Chapter Eighteen

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The house's seams struggle to hold the friends, family, neighbors, old employees, and strangers bloating the rooms and hallways after Gramps's funeral. Many of the faces are foreign, but they regale me with stories that are vintage Gramps. It makes me feel inflated, too, ready to burst from the grief and happiness and celebration lining the walls and dusting the carpet. As good as solitude sounds, I also have a desperate desire to keep these people around me indefinitely, because it feels like my grandfather isn't gone.

He'll never be gone from Heron Creek. I know that.

Aunt Karen took charge of organizing today, which is fine with me. I'm exhausted from crying, from the endless decisions about food and times and programs, not to mention the question of what I'm going to do next. The house will probably belong to the Coopers now, but I'm holding on to the smallest sliver of hope that my aunt will be gracious and let me stay, at least for a while.

It will kill me if she wants to sell it, but there won't be anything I can do to stop her.

I wander from room to room with a giant yellow trash bag, snagging stray paper plates and balled-up napkins, funeral programs that have been discarded on end tables, content to be among the mourners but, for a few precious moments, fade into the background.

"Hey, Grace."

My shoulders tense at the familiar face, heart still struggling with my mixed-feelings over Gramps's last request. I know my instant reaction of ire has more to do with my own sorrow than anything she's done, but recognizing that and controlling my reaction are two different things. The whole maturing plan is a work in progress.

"Amelia. It's nice that you were able to make it today. Have you tried the punch?"

She closes her eyes for a second, and I take the opportunity to study her. Amelia's always been the prettier of the two of us, and though we share the same green eyes—handed down from Grams—she's got her mother's blond pixie looks as opposed to the dusky brown hues that darken my features. Her skin glows today, peachy and dewy, and even though she's barley showing, that she's pregnant seems written all over her.

Her bright green eyes flutter open, and they're guarded in a way that never would have seemed possible ten years ago. She doesn't trust me, and even her sorrow is masked by a cool facade designed to keep me at bay. "I meant to come sooner, Grace, I did. Can I help?"

The weakness of her apology kills what little energy I have left. We're both reeling from the loss of Gramps, whether she thought it was important to show up before the fact or not. This isn't the time to revisit our personal war, and a tired sigh wriggles loose from my chest. "Sure. I was going to wash up the coffee cups and silverware. Your mom is going to want to drop once everyone leaves. Are you staying tonight?"

"Yes, I'd planned on it. I'll get those dishes."

My cousin heads off toward the kitchen, having done the impossible—made me feel guilty for treating her coolly, when she's the one who should feel badly. She'd only driven into town this morning, in time to change clothes and go with us to the church, then the graveside, and I'd avoided talking to her until now. The thought of seeing her pig husband had twisted my guts into hopeless tangles all day, but he didn't made an appearance. Now, I'm not sure why I expected him to be here at all.

I follow her into the kitchen after cleaning the trash out of the music room and stuff everything disposable on the counters into the bag before tying it closed. She washes dishes, a disquiet about her that sets my nerves on edge. No matter what else is going on, I'm not going to miss out on the opportunity to talk with her while she's in town—really talk, and see if she can convince me the thrum of dread I feel is unfounded.

The bag weighs a ton, scraping the ground as I hoist it and lurch toward the back door. It tumbles out of my grasp during a superhuman attempt to kick the waist-high handle, but a strong, tanned hand reaches out and retrieves it.

I look up into golden eyes, sober but clear. A lifeline. "Hi, Mr. Mayor. Thanks for coming."

It's an automatic response after so many of the same, but inside it makes me wince. No irritation crosses his face, though, as he holds open the door. "I'll carry this out to the Dumpster. Would you fancy a walk?"

The Dumpster is at the end of the block, behind a bait-and-tackle shop. I wasn't going to make the trip until everyone leaves, but now the idea of fresh air and silence tugs me outside without another thought.

Beau's been around over the past three days, a silent, supportive, gorgeous piece of scenery. Aunt Karen has gotten used to him, even though she still thanks him fifteen times a day for basically just breathing. He and I haven't had much time alone, but his presence alone bolsters my resolve when it seems impossible to walk through another minute. It surprises me how easily he's slipped into my life, and how wrong it would feel if he disappeared.

