A Ceo In Her Stocking
Grant slowed until she pulled alongside him, which was something of a mixed blessing. On the upside, she could see his face. On the downside, she could see his face. And all she could do was be struck again by how much he resembled Brent. Well, that and also worry about how the resemblance set off little explosions in her midsection that warmed places inside her that really shouldn’t be warming in mixed company.
“Brent and I grew up here,” he said. “The place has been in the family for three generations.”
“Wow,” Clara said. Talk about having deep roots somewhere. “I grew up in Macon. But I’ve been living on Tybee Island since I graduated from college.”
“Yes, I know,” he told her. “You graduated from Carson High School with a near-perfect GPA and have a business administration degree from the College of Coastal Georgia that you earned in three years. Not bad. Especially considering how you worked three jobs the entire time.”
Clara told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. Families like the Dunbartons didn’t open their door to just anyone. “You had me checked out, I see.”
“Yes,” he admitted without apology. “I’m sure you understand.”
Actually, she did. When it came to family—even if that family only numbered two, like her and Hank—you did what you had to do to protect it. Had August Fiver not already had a ton of info to give her about the Dunbartons, Clara would have had them checked out, too, before allowing them access to her son.
“Well, the AP classes in high school helped a lot with that three-years thing,” she told him.
“So did perseverance and hard work.”
Well, okay, there was that, too.
Grant led them to a small study that was executed in pale yellow and paler turquoise and furnished with overstuffed moiré chairs, a frilly desk and paintings of gorgeous landscapes. The room reeked of Marie Antoinette—the Versailles version, not the Bastille version—so Clara was pretty sure this wasn’t a sanctuary for him.
As if cued by the thought, a woman entered from a door on the other side of the room. This had to be Grant’s mother, Francesca. She looked to be in her midfifties, with short, dark hair liberally streaked with silver and eyes as rich a blue as her sons’. She was nearly as tall as Clara, but slimmer, dressed in flowing palazzo pants and tunic the color of a twilit sky. Diamond studs winked in each earlobe, and both wrists were wrapped in silver bracelets. She halted when she saw her guests, her gaze and smile alighting for only a second on Clara before falling to Hank...whereupon her eyes filled with tears.
But her smile brightened as she hurried forward, arms outstretched in the universal body language for Gimme a big ol’ hug. She halted midstride, however, when Hank stepped backward, pressing himself into Clara with enough force to make her stumble backward herself. Until Grant halted her, wrapping sure fingers around her upper arms. For the scantest of moments, her brain tricked her into thinking it was Brent catching her, and she came this close to spinning around to plant a grateful kiss on Grant’s mouth, so instinctive was her response.
Was it going to be like this the whole time she was here? Was the younger version of herself that still obviously lived inside her going to keep thinking it was Brent, not Grant, she was interacting with? If so, it was going to be a long week.
“Thanks,” she murmured over her shoulder, hoping he didn’t hear her breathlessness.
When he didn’t release her immediately, she turned around to look at him, an action that caused him to release one shoulder, but not the other. For a moment, they only gazed at each other, and Clara was again overcome by how much he resembled Brent, and how that resemblance roused all kinds of feelings in her she really didn’t need to be feeling. Then, suddenly, Grant smiled. But damned if his smile wasn’t just like Brent’s, too.
“Where are my manners?” he asked, his hand still curved over her arm. “I should have taken your coat the minute you walked in.”
Automatically, Clara began to unbutton her coat...then suddenly halted. Because it didn’t feel as if she was unbuttoning her coat for a man who had politely asked for it. It felt as if she was unbuttoning her shirt—or dress or skirt or pants or whatever else she might have on—so she could make love with Brent.
Wow. It really was going to be a long week. Maybe she and Hank should just head home tomorrow. Or even before dinner. Or lunch.
She went back to her buttons before her hesitation seemed weird—though, judging by Grant’s expression, he already thought it was weird. Beneath her coat, she wore a short black dress and red-and-black polka dot tights that had felt whimsical and Christmassy when she put them on but felt out of place now amid the elegance of the Dunbarton home.
