Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Whitney
Dazed and Dazzled
“With all due respect, Gertrude…” I flip the light switch at the top of my staircase landing, tickled just thinking about my tightly wound grandmother subjecting her fragile sensibilities to gossip headlines.
“I really don’t understand why you’re concerning yourself with what they’re saying about me.
That was, what, Saturday? And now it’s already Thursday night?
Believe me, it’ll all blow over soon. This weekend, they’ll be onto the next so-called messy scandal. ”
“Whitney Anika Graves.”
Her tone cuts sharp. This is the comedy I need when my nerves are all over the place.
“You seem upset…” I bait her, biting back a laugh as I make my way down the stairs.
Partly because I’m texting Clive for the address he forgot to add to my calendar for tonight’s meeting with Warner in less than thirty minutes, and partly because every time she clears her throat, it’s obvious she’s two seconds from dropping her highfalutin, holier-than-thou act.
“Well, it’s quite unfortunate that you don’t seem to recognize the error in your thinking.”
She clears her throat, and I have to fake choking to mask my laugh because it’s so exhausting. And hilarious.
Whitney
What’s the address for the meeting? There’s no location.
Everywhere in Ellswood is less than a twenty-minute drive, but the meeting’s set for seven and it’s already six thirty-five.
“Come on, Clive,” I mutter to myself.
Thankfully, a second later, his three tiny ellipses appear on my screen.
Cool relief floods my chest that, on top of vying for Sherry’s collection and vowing to my divas I’d try to build a genuine emotional—and sexless—connection, maybe eventually fall in love with this man, I don’t have to add being late to our first meeting to my already-frayed nerves.
But then the ellipses disappear.
Shit.
I let out a heavy sigh, irritated with myself for waiting until the absolute last minute to review the appointment.
“Listen, I’m on my way out,” I say as I reach the foot of the stairs, hoping she’ll take the hint and wrap up this conversation. But I’m also fully aware that, being the last-word woman she is, she won’t cut to the chase.
Sure as anything, she clears her throat again.
“A restroom rendezvous, Whitney?” The distaste slithers on her tongue, unearthing the bits of the Southern drawl she tries so hard to hide.
“I know good and well I done raised you better than that. Better than to put your ass in precarious situations your sass can’t get you out of.
” She inhales sharply. “It’s a shame because you’re such a brilliant young lady. All you need is to apply yourself—”
“To an approved desk?” I cut her off, moving the life-choice berating along. “Wait, wait, wait. No, a finance desk that reflects well on the highly esteemed Graves name. Did I get it right? Is that what you were about to say?”
She smacks her lips.
I don’t have to be present in her brass-and-brocade living room to picture her perched on that antique telephone chair, mauve-hued lips pursed tight with fury, pure indignance vibrating off her.
I’m her granddaughter, the only one she got from her one and only black-sheep daughter, who skipped Zion & Zara, walked away from the inheritance Gertrude tried and failed to use as a leash, and went straight to bedding a married man.
She never lets me forget that I’m the retributive byproduct of that scandal, the karmic justice she fully intended to “correct” by raising me herself to be a proper lady.
Until I stepped out of line.
“You’re not being honest with yourself,” she purrs, and it’s too much. The gall of this woman.
Not today.
My nerves are already stretched thin, and I truly can’t afford the stress.
Not when I might be on borrowed time. Not when she never wants to discuss our capital-C medical history, and since my doctor’s “availability over the next few weeks is a bit unusual”—whatever that means—my follow-up appointment isn’t until next month.
So I get to walk around like I’m fine, slowly stewing over my impending cryo and breast ultrasound, imagining my obituary.
“Right, I’m being honest with you, Gertrude.” I sit on the bottom step, setting my phone beside me as I slide on my heels. “I truly don’t know what else you want me to tell you.”
It’s quiet for a beat. She’s recalibrating.
Finally, my phone lights up with a text notification from Clive, and I’m just about to open it, hopefully tap on an address that opens up to Maps, and exit this conversation.
But Gertrude unleashes a deep, guttural throat clearing. And as much as I try to resist, the once-obedient child in me still reacts to the Pavlovian trigger.
“If you respected me,” she starts, tone flat with judgment, “which you clearly don’t, since you chased after that… gallery venture…”
A hollow laugh echoes in my throat.
