A Ceo In Her Stocking
“He’ll never be an engineer at this rate,” Clara said. “That structure is in no way sound.”
“What do you think he will be?” Grant asked.
“I have no clue,” she replied. “He’ll be whatever he decides he wants to be.”
When she looked at Grant again, he was still studying her with great interest. But there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Clara had no idea how she knew it, but in that moment, she did: Grant Dunbarton wasn’t a happy guy. Even with all the money, beauty and privilege he had in his life.
She opened her mouth to say something—though, honestly, she wasn’t really sure what—when Hank called out, “Mama! I need you to hold this part that Grammy can’t!”
Francesca smiled. “Hank’s vision is much too magnificent for a mere four hands. My grandson is brilliant, obviously.”
Clara smiled back. Hank was still fine-tuning his small motor skills and probably would be for some time. But she appreciated Francesca’s bias.
She looked at Grant. “C’mon. You should help, too. If I know Hank, this thing is going to get even bigger.”
For the first time since she’d met him, Grant Dunbarton looked rattled. He took a step backward, as if in retreat, even though all she’d done was invite him to join in playtime. She might as well have just asked him to drink hemlock, so clear was his aversion.
“Ah, thanks, but, no,” he stammered. He took another step backward, into the hallway. “I... I have a lot of, uh, work. That I need to do. Important work. For work.”
“Oh,” she said, still surprised by the swiftness with which he lost his composure. Even more surprising was the depth of her disappointment that he was leaving. “Okay. Well. I guess I’ll see you later, then. I mean... Hank and I will see you later.”
He nodded once—or maybe it was a twitch—then took another step that moved him well and truly out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Clara went the other way, taking her seat on the other side of Hank. When she looked back at the door, though, Grant still hadn’t left to do all the important work that he needed to do. Instead, he stood in the hallway gazing at her and Hank and Francesca.
And, somehow, Clara couldn’t help thinking he looked less like a high-powered executive who needed to get back to work than he did a little boy who hadn’t been invited to the party.
* * *
Grant hadn’t felt like a child since... Well, he couldn’t remember feeling like a child even when he was a child. And he certainly hadn’t since his father’s death shortly after his tenth birthday. But damned if he didn’t feel like one now, watching Clara and her son play on the floor with his mother. It was the way a child felt when he was picked last in gym or ate alone at lunch. Which was nuts, because he’d excelled at sports, and he’d had plenty of friends in school. The fact that they were sports he hadn’t really cared about excelling at—but that looked good on a college application—and the fact that he’d never felt all that close to his friends was beside the point.
So why did he suddenly feel so dejected? And so rejected by Clara? Hell, she’d invited him to join them. And how could she be rejecting him when he hadn’t even asked her for anything?
Oh, for God’s sake. This really was nuts. He should be working. He should have been working the entire time he was standing here revisiting a past it was pointless to revisit. He’d become the CEO of Dunbarton Industries the minute the ink on his MBA dried and hadn’t stopped for so much as a coffee break since. Staying home today to meet Clara and Hank with his mother was the first nonholiday weekday he’d spent away from the office in years.
He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t even noon. He’d lost less than half a day. He could still go in to the office and get way more done than he would trying to work here. He’d only stayed home in case Clara turned out to be less, ah, stable than her résumé let on and created a problem. But the woman was a perfectly acceptable candidate for mothering a Dunbarton. Well, as an individual, she was. Her family background, on the other hand...
Grant wasn’t a snob. At least, he didn’t think he was. But when he’d discovered Clara was born in a county jail, and that her parents were currently doing time for other crimes they’d committed... Well, suffice it to say felony convictions weren’t exactly pluses on the social register. Nor were they the kind of thing he wanted associated with the Dunbarton name. Not that Hank went by Dunbarton. Well, not yet, anyway. Grant was sure his mother would get around to broaching the topic of changing his last name to theirs eventually. And he was sure Clara would capitulate. What mother wouldn’t want her child to bear one of the most respected names in the country?
Having met Clara, however, he was surprised to have another reaction about her family history. He didn’t want that sort of thing attached to her name, either. She seemed like too decent a person to have come from that kind of environment. She really had done well for herself, considering her origins. In fact, a lot of people who’d had better breeding and greater fortune than she hadn’t gone nearly as far.
He lingered at the bedroom door a minute more, watching the scene before him. No, not watching the scene, he realized. Watching Clara. She was laughing at something his mother had said, while keeping a close eye on Hank who, without warning, suddenly bent and brushed a kiss on his mother’s cheek—for absolutely no reason Grant could see. He was stunned by the gesture, but Clara only laughed some more, indicating that this was something her son did often. Then, when in spite of their best efforts, the structure he’d been building toppled to the floor, she wrapped her arms around him, pulled him into her lap and kissed him loudly on the side of his neck. He giggled ferociously, but reached behind himself to hug her close. Then he scrambled out of her clutches and hurried across the room to try his hand at something else.