She and Hank should definitely leave before lunch.
Her plan was dashed, however, when Francesca, who had stopped a slight distance from Hank but still looked like the happiest woman in the world, said, “It is so lovely to have you both here. I am so glad we found you. Thank you so much for staying with us. I’ve asked Timmerman to bring up your bags.” Obviously not wanting to overwhelm her grandson, she focused on Clara when she spoke again. “You must be Clara,” she said as she extended her right hand.
Clara accepted it automatically. “I’m so sorry about Brent, Mrs. Dunbarton. He was a wonderful person.”
Francesca’s smile dimmed some, but didn’t go away. “Yes, he was. And please, call me Francesca.” She clasped her hands together when she looked at Hank, as if still not trusting herself to not reach for him. “And you, of course, must be Henry. Hello there, young man.”
Hank said nothing for a moment, only continued to lean against Clara as he gave his grandmother wary consideration. Finally, politely, he said, “Hello. My name is Henry. But everybody calls me Hank.”
Francesca positively beamed. “Well, then I will, too. And what should we have you call me, Hank?”
This time Hank looked up at Clara, and she could see he had no idea how to respond. They had talked before coming to New York about his father’s death and his newly discovered grandmother and uncle, but conveying all the ins and outs of those things to a three-year-old hadn’t been easy, and she still wasn’t sure how much Hank understood. But when he’d asked if this meant he and Clara would be spending holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas with his new family, and whether they could come to Tybee Island for his birthday parties, it had finally struck Clara just how big a life change this was going to be for her son.
And for her, too. It had been just the two of them for more than three years. She’d figured it would stay just the two of them for a couple of decades, at least, until Hank found a partner and started a family—and a life—of his own. Clara hadn’t expected to have to share him so soon. Or to have to share him with strangers.
Who wouldn’t be strangers for long, since they were family—Hank’s family, anyway. But that was something else Clara had been forced to accept. Now her son had a family other than her. But she still just had—and would always just have—him.
She tried not to stumble over the words when she said, “Hank, sweetie, this is your grandmother. You two need to figure out what y’all want to call her.”
Francesca looked at Hank again, her hands still clasped before her, still giving him the space he needed. Clara was grateful the older woman realized that a child his age needed longer to get used to a situation like this than an adult did. Clara understood well the enormity and exuberance of a mother’s love. It was the only kind of love she did understand. It was the only kind she’d ever known. She knew how difficult it was to rein it in. She appreciated Francesca’s doing so for her grandson.
“Do you know what your father and Uncle Grant called their grandmother?” Francesca asked Hank.
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. What?”
Francesca smiled at the No, ma’am. Clara supposed it wasn’t something a lot of children said anymore. But she had been brought up to say no, ma’am and no, sir when speaking to adults—it was still the Southern way in a lot of places—so it was only natural to teach Hank to say it, too. One small step for courtesy. One giant step for the human race.
“They called her Grammy,” Francesca told Hank. “What do you think about calling me Grammy?”
Clara felt Hank relax. “I guess I could call you Grammy, if you think it’s okay.”
Francesca’s eyes went damp again, and she smiled. “I think it would be awesome.”
Now Clara smiled, too. The woman had clearly done her homework and remembered how to talk to a child. A grandmother’s love must be as enormous and exuberant as a mother’s love. Hank could do a lot worse than Francesca Dunbarton for a grandmother.
“Now, then,” Francesca said. “Would you like to see your father’s old room? It looks just like it did when he wasn’t much older than you.”
Hank looked at Clara for approval.
“Go ahead, sweetie,” she told him. “I’d like to see your dad’s room, too.” To Francesca, she added, “If you don’t mind me tagging along.”
“Of course not. Maybe your uncle Grant will come with us. You can, too, Mr. Fiver, if you want to.”
