Chapter 3 #2
But below the cheerful surface? There’s a profound emptiness, like the inky blackness of outer space—and it’s been there for longer than I care to admit. I’ve been floating, untethered, unable to bump up against anything tangible to ground me.
My thoughts drift back to the image of me peering up at Miles, then to the light brush of his fingers on my arm.
It had felt so different with him compared to Fletcher.
Even in the beginning, Fletcher had never given me that warm, buzzy feeling.
He’d fit into my world. Or my parents’ world, at least. But Miles…
Water overflows from the kettle, splashing into the sink. I gasp, snapping back to the present. Shaking my head, I pour out the excess and dry everything off with a dish towel.
No. I’m imagining things. There was nothing between me and Miles yesterday.
I’m grasping at straws—flustered by his flirty attention and the thigh tattoo peeking out from under his gym shorts.
Okay, so he’s incredibly sexy. But he’s not my usual type.
I tend to go for buttoned-up prep-school guys—the ones who’ve always been in my orbit.
Men who keep their dress shoes polished and know how to order expensive wine.
That’s the kind of guy I always expected would be right for me, anyway. A man who would effortlessly impress my parents, hold his own rubbing shoulders with politicos, and—hopefully—be easy on the eyes. The kind of man I’ve always been steered toward.
Have I ever even let myself entertain the idea of a man who didn’t fit that mold?
I turn the knob for the front burner and, in a few clicks, the flames jump to life.
“There she is!” Grandpa’s rough voice cuts into my thoughts. “Don’t suppose you’ve got enough in there for two cups of tea?”
“I do,” I say over my shoulder as I pull open a cupboard. “I’ll get another mug.”
“How was work?” he asks as he slowly makes his way toward his usual spot at the kitchen table. “Those stuffed shirts give you any grief?” He stashes his walker nearby and slowly lowers into his chair.
“They’re hardly stuffed shirts, Grandpa,” I say, sitting down beside him. “It’s an art gallery, not an insurance company.”
He gives me a shrewd look. At ninety-two, he’s as sharp and observant as ever, and I know he’s shared my frustrations with the direction at the gallery.
“Actually, I’ve been mulling over some new ideas for events.
I was gonna brainstorm tonight—maybe draft a sort of proposal.
” I pause, remembering my plan to stay in my lane and keep my curatorial suggestions to myself.
Maybe if I wow Julian with a few successful events, he’ll be open to more of my ideas.
“Sunny’s in my corner, but I’m not sure Julian will consider looking at it. ”
“Well, he’d be a fool not to!” Grandpa places a weathered hand on my arm. “It’s about time someone breathed a bit of life into that place, kiddo. They need it, and you’re the best person to do it.”
I smirk, both amused and flattered by the unwavering faith he’s always had in me.
When I was growing up, it was my grandparents who showed up to cheer me on at every school play, swim meet, and dance recital.
My biggest fan and cheerleader, Grandpa never blinked at the hour-long drive into the city.
And he’d always make sure he and Grandma stopped by a bakery on the way to buy me a cookie, saying I deserved a treat for trying my best.
“I am?” I ask. “How do you figure?”
Grandpa shrugs, his tone matter-of-fact when he says, “Well, you’ve done it here already, haven’t you?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re an old charmer, you know that?”
He winks, only proving my point.
Grandpa’s been on the gallery’s board of directors since the place opened over two decades ago—well before Julian and Sunny took the reins a few years back—and he’d urged me to apply for the event planning job when I first moved to Lennox.
After all, I had the perfect credentials: I’ve loved art and design my whole life, minored in art history in college, and was the de facto event planner for my father for years—never mind the business experience I got through Found Family.
It really was an ideal match. After Grandpa put in an enthusiastic word with the Gareth Mason board, the job basically fell into my lap.
The kettle starts to whistle, and I stand to make the tea, glancing at the clock. “Sadie should be here soon.”
“Good! I’ve reached an impasse with my crossword puzzle.”
Grandpa’s health care aide comes to the house a few times a week to help him with physical therapy exercises and various other tasks he finds challenging on his own.
She’s a puzzle wizard; the two of them have a friendly rivalry about which of them is better at crosswords.
“Maybe she knows an eight-letter word that starts with S for dormant or immobile.”
I search my brain as I fill our mugs, steam winding around my wrist as the little pillowed tea bags bob upward. “Stagnant?”
Grandpa slaps the table so hard I almost drop the spoon in my hand.
I turn to him with wide eyes and find him inspecting the folded crossword puzzle he’s pulled from his walker basket.
“Stagnant!” He grins up at me, fishing out a stubby pencil from his sweater pocket. “Brilliant girl. You’re gonna give Sadie a run for her money.”
I finish making the tea and take our mugs over to the table.
“Thank you, darling,” he says.
Stagnant. I roll the word around in my head.
Life in Seattle had been exactly that. After years of chasing my father’s approval, I’d felt burnt out and trapped.
And my relationship with Fletcher—even before I’d discovered his cheating—wasn’t much better.
We may have officially called it off last month, but we were just going through the motions long before that. We barely talked. Had forgettable sex.
That apathy was why I’d been so reluctant to set a wedding date.
We were a practical match, but something always felt off.
I’d never been sure what it was—or what I was hoping might change.
It turned out, I couldn’t reason my way out of what was wrong between us.
Fletcher had never really loved or respected me.
I’d been his ticket to my father’s inner circle. Arm candy. Social currency.
My move to Lennox Valley had driven the wedge between us deeper.
Sure, we’d done the long-distance thing—he was always traveling for work, anyway, so it wasn’t a stretch—but the time apart had only made it clear: distance wasn’t a hardship.
The cheating shouldn’t have been that surprising to me, in hindsight.