The entire affectionate exchange lasted maybe ten seconds and was in no way extraordinary. Except that it was extraordinary, because Grant had never shared that kind of affection with his own mother, even before his father’s death changed all of them. He’d never shared that kind of affection with anyone. Affection that was so spontaneous, so uninhibited, so lacking in contrivance and conceit. So...so natural. As if it were as vital to them both as breathing.
That, finally, made him walk down the hall to his office. Work. That was what he needed. Something that was as vital to him as breathing. Though maybe he wouldn’t go in to the offices of Dunbarton Industries today. Maybe he should stay closer to home. Just in case... Just in case Clara really wasn’t all that stable. Just in case she did create a problem. Well, one bigger than the one she’d already created just by being so spontaneous, so uninhibited, so lacking in contrivance and conceit, and so natural. He should still stay home today. Just in case.
You never knew when something extraordinary might happen.
Three
Actually, something extraordinary did happen. On Clara and Hank’s second day in New York, the Dunbartons had dinner in the formal dining room. Maybe that didn’t sound all that extraordinary—and wouldn’t have been a couple of decades ago, because the Dunbartons had always had dinner in the formal dining room before his father’s death—but it was now. Because now, the formal dining room was only used for special occasions. Christmas Day, Easter, Thanksgiving, or those few instances when Brent had deigned to make time for a visit home during his hectic schedule of bumming around on the world’s best beaches.
Then again, Grant supposed the arrival of a new family member was a special occasion, too. But it was otherwise a regular day, at least for him. He’d spent it at work while his mother had taken Clara and Hank to every New York City icon they could see in a day, from the Staten Island Ferry to the Statue of Liberty to the Empire State Building to whatever else his mother had conjured up.
Grant had always liked the formal dining room a lot better than the smaller one by the kitchen, in spite of its formality. Or maybe because of it. The walls were painted a deep, regal gold, perfectly complementing the long table, chairs and buffet, which were all overblown Louis Quatorze.
But the ceiling was really the centerpiece, with its sweeping painting of the night sky, where the solar system played only one small part in the center, with highlights of the Milky Way fanning out over the rest—constellations and nebulae, with the occasional comet and meteor shower thrown in for good measure. When he was a kid, Grant loved to sneak in here and lie on his back on the rug, looking up at the stars and pretending—
Never mind. It wasn’t important what he loved to pretend when he was a kid. He did still love the room, though. And something inside him still made him want to lie on his back on the rug and look up at the stars and pretend—
“It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?” he asked Hank, who was seated directly across from him, his neck craned back so he could scan the ceiling from one end to the other.
“It’s awesome,” the little boy said without taking his eyes off it. “Look, Mama, there’s Saturn,” he added, pointing up with one hand and reaching blindly with the other toward the place beside him to pat his mother’s arm...and hitting the flatware instead.
Clara mimicked his posture, tipping her head back to look up. The position left her creamy neck exposed, something Grant tried not to notice. He also tried not to notice how the V-neck of her sweater was low enough to barely hint at the upper swells of her breasts, or how its color—pale blue—brought out a new dimension to her uniquely colored eyes, making them seem even greener somehow. Or how the light from the chandelier set iridescent bits of blue dancing in her black curls. Or how much he wanted to reach over and wind one around his finger to see if it was as soft as it looked.
“Yes, it is,” she said in response to Hank’s remark. “And what’s that big one beside it?”
“Jupiter,” he said.
“Very good,” Grant told him, unable to hide his surprise and thankful for something else to claim his attention that didn’t involve Clara. Or her creamy skin. Or her incredible eyes. Or her soft curls. “You’re quite the astronomer, Hank.”
“Well, he’s working on it,” Clara said with a smile. “Those are the only two planets he knows so far.”
Grant’s mother smiled, too, from her seat at the head of the table. “I have the smartest grandson in the universe. Not that I’m surprised, mind you, considering his paternity.” Hastily, she looked at Clara and added, “And his maternity, too, of course!”
Clara smiled and murmured her thanks for the acknowledgment, but his mother continued to beam at her only grandchild. Only in more ways than one, Grant thought, since Hank was also likely the only grandchild she would ever have. No way was he suited to the role of father himself. Or husband, for that matter. And neither role appealed. He was, for lack of a better cliché, married to his business. His only offspring would be the bottom line.
“I also know Earth,” Hank said, sounding insulted that his mother would overlook that.
Clara laughed. “So you do,” she agreed.
Frankly, Grant couldn’t believe a three-year-old would know any of the things Hank knew. Then again, when Grant was three, he knew the genus and species of the chambered nautilus—Nautilus pompilius. He’d loved learning all about marine life when he was a kid, but the nautilus was a particular favorite from the start, thanks to an early visit to the New York Aquarium where he’d been mesmerized by the animal. If a child discovered his passion early in life, there was no way to prevent him from absorbing facts like a sponge, even at three. Evidently, for Hank, astronomy would be such a passion.
“Do you have a telescope?” Grant asked Clara.
She shook her head. “If he stays interested in astronomy, we can invest in one. He can save his allowance and contribute. For now, binoculars are fine.”
Hank nodded, seeming in no way bothered by the delay. So not expecting instant gratification was something else he’d inherited from his mother. Brent’s life had been nothing but a demand for instant gratification.