Clara turned to the two men, expecting them to excuse themselves due to other obligations, and was surprised to find Grant looking not at his mother, but at her, intently enough that she got the impression he’d been looking at her for some time. A ball of heat somersaulted through her midsection a few times and came to rest in a place just below her heart. Because the way he was looking at her was the same way Brent had looked at her, whenever he was thinking about...well... Whenever he was feeling frisky. And, wow, suddenly, out of nowhere, Clara started feeling a little frisky, too.
He isn’t Brent, she reminded herself firmly. He might look like Brent and sound like Brent and move like Brent, but Grant Dunbarton wasn’t the sexy charmer who had taught her to laugh and play and frolic one summer, then given her the greatest gift she would ever receive, in the form of his son. As nice as Grant was trying to be, he would never, could never, be his brother. Of that, Clara was certain. That didn’t make him bad. It just made him someone else. Someone who should not—would not, could not, she told herself sternly—make her feel frisky. Even a little.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dunbarton,” Gus said, pulling her thoughts back to the matter at hand—and not a moment too soon. “But I should get back to the office. Unless Clara needs me for anything else.”
She shook her head. He’d only come this morning to be a buffer between her and the Dunbartons, should one be necessary. But Francesca was being so warm and welcoming, and Grant was trying to be warm and welcoming, so... No, Grant was warm and welcoming, she told herself. He just wasn’t quite as good at it as his mother was. As his brother had been, once upon a time.
“Go ahead, Gus, it’s fine,” she said. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. We appreciate it.”
He said his goodbyes and told the Dunbartons he could find his own way out. Clara waited for Grant to leave, too, but he only continued to gaze at her in that heated way, looking as if he didn’t intend to go anywhere. Not unless she was going with him.
He’s not Brent, she told herself again. He’s not.
Now if only she could convince herself he wouldn’t be the temptation his brother had been, too.
Two
Unfortunately, as Francesca led them back the way they’d all come, Grant matched his stride to Clara’s and stayed close enough that she could fairly feel the heat of his body mingling with hers and inhale the faint scent of him—something spicy and masculine and nothing like Brent’s, which had been a mix of sun and surf and salt. It was just too bad that Grant’s fragrance was a lot more appealing. Thankfully, their walk didn’t last long. Francesca turned almost immediately down a hallway that ended in a spiral staircase, something that enchanted Hank, because he’d never seen anything like it.
“Are we going up or down?” he asked Francesca.
“Down,” she said. “But it can be kind of tricky, and sometimes I get a little wonky. Do you mind if I hold your hand, so I don’t fall?”
Hank took his grandmother’s hand and promised to keep her safe.
“Oh, thank you, Hank,” she gushed. “I can already tell you’re going to be a big help around here.”
Something in the comment and Francesca’s tone gave Clara pause. Both sounded just a tad...proprietary. As if Francesca planned for Hank to be around here for a long time. She told herself Francesca was just trying to make things more comfortable between herself and her grandson. And, anyway, what grandmother wouldn’t want her grandson to be around? Clara had made clear through Gus that she and Hank would only be in New York for a week. Everything was fine.
Francesca halted by the first closed door Clara had seen in the penthouse. When the other woman curled her fingers over the doorknob, Clara felt like Dorothy Gale, about to go from her black-and-white farmhouse to a Technicolor Oz. And what lay on the other side was nearly as fantastic: a bedroom that was easily five times the size of Hank’s at home and crammed with boyish things. Brent must have been clinging to his childhood with both fists when he left home.
One entire wall was nothing but shelves, half of them blanketed by books, the other half teeming with toys. From the ceiling in one corner hung a papier-mâché solar system, low enough that a child could reach up and, with a flick of his wrist, send its planets into orbit. On the far side of the room was a triple bunk bed with both a ladder and a sliding board for access. The walls were covered with maps of far-off places and photos of exotic beasts. The room was full of everything a little boy’s heart could ever desire—building blocks, musical instruments, game systems, stuffed animals... They might as well have been in a toy store, so limitless were the choices.