“I’m gonna take this to my room and work on my proposal,” I tell Grandpa, stooping to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Don’t let me keep you.”
Balancing my laptop and my scalding mug, I pad across the sleek hardwood floor to my end of the house.
Although we call it a cottage, Grandpa’s house is modern and far from quaint or rustic.
Built into the hillside overlooking the river, the house has a long set of stairs leading to the front door, with a driveway sweeping up and around back to provide the more level entrance Grandpa now exclusively uses.
Dad had footed the bill to have the place built for my grandparents a few years before Grandma got sick, and he’d spared no expense—he’d even had the foresight to include an accessibility ramp at the back entrance.
Grandpa and I have a pretty good setup with our rooms being at opposite ends of the house, giving us each the privacy we need.
I set my mug on my nightstand and flip open my laptop as I settle onto my bed.
I’m only jotting down the beginning of an outline when several notifications chime in quick succession, Adrian’s name multiplying in a stack in the corner of my screen. Instead of reading it all, I call him, switching on my video.
“Caroline, have I got some bullshit for you!” It’s Adrian’s classic move: skipping the small talk and diving right in. From the jostling of his camera and the background blurring past, I’d guess he’s walking somewhere in downtown Seattle.
“Hey,” I say with a soft chuckle. “Well, spill.”
Smirking, he pauses to check over his shoulder, scanning the traffic before continuing to walk. “You remember Portia Stanhope?”
I squeeze one eye shut, trying to remember. “The donor with the… the property in Vancouver? The ceramics retreat thing?”
“Yeah, her. So, there was this whole misunderstanding. We thought she was gonna donate the proceeds from the retreat, and she did, which is great, but get this: she also donated the ceramics themselves.”
“Wait, what?”
Adrian comes to an abrupt stop, eyes widening dramatically. “Exactly! What the fuck am I gonna do with fifty-plus shitty clay pots?”
“Why would she give them to us?” I almost laugh.
Us. Old habits die hard. I still think of the charity as ours, even though I’m essentially a silent partner now.
He starts walking again. “No fucking clue. I don’t think she’s really tuned in to what a youth mentorship charity needs.
Money is good. Donate money, please and fucking thank you.
Does she think underprivileged youth want shitty clay pots?
What’s she smoking?” He drops his voice to a discreet mumble, lifting his brows.
“Probably something she keeps in a shitty clay pot, is all I’m saying. ”
I suppress a laugh. “She sounds… unique.”
He dead-eyes the camera. “Well, she’s gonna be there Saturday.”
“Oh.” I give Adrian a cautious look. “Delightful.”
“And she wants to discuss it with you, bestie.” He drags a hand through his short brown hair, scanning the street.
“What? Why?”
“I dunno. Says you’ll understand her vision or some shit. Woman to woman.”
“Hoo boy,” I sigh.
“So, anyway, I need you to turn on that thousand-watt smile and work your magic, or this hippie granola lady is gonna send me to an early grave.”
“I’ll take care of it.” I slouch back onto my pillow, propping the laptop on my raised knees. “But you’re lucky I love you. And lucky I have to be there for my dad, too, or I’d ditch out on you and this hippie granola lady so fast.”
“Nothing like crushing obligation, right?”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Despite the truth in his words, Adrian’s gallows humor cheers me up a little. “You bringing a date?”
“Babe, I’d be your date if you didn’t have to play happy couple with that lying asswipe.”
“Wish you could.”
As it stands, it appears I’ll have to lean harder into this ridiculous scheme with Fletcher—dig deep so I can tolerate at least a few chaste public displays of affection Saturday night. Anything to make sure we’re caught on camera looking like a couple.
“What happened to Casey, though?” I ask, reaching for my tea. “Thought things were heating up between you two.” I take a cautious sip.
He scoffs. “Casey is an overgrown toddler. He’s fun, like a big, sexy puppy, but… not the black-tie fundraiser type. Even if he would look cute as fuck in a tux.”
“What about what’s-her-name? The girl from grad school? Emma?”
“What? Sorry. Just picturing Casey in a tux.” Adrian seems to shake it off. “Emma, uh, no. Funny story, though. I’ll fill you in when I see you.”
“Okay. Oh, hey, speaking of funny stories… You don’t read The Wash, do you?” I grimace.
“Uh, no, I have a life, Caroline.” He gives me a suspicious squint. “Why?”
“Hang on.” Reluctantly, I send him the link. “It’s not a big deal for the charity, but…” I let the dead air hang as Adrian pulls up the website, cringing when his eyes bug out. “Figured you should be aware?”
“What the fuck is this?” he asks, his voice rising in pitch. “You let me go on and on about clay fucking pots when there was this to talk about?”
I press my fingers against my temple, trying to fight off a laugh. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Who is this guy? He’s hot as hell!”
My shoulders sag. “Just a guy I met at the gym. Literally like ten minutes before this. Nothing happened.”
“I call bullshit. You’re serving some serious bedroom eyes in this picture.”
“Am not!”
“Moony, Care. You look moony.”
Rolling my eyes, I try to bite back a grin.
“And like you wanna mount him like a mechanical bull in a dive bar. I mean, I would. Wait… Do I spy a slutty little thigh tattoo?”
I laugh, setting my tea back on my nightstand.
“Hang on, shit,” Adrian says, the other shoe obviously dropping. “Is your family pissed?”
“Yeah, I talked to my parents, and it’s a whole… thing.” An email notification crops up. “Speak of the devil. Dad just emailed me about it.”
I open it and quickly skim the message he forwarded from Linda’s PR firm. As I process what I’m reading, the contents of my stomach slowly turn to a block of concrete.
“Oh, God,” I groan. “They want me to what?”