Inescapably, she compared it to her two-bedroom, one-bath apartment above the bakery. Her furniture was old, too, but her Midcentury Salvage wasn’t nearly as chic, and her original artwork had been executed by a preschooler. Add to that the general chaos that came with having said preschooler underfoot—and also rocks, puzzle pieces and Cheerios underfoot—and it was pretty clear who had the better living space. She just hoped Hank didn’t notice that, too. But judging by the way he walked with his eyes wide, his neck craned and his mouth open, she was pretty sure he did.
“So...how long have y’all lived here?” she asked Grant. Mostly because no one had said a word since she and Hank and Gus entered, and she was beginning to think none of them would ever speak again.
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