Hank seemed to think so, too. Although he entered behind Francesca, the minute he got a glimpse of his surroundings, he bulleted past his grandmother in a blur. He spun around in a circle in the middle of the room, taking it all in, then fairly dove headfirst into a bin full of Legos. It could be days before he came up for air.
Clara thought of his bedroom back home. She’d bought his bed at a yard sale and repainted it herself. His toy box was a plastic storage bin—not even the biggest size available—and she’d built his shelves out of wood salvaged from a demolished pier. At home, he had enough train track to make a figure eight. Here, he could re-create the Trans-Siberian Railway. At home, he had enough stuffed animals for Old McDonald’s farm. Here, he could repopulate the Earth after the Great Flood.
This was not going to end well when Clara told him it was time for the two of them to go home.
Francesca knelt beside the Lego bin with Hank, plucking out bricks and snapping them together with a joy that gave his own a run for its money. She must have done the same thing with Brent when he was Hank’s age. Clara’s heart hurt seeing them. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child. This meeting with her grandson had to be both comforting and heartbreaking for Francesca.
Clara sensed more than saw Grant move to stand beside her. He, too, was watching the scene play out, but Clara could no more guess his thoughts than she could stop the sun from rising. She couldn’t imagine losing a sibling, either. Although she’d had “brothers” and “sisters” in a couple of her foster homes, sometimes sharing a situation with them for years, all of them had maintained a distance. No one ever knew when they would be jerked up and moved someplace new, so it was always best not to get too attached to anyone. And none of the kids ever shared the same memories or histories as the others. Everyone came with his or her own—and left with them, too. Sometimes that was all a kid left with. There was certainly never anything like this.
“I can’t believe y’all still have this much of Brent’s stuff,” she said.
Grant shrugged. “My mother was always sure Brent would eventually get tired of his wandering and come home, and she didn’t want to get rid of anything he might want to keep. And Brent never threw away anything. Well, no material possessions, anyway,” he hastened to clarify.
When his gaze met hers, Clara knew he was backtracking in an effort to not hurt her feelings by suggesting that Brent had thrown away whatever he shared with her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Brent and I were never... I mean, there was nothing between us that was...” She stopped, gathered her thoughts and tried again, lowering her voice this time so that Francesca and Hank couldn’t hear. “Neither of us wanted or expected anything permanent. There was an immediate attraction, and we could talk for hours, right off the bat, about anything and everything—as long as it didn’t go any deeper than the surface. It was one of those things that happens sometimes, where two people just feel comfortable around each other as soon as they meet. Like they were old friends in a previous life or something, picking up where they left off, you know?”
He studied her in silence for a moment, and then shook his head. “No. Nothing like that has ever happened to me.”
Clara sobered. “Oh. Well. It was like that for me and Brent. He really was a wonderful person when I knew him. We had a lot of fun together for a few weeks. But neither of us wanted anything more than that. It could have just as easily been me who walked away. He just finished first.”
She tried not to chuckle at her wording. Brent finishing first was pretty much par for the course. Not just with their time together, but with their meals together. With their walks together. With their sex together. Yes, that part had been great, too. But he was never able to quite...satisfy her.
“He was always in a hurry,” Grant said.
Clara smiled. “Yes, he was.”
“He was like a hummingbird when we were kids. The minute his feet hit the ground in the morning, he was unstoppable. There were so many things he wanted to do. Every day, there were so many things. And he never knew where to start, so he just...went. Everywhere. Constantly.”
Brent hadn’t been as hyper as that when she met him, but he’d never quite seemed satisfied with anything, either, as if there was something else, something better, somewhere else. He told her he left home at eighteen and had been tracing the coastline of North America ever since, starting in Nome, Alaska, heading south, and then skipping from San Diego to Corpus Christi for the Gulf of Mexico. When she asked him where he would go next, he said he figured he’d keep going as far north into Newfoundland as he could, and then hop over to Scandinavia and start following Europe’s shoreline. Then he’d do Asia’s. Then Africa’s. Then South America’s. Then, who knew?
“He was still restless when I met him,” she told Grant. “But I always thought his restlessness was like mine.”