Surprises, terrifies. Potato, pohtahto.

Once the numbness that's accompanied the planning phase of Gramps's death wears off, I'll have to face what's going on between the mayor and me, along with what I want to be going on between the two of us. Right now, I'm thankful he's here.

He takes my hand in his halfway down the block, holding it lightly as though it might break. Or he's afraid I'm going to pull away. "You're doing fine, Gracie. Keep smiling. People will start leaving soon."

Tears gather in my eyes but I blink them away. Keep smiling. We make it to the end of the block in silence, but it's not strained or empty. Not missing words, but fine without them. Beau tosses the heavy bag into the green Dumpster while I hold up the lid, then we turn and head back.

"I don't know if this appeals to you, but if you'd like to get out of the house this evening, I'd be happy to cook you dinner at my place. If you'd rather stay with your family, that's fine, but I wanted you to know the offer's out there. I know sometimes it's good to change up the scenery."

I should say no because Amelia and I have things to discuss, and I don't know how long she's going to stay. I should say no because my grandfather just died and the idea of spending the evening with a handsome man who makes me feel good shouldn't be so appealing. I should say no, but the idea of being able to breathe in air, to exist in rooms that don't remind me of Gramps sounds like a life preserver in a choppy sea.

"I'd like that."

Pleasure lights his face, turns his eyes amber in the afternoon light. "Is eight o'clock okay? That should give you plenty of time to wind things down here and head over. But I have one condition—keep it casual."

A faint smile, the first one in days that doesn't wobble and isn't brought on by a Gramps memory, feels strange on my lips. It's as though I thought it would never happen again, but here it is, only three days later. "What, no demands to wear a dress this time?"

"Heck, no. Come in your pajamas if you want."

The house looms ahead before I'm ready to see it, which is the strangest feeling of all. I wonder if it will always be a sad place now or if all of the laughter and pranks, nights spent playing cards or whispering after bedtime, will wash away the briefer moments of loss. They have to.

The sight of Amelia at the sink helps, in some strange way. Her arms are submerged in soapy water, and she hums a quiet song. It's sad, but familiar in a way that tugs on my heart. She hears us and turns, leaving me no alternative but to introduce the two of them. Given her perfect looks and even more perfect manners, introducing boys to my cousin has never been my favorite thing to do. Next to her, I feel a little like Anne Bonny must have felt—wild and awkward.

"Mayor Drayton, this is my cousin, Amelia Cooper Middleton."

"A pleasure." Amelia wipes her hand on the sunny yellow apron, faded from years of protecting my Grams from jams and piecrusts and applesauce.

Beau smiles at her, dimples in full force. "Mine. You can call me Beau, as I've asked Gracie to do on many occasions."

She laughs, a pretty, tinkling sound that's never been a true indication of how evil her sense of humor really is, and extends a hand to Beau. "Grace can be stubborn."

My gasp startles them both, and I can't tear my eyes away from their joined hands. "Millie, Jesus, what happened to your arm?"

Bruises—purple and black, some greenish yellow—loop her wrist and forearm, some closer to her elbow. She pulls her hand from Beau's and rolls her sleeve back down to her wrist, pink clouds blossoming in her cheeks. I grab her hand and yank it toward me before she can hide it but drop it like it's on fire when she yelps in pain.

"It's nothing, just an accident. I was w-walking the dogs the other day and a f-fox ran across the street. Their leashes got tangled up around my arm."

"You're lying." Millie's stutter had disappeared before we hit junior high—Aunt Karen had seen to that—except when she wasn't being truthful. Sometimes I thought her mother had paid the speech therapist so it turned out that way. "Why would you lie to me?"

The fear and humiliation pinching her features transforms back into the cool mask, and she pins me with a gaze that backs me up two or three steps with the force of its contempt. "I think you know very well why I wouldn't trust you."

Venom hits me, burns. Eats at my resolve.

Beau steps up, the heat of his body radiating into my back, and presses a warm hand to my waist. "Would you walk me out, Graciela? I'm afraid I need to get going. It was very nice to meet you, Amelia."

