this buttoned up about it, or if she allows herself to display the pain she has to be feeling. Losing your parents? Shit. I don’t know how I’d survive. But I do know I’d be unable to hold it together like that.
“I’m sorry, Blaire.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Tell me about them.”
A shadow falls across her face. The vaguest grin touches her lips as she stares out the French doors. “They were amazing,” she says softly. “The backbone of our family. They took care of us—all of us. My brothers and me. Nana. Peck. Any kid we’d drag over to the house who needed a meal or shoes.”
I sit quietly and watch her wrestle with her memories. A softness settles over her face, her posture relaxing too, before she seems to catch herself.
She stands and stretches before bending over to pick up our food containers.
I jump to my feet. “What are you doing?” I take the two white boxes away from her.
“I’m trying to pick up our mess.”
Her eyes plead with me to go along with her redirection. Even though I want to press for more—to see more of her in an unguarded, or less guarded, state—I don’t. But I don’t give her the boxes back either.
“I’ll do that,” I tell her.
“Come on, Holt. Let me help.”
“You’re my guest.”
“It’s not going to hurt to let me pick up my trash, for crying out loud.”
“For crying out loud,” I say, mocking her. “You really have a problem not getting your way, don’t you?”
She starts to object and then stops. A laugh topples past her lips. “Yes. I do.”
“Well, good. That will make this all the more fun.”
I walk a wide berth around her and head to the kitchen. Her feet slap against the hardwood as she chases me through the living room and down the hallway into the kitchen.
“This isn’t how this works,” she says, a laugh in her voice.
I toss the containers into the trash can. “Is it not?”
“No.” She brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “You’re supposed to let me have my way. I’m the guest. That’s how it works.”
“Not here, pretty girl.”
Her cheeks flush the faintest shade of pink as she gazes up at me. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
“That I am.” I dip my head toward her as I walk around her again. I’m too close to kissing her already and need to put a bit of distance between us. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.” Her frustration at not getting kissed is evident. “What are you doing?”
“Working,” I say as I place our tea glasses from earlier into the dishwasher. “You can hang out by the pool. You can’t see it very well now, but the pool is pretty damn nice.”
“It won’t be weird for you to have me here when you aren’t?”
I grin to myself. “I don’t know. Are you going to rob me?”
“No,” she exclaims.
“Are you going to go through my underwear drawer?”
“Wasn’t on the agenda.”
“Then I guess it won’t be weird.”
She smacks me on the shoulder as she rounds the island. “I might go down and see the cathedral you were telling me about tomorrow afternoon. I looked it up while I was killing time not coming here this evening.”
“You were, were you?”
She nods, leaning her forearms against the countertop. “It looks like one of those places that people will ask you about after they learn you were here. It’ll make me look like a good little tourist.”
I lean my forearms against the countertop too. “You might be the worst tourist in the history of tourism.”
“Is that right?”
“Maybe. I better meet you down there and make sure you do all the right things. Just to be safe.”
Her eyes light up. “I’ll probably be there around one.”
“I can probably be there around one too.”
“Cool.”
“Cool,” I say back, making her laugh.
We watch each other in an easy comfortability. It’s an odd sensation to feel this relaxed around someone I just met. Especially here.
“What?” she asks.
“What, what?”