He eyed her curiously, and her heart very nearly stopped beating. His expression was again identical to Brent’s, whenever he puzzled over something. She wondered if she would ever be able to look at Grant and not see Hank’s father. Then again, it wasn’t as if she’d be looking at him forever. Yes, she was sure to see Grant again after she and Hank left New York, since Francesca would want regular visits, but Clara’s interaction with him would be minimal. Still, she hoped at some point her heart would stop skipping a beat whenever she looked at him. Odd, since she couldn’t remember it skipping this much when she looked at Brent.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I thought his restlessness was because he came from the same kind of situation I did, where he never stayed in one place for very long so couldn’t get rooted for any length of time. Like maybe he was an army brat or his parents were itinerant farmers or something.”
Now Grant’s expression turned to one of surprise. And damned if it didn’t look just like Brent’s would have, too. “He never told you anything about his past? About his family?”
“Neither of us talked about anything like that. There was some unspoken rule where we both recognized that it was off-limits to talk about anything too personal. I knew why I didn’t want to talk about my past. I figured his reasons must have been the same.”
“Because of the foster homes and children’s institutions,” Grant said. “That couldn’t have been a happy experience for you.”
She told herself she shouldn’t be surprised he knew about that, too. Of course his background check would have been thorough. In spite of that, she said, “You really did do your homework.”
He said nothing, only treated her to an unapologetic shrug.
“What else did you find out?” she asked.
He started to say something, then hesitated. But somehow, the look on his face told Clara he knew a lot more than she wanted him to know. And since he had the finances and, doubtless, contacts to uncover everything he could, he’d probably uncovered the one thing she’d never told anyone about herself.
Still keeping her voice low, so that Francesca and Hank couldn’t hear, she asked, “You know where I was born, don’t you? And the circumstances of why I was born in that particular location.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
Which meant he knew she was born in the Bibb County jail to a nineteen-year-old girl who was awaiting trial for her involvement in an armed robbery she had committed with Clara’s father. He might even know—
“Do you know the part about who chose my name?” she asked further, still in the low tone that ensured only Grant would hear her.
He nodded. “One of the guards named you after the warden’s mother because your own mother didn’t name you at all.” Wow. She’d had no idea he would dig that deep. All he’d had to do was make sure she was gainfully employed, reasonably well educated and didn’t have a criminal record herself. He hadn’t needed to bring her— She stopped herself before thinking the word family, since the people who had donated her genetic material might be related to her, but they would never be family. Anyway, he hadn’t needed to learn about them, too. They’d had nothing to do with her life after generating it.
“And I know that after she and your father were convicted,” he continued in a low tone of his own, “there was no one else in the family able to care for you.”
Thankfully, he left out the part about how that was because the rest of her relatives were either addicted, incarcerated or missing. Though she didn’t doubt he knew all that, too. She listened for traces of contempt or revulsion in his voice but heard neither. He was as matter-of-fact about the unpleasant circumstances of her birth and parentage as he would have been were he reading a how-to manual for replacing a carburetor. As matter-of-fact about those things as she was herself, really. She should probably give him kudos for that. It bothered Clara, though—a lot—that he knew so many details about her origins.
Which was something else to add to the That’s Weird list, because she had never really cared about anyone knowing those details before. She would have even told Brent, if he’d asked. She knew it wasn’t her fault that her parents weren’t the cream of society. And she didn’t ask to be born, especially into a situation like that. She’d done her best to not let any of it hold her back, and she thought she’d done a pretty good job.
Evidently, Grant didn’t hold her background against her, either, because when he spoke again, it was in that same even tone. “You spent your childhood mostly in foster care, but in some group homes and state homes, too. When they cut you loose at eighteen, where a lot of kids would have hit the streets and gotten into trouble, you got those three jobs and that college degree. Last year, you bought the bakery where you were working when its owner retired, and you’ve already made it more profitable. Just barely, but profit is an admirable accomplishment. Especially in this economic climate. So bravo, Clara Easton.”