Yet Clara could afford to give him instant gratification now. She could afford to buy her son a telescope with his newfound wealth, whether he stayed interested in astronomy or not. But she wasn’t. Grant supposed she was trying to ensure that Hank didn’t fall into the trap his father had. She didn’t want him to think that just because he had money, he no longer had to work to earn something, that he could take advantage and have whatever he wanted, wherever and whenever he wanted it. Grant’s estimation of her rose. Again.
As if he’d said the words out loud, she looked at him and smiled. Or maybe she did that because she was grateful he hadn’t told her son that if he wanted a telescope, then, by God, he should have one, cost be damned. That was what Brent would have done. Then he would have scooped up Hank after dinner and taken him straight to Telescopes “R” Us to buy him the biggest, shiniest, most expensive one they had, without even bothering to see if it was the best.
As Hank and Francesca fell into conversation about the other planets on the ceiling, Grant turned to Clara. And realized he had no idea what to say to her. So he fell back on the obvious.
“Brent had an interest in astronomy when he was Hank’s age, too,” he told her. “It was one of the reasons my mother had this room decorated the way she did.”
“I actually knew that,” Clara said. “About the astronomy, not the room. He took me to Skidaway Island a few times to look at the stars. I’ve taken Hank, too. It’s what started his interest in all this.”
Grant nodded. Of course Brent would have taken her to a romantic rendezvous to dazzle her with his knowledge of the stars. And of course she would carry that memory with her and share it with their son.
“Hank is now about the same age I was when I started getting interested in baking,” she said. “My foster mother at that time baked a lot, and she let me help her in the kitchen. I remember being amazed at how you could mix stuff together to make a gooey mess only to have it come out of the oven as cake. Or cookies. Or banana bread. Or whatever. And I loved how pretty everything was after the frosting went on. And how you could use the frosting to make it even prettier, with roses or latticework or ribbons. It was like making art. Only you could eat it afterward.”
As she spoke about learning to bake, her demeanor changed again. Her eyes went dreamy, her cheeks grew rosy, and she seemed to go...softer somehow. All over. And she gestured as she spoke—something she didn’t even seem aware of doing—stirring an imaginary bowl when she talked about the gooey mess, and opening an imaginary oven door when she talked about the final product and tracing a flower pattern on the tablecloth as she spoke of using frosting as an art medium. He was so caught up in the play of her hands and her storytelling, that he was completely unprepared when she turned the tables on him.
“What were you interested in when you were that age?”
The question hung in the air between them for a moment as Grant tried to form a response. Then he realized he didn’t know how to respond. For one thing, he didn’t think it was a question anyone had ever asked him before. For another, it had been so long since he’d thought about his childhood, he honestly couldn’t remember.
Except he had remembered. A few minutes ago, when he’d been thinking about how fascinated he’d been by the chambered nautilus. About how much he’d loved all things related to marine life when he was a kid. Which was something he hadn’t thought about in years.
Despite that, he said, “I don’t know. The usual stuff, I guess.”
His childhood love was so long ago, and he’d never pursued it beyond the superficial. Even though, he supposed, knowing the biological classification of the entire nautilus family—in Latin—by the time he started first grade went a little beyond superficial. That was different. Because that was...
Well, it was just different, that was all.
“Nothing in particular,” he finally concluded. Even if that didn’t feel like a conclusion at all.
Clara didn’t seem to think so, either, because she insisted, “Oh, come on. There must have been something. All of Hank’s friends have some kind of passion. With Brianna, it’s seashells. With Tyler, it’s rocks. With Megan, it’s fairies. It’s amazing the single-minded devotion a kid that age can have for something.”
For some reason, Grant wanted very much to change the subject. So he turned the tables back on Clara. “So, owning a bakery. That must be gratifying, taking your childhood passion and making a living out of it as an adult.”
For a moment, he didn’t think Clara was going to let him get away with changing the subject. She eyed him narrowly, with clear speculation, nibbling her lower lip—that ripe, generous, delectable lower lip—in thought.
Just when Grant thought he might climb over the table to nibble it, too, she stopped and said, “It is gratifying.”
He’d just bet it was. Oh, wait. She meant the bakery thing, not the lip-nibbling thing.
“Except that when your passion becomes your job,” she went on, “it can sort of rob it of the fun, you know? I mean, it’s still fun, but some of the magic is gone.”
Magic, he repeated to himself. Fun. When was the last time he had a conversation with a woman—or, hell, anyone—that included either of those words? Yet here was Clara Easton, using them both in one breath.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she hastened to clarify. “I do love it. I just...”
She sighed with something akin to wistfulness. Damn. Wistfulness. There was another word Grant could never recall coming up in a conversation before—even in his head.
“Sometimes,” she continued, “I just look at all the stuff in the bakery kitchen and at all the pastries out in the shop, and, after work, I go upstairs to the apartment with Hank, and I wonder... Is that it? Have I already peaked? I have this great kid, and we have a roof over our heads and food in the pantry, and I’m doing for a living what I always said I wanted to do, and yet sometimes... Sometimes—”
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