She doesn't respond, just turns back to the sink and plunges her hands into the soapy water with so much force that a bunch sloshes onto the floor. Protests and emotions clog my throat, slow my thoughts and my feet, but Beau grabs my hand and tugs me out of the kitchen, through the music room, and into the foyer.

His arms go around me, and without thinking, I squeeze his hard body with everything I've got. The ground is shifting again, rocks tumbling under my toes, but Beau won't let me fall.

"Don't let it go, Gracie." His soft breath tickles the skin under my ear. "She's scared and embarrassed, but you might be the one she'll talk to. Get her alone, and don't let her lie anymore." He pulls back, brushing a kiss at my hairline. "I'll see you tonight, okay? Keep your chin up."

He leaves after typing his address into my phone, letting the screen door slam behind him. I spend the rest of the afternoon on autopilot—cleaning, thanking people for coming, walking them to the door. Aunt Karen seems to have aged ten years in the past couple of weeks, and Uncle Wally's feet are dragging, too. Amelia and I pick up the slack, in silent agreement that it's our turn to take charge, and send her parents out to dinner since none of us managed to choke down anything during the reception.

It's seven before my cousin finishes the last of the dishes, and I've hauled four more giant trash bags down the street to the Dumpster. I take a quick shower, then choose a pair of jeans and a yellow tank top, add my favorite pair of flat sandals, and put my hair up in a bun once it's dry. He did say come casual, but even so I stand in front of the mirror, staring blankly at my straightener before giving up on the idea of fixing my hair.

I almost trip twice on my way down the stairs, even though there's still time to get to the mayor's house. Uncle Wally's in the living room, his feet up on the coffee table and a newspaper in hand.

He raises an eyebrow at my appearance. "Where ya going?"

"To the mayor's house for dinner. I won't be late." I avoid looking at Gramps's empty chair, as I have since he passed. "Where's Millie?"

"In the kitchen, I think."

Amelia's slumped over in a kitchen chair, a cool, evening breeze ruffling the hem of her navy blue skirt. I gird myself for another attack, but her eyes are red, defeated, when she raises her head from her hands. "Hey."

"Hey. I'm going over to Mayor Drayton's for a little while, but...don't leave, Millie. I want to talk to you while you're here."

She seems to consider, her lips pressed in a tight line. "I won't leave, Grace," she finally replies. "Not tonight. Have fun."

I back out of the room before she changes her mind, then scoot out the front door before Aunt Karen accosts me with a hundred more questions about my relationship with the mayor.

Despite the fact that it's ten minutes until eight, I decide to walk. The sun hovers just above the horizon, content to show off the beauty of its rays but release us from the brunt of its heat. The air smells like salt and moss as it fills my lungs, and being outside the house slips energy and excitement into my blood. I set off down the sidewalk, content to let my mind switch into an "off" position for the first time in days. No Anne Bonny, no grief. No worry over Amelia or constantly being picked at by Aunt Karen. The town passes by, a place that still feels like home, despite the loss of my grandfather.

Beau's house peers out over the riverfront, with a half-acre or so separating the three-story turn-of-the-century home from the marsh that turns into water. It's quiet, with no neighbors on either side. Giant live oaks dot the expanse of grass, heavy branches twisting down into the water, their moss trailing across the surface. It's beautiful, and I take a moment to breathe it in before heading up onto the white-painted wraparound porch.

I use the ornate door knocker just for the hell of it, then bare my teeth at the bronze lion's head. Footsteps approach from inside, and I rearrange my face into something less insane—at least marginally. Nerves get to work on my stomach, tangoing and salsaing up a storm.

They're Latin, my nerves. I wonder if they'd settle down if I spoke to them in Spanish. Which would, of course, mean learning Spanish.

They seem intent on forcing me to hurl all over the threshold, even though there's almost nothing in my stomach. It would be mortifying to puke on the mayor. Typical, for the current state of my life, but mortifying all the same.

I manage to not heave as he opens the door, wearing a soft smile that for some reason looks as though he's been waiting all day just to give it to me. It steals what's left of my breath, and makes my Latin nerves shimmy into overdrive, until the world spins a bit on the edges. He holds out a hand and pulls me into the foyer.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you it's rude to lurk in doorways?" He grins wider, then takes a deep breath through his nose. "Mmm. You smell fantastic."