“…you’d realize I’m not getting any younger.” Oh, here we go. “I’ll be eighty this year. And the state of your life, the way you’re choosing to veer down this unseemly, ill-conceived course… I can’t tell you how much it’s weighing heavy on my heart, Whitney.”
Try as I might, I can’t hold back. I’m bent over, breathless with laughter.
“What on earth has gotten into you?” she asks. Then she has the nerve to say, “Pull yourself together,” which only makes me laugh harder.
“This is too good,” I say, gasping for breath. “You said you can’t tell me, but then you did—”
“I could die tomorrow.”
I’m cackling because, little does she know, so could I.
“Not for nothing, but ma’am, you’ve got to try a different tactic,” I say between shallow breaths. “Second I started funding my life, you couldn’t control me with your money. Then you went the same route. Now you’re stooping to guilt?”
“Well, I am seventy-nine.”
“Yes, and you host galas. You’ve also been both a senior swim champ at the country club and Ms. Black Senior Georgia.” When she doesn’t acknowledge any of that, I add, “All in the last two years. So no, I’m not falling for the ‘I’m not getting any younger’ tactic when you’re just getting started.”
And then something miraculous happens.
She’s speechless.
Gertrude Graves has no snap judgment. No diamond-encrusted zinger for me. Which feels like a good omen if ever I’ve seen one.
And on that note, I swipe my phone off the step and tap Clive’s text as I tell her, “All right, you have yourself a great night…” and then I disconnect the call, reading slowly.
Clive
I just double-checked the email he sent. No address was provided. But let me reply again really quick.
“At six”—I check my watch—“forty? Great.” I throw back my head, groaning.
For a few minutes, I gather my coat and purse, tossing in my iPad and making sure I’ve got everything to be ready to dash out, just in case.
Then my phone doesn’t ping, it rings, startling the hell out of me.
“Clive?” I say, wondering what he couldn’t tell me in a text.
He blows out a long breath. “Girrrrl…”
Aw, damn. “What?”
“Long story short,” he begins before diving into a tale.
The location of tonight’s meeting was never included in the email by design, as Clive just learned when he contacted Warner’s office.
And it’s after hours, right? A response wouldn’t be expected.
But when the autoreply popped up, supplying the email for Warner’s assistant, Greer, he jumped on it, firing off a quick inquiry about the location.
To his surprise, another message immediately appeared in his inbox, confirming, A car is on the way right now.
I nearly choke on my gasp.
“Sorry, what? On the way where?” I ask.
Turns out it’s not just a car, either.
Rushing to look out my dining room window, I peek through the shutter in time to watch a sleek black Maybach pull into my driveway.
“Oh my God.” I sprint over to the mirror in my foyer, inspecting my sexy, black, double-breasted cape blazer dress, checking my hair and makeup, then immediately chastising myself for primping for this man who’ll undoubtedly prove he’s exactly who the media thinks he is, and still doesn’t deserve deathbed love.
But also, who sends a luxury black car service for a business meeting?
And how did he even know my address?
Not fourteen minutes, not fifteen, but fourteen and half minutes of panic-texting Clive and the divas later, the chauffeur-driven, obscenely comfortable, high-end automobile pulls alongside the curb outside Cibo Nero, and I try not to be impressed.
I try.
Flashy symbols of wealth have never moved me. Money is simply a means to manipulate and control others. Gertrude can attest to that.
But Cibo Nero is the new exclusive dining experience.
The menu reads like an ode to the rustic elegance of Italian cuisine with rich Southern soul food flair.
Slow-cooked collard greens with fresh basil and garlic.
Fried chicken with sage-infused tomato gravy and a side of creamy pecorino baked macaroni.
Handmade gnocchi and okra stewed with Tuscan tomatoes.
It’s a foodie’s dream.
Shoot, if things don’t go well on my follow-up gyno appointment, a Cibo Nero reservation’s definitely going on my Light the Way wish list for a final meal.
Hence why getting in is a test of patience and connections. The waitlist stretches a year long, and even then, reservations are granted like The Hunger Games, only to those whose odds are ever in their favor.
Curiosity overtakes me.
Did Warner already have a reservation, and he’s just bringing me along? Did he call in a favor? Maybe this is simply an available parking spot, and we’re meeting at the candle store next door, who knows.
As the chauffeur cuts the engine, exits, and rounds the car to open my door, though, I’m both confused and disappointed when the “CLOSED” sign comes into view.
“Thank you,” I say anyway, taking his hand and stepping onto the curb.
Restless, I wait for his instructions.