Now, that's a reason to shower more often. My heart speeds up, and even though I'm a twenty-five-year-old woman who has been engaged, I feel for all the world like a fifteen-year-old girl on her first date. It's amazing to realize that I can still get excited, feel things other than cynicism and distrust, but more than that, it keeps at bay the pain of the past several days.

Weeks. Months.

I follow Beau through the foyer and a proper dining room, then into the kitchen. It's masculine and modern, with dark hardwood floors, matching cabinets, granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances. It surprises me that he'd want an updated kitchen, since most bachelors I know aren't very into cooking, but I've been realizing—slowly—that maybe Beau's not like other single guys.

He motions me to a stool on the outside edge of a good-sized island, then returns his attention to one skillet full of sizzling mushrooms, onions, and red peppers, another browning chicken, on the stove between us. The cookware suspended from a rack on the ceiling gives me pause—with my luck, there's an excellent chance it'll brain me.

Mayor Beau catches the direction of my gaze and chuckles, flipping some chicken and then checking on a boiling pot of pasta. "I think you'll be fine, Graciela. That stuff's been hanging there all three years I've been in the house and hasn't killed a guest yet."

The comment makes me wonder how many other girls have sat on this stool, but even though he knows more about my past relationships than I do about his, getting the answer doesn't appeal to me. While details about exes have never been interesting to me, a little more about his dating history would be welcome information. But kicking loose from warmth of the moment, like an insulting cocoon, sounds like the worst idea ever.

He turns around to grab more items out of the fridge, giving me a nice view of his backside in the process. Jeans so faded the pockets are tearing loose, paired with a soft-looking Gamecocks T-shirt say he took his own advice to keep the evening casual. He's barefoot, and while I've never considered it before now, the sight of him cooking for me this way makes me think I might have a bit of a foot fetish. If I were a different person I'd rip my clothes off and hop on the counter.

His eyebrows pop upward when he turns and catches me staring, those eyes drinking in my expression until they flash with hunger. "Gracie..."

I shake my head, struggling to breathe. "What are you cooking?"

The question lets the air out of the heat between us, enough that it's not going to ignite right away but not enough for it to vacate the room entirely.

He steps back to the stove, slicing off some butter into the skillet, then adding chunks of garlic and a few tablespoons of lemon juice. Avoiding looking at me. "I hope pasta's okay. To be honest, my repertoire of recipes isn't all that vast."

"It smells good. I think I'm hungry, actually."

"When's the last time you ate something?"

It takes me a full minute to figure out it's Thursday, and another to think back to the last meal I actually sat down and ate. "Tuesday night?"

"For heaven's sake. Hasn't anyone been looking out for you?"

"I'm a grown woman, Beau. I can take care of myself. None of us have felt much like eating, I guess, and there's been plenty to do."

"I'm aware that you're a grown woman, Graciela. Trust me. But everyone can use some help now and again."

I shrug, dismissing the lecture, and he frowns into his melting butter concoction.

"See, watch me." He clears his throat as though he's about to give a demonstration in front of the Chamber of Commerce. "Would you please grab some garlic bread from the freezer and pop it in the oven while I finish up the sauce?"

"Sure." I slide off the stool, slipping off my sandals and leaving them under the bar. Maybe he's one of those people who doesn't like shoes in the house but didn't want to embarrass me.

There are two boxes of bread in the freezer, one with cheese and the other with plain breadsticks. I choose the cheesy option, deciding that I should enjoy this rare and probably never-to-come-again opportunity to need to put on weight instead of the other way around. Once the bread is in the oven I lean back against the counter, watching Beau combine his thin spaghetti noodles with his buttery lemon sauce, chicken, and vegetables. He tosses it together in the bigger pot, then dumps it into a big serving bowl and sets it between the stools.

"Four minutes until the bread's done," I tell him.

He's in front of me then, hands on my waist, before I know what happened. "I think I know how to kill that time," he murmurs.

His lips brush mine, as soft as ever, but that's not going to do it for me. For everything Beau has the potential to be in my life,

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