by Ellie Hall
He wanted to reach across the table and hold her hand but a small mountain of paper, newspapers, letters, and circulars formed a wall on the table between them.
After a beat, he asked, “How about Paris? Did you visit the city with them too?”
She nodded and filled him in with a few stories. He got the sense that talking through the pain was helpful.
“Do you want to go there?” he asked, feeling daring. If talking about it brought her some solace, perhaps visiting would as well.
“To France?”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“You have the week off from work. I’ve been but not for years and like London, I only saw it while I was working. Never toured with a French woman.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows.
But she didn’t seem to notice. She rarely met his eyes. Was she afraid? Of what? The same thing that made him keep his distance reversed—did she fear what it meant that he was her brother’s best friend? Was it shyness? Or something else?
Charlotte put the kettle on. “Would you like some tea?” she asked.
Relieved she wasn’t kicking him out, he nodded. Perhaps she didn’t want to be alone, confirming his assumption about Will’s request to look after her. He imagined the moment he walked out the door, she’d slouch into bed and cry.
There were reminders of Sydney everywhere: unless of course, she shared the interests of a man in his seventies who’d collected antiques. It was possible but unlikely. It was as if she hadn’t unpacked her boxes from the move, keeping all of Sydney’s belongings in place like relics.
Maybe she really did need to get out of there. Will suggested she visit the ranch and now he fully understood why.
“So how about France? You can show me the Louvre, where to get the best croissants—chocolate preferred.”
“I’m surprised you’re not as strict with your diet as my brother.” Her eyes flashed to him, wandering up and down his body in a split second and then quickly away.
He was fit and muscular, having filled out since modeling. “Long days at the ranch, wranglin’—” Although it was true that he worked hard on the ranch, he stopped talking because she didn’t seem in a joking mood. But he suddenly had the overwhelming desire—no, need—to make her smile and to hear her laughter.
He plucked a Hershey’s kiss from the jar. “So how about it? My treat.” The chocolate melted in his mouth. “You owe me for taking all the Kisses.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to take them with you on the plane.” She didn’t wear a smile on her lips, but he saw the mirth in her eyes.
“How about it? You. Me. France?”
“Non,” she said as the kettle boiled and she poured tea then set it on the table amidst the overflowing papers, mail, and books.
As he lifted the cup to his lips, he smiled at how comically small it was in his large hand. He wasn’t the kind of guy to sip with his pinky out. He knew exactly where he fit in. “How about the ranch then? I think you’d like it there.”
She shook her head.
He gazed at the tea remaining in his cup and took comically small sips to ensure he had enough time to convince her to leave the townhouse, to get away from her worries and memories.
As he described the rolling hills, the endless sky, and the horses, his eyes landed on a letter from a lawyer. The name Fabian Baxter jumped from the page.
“What about your father?”
“What about him?” Her fingers tightened around her teacup.
“He’s been harassing you. Don’t you want some time away to sort things out?”
“I can sort them out just fine here, thank you very much.”
He looked around doubtfully. “You sure about that?”
“This is all Sydney’s.” She gestured.
“Exactly. Maybe it’s burying you.” He spoke the words carefully, not wanting to upset her, but intent on having her recognize the danger.
She shook her head then looked toward the window. Her hand flitted to her eye and she wiped a tear.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you but perhaps it’s time.” He held up his hands as she started to protest. “Believe it or not, I understand. When my grandfather passed, the ranch stood as a relic. My father lived there as though entombed in all the old—well, just like this.” Wyatt bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t want to say what happened next. “He had a drinking problem. Less than a decade later, I inherited the ranch. It was hard, but I let go of the past. That’s what my grandfather would’ve wanted.”
“How do you know?”
“He always told me how important it was to laugh. After he passed and in the years that followed, if I laughed at all, it was hollow.”
“How about now?”
A grin hitched on his cheeks. “Plenty of laughter at the ranch. You should just see me try to cook.”
A smile hinted on her lips.
“When was the last time you took a vacation?” he asked.
“In my adult life? We didn’t go on a honeymoon. At the last minute, Montgomery had to work and wanted a reimbursement. He’s the biggest numpty of all.” The skin on her nose wrinkled. “Shortly after that, I learned I was pregnant. Then the trip with Sydney and Birdie. But that was more of an escape. My divorce had been finalized, it took a few years because—” She shook her head. “I took care of my mother during her illness, then Birdie, and Sydney of course.”
“So never. You’ve never just taken a vacation: no kids, no caretaking, no family visits or obligations?”
She shook her head. “I guess not.”
“Your ex never whisked you off for a romantic weekend?”
“He was more practical and early on in our relationship, we didn’t have a lot of money.”
Wyatt paused. His attention caught on another piece of paper. “What was his name again?”
“Monty—Montgomery Douglas.”
Wyatt grunted.
“What? Do you know him? Will despised him. Thought he was out for money—my would-be inheritance. So many people tried to take advantage of my brother over the years because of his wealth, I think he started to get paranoid. Then again, I wasn’t a fan of Veronica.”
Wyatt dismissed the notion of Will’s ex-girlfriend and inadvertently spotted a letter from Montgomery’s lawyer—barrister—on the table. He tore his eyes away. It wasn’t any of his business. “I’m sorry your previous marriage didn’t work out. Then again, there’s no such thing as forever.”
Her eyes clouded. After a minute she said, “Tell that to my characters.”
“It’s fiction, of course, they get a happily ever after.”
“I suppose sometimes fiction is better than real life—trying to keep things calm around here and food on the table.”
“What about your inheritance? Doesn’t that help? Or Will? I happen to know that he’d do anything for you.”
“I don’t want help. I want forever.” Her voice was small and she eyed the stairs. Wyatt understood that the sadness was threatening to take her up to bed.
Maybe she didn’t want help, but she sure needed it. However, he wasn’t sure he could give it with her talk of commitment.
“Forever is a long time,” he said around a sigh, also feeling the urge to flee. The conversation was getting too intense. But he owed Will and after the last few days, he couldn’t live with himself if he just left her too.
“You really don’t believe two people can love each other forever?” she asked.
His shoulders lifted and lowered. He’d never seen it or experienced it. In fact, he’d given up on it a long time ago.
“Have you ever been in love?” she asked.
“Once. It didn’t work out.” He didn’t want to talk about it. Wyatt could only count one major failure in his life and his marriage was it.
“Then it wasn’t true love.” Charlotte was a hopeless romantic.
“True love? That’s different than…?” He held up his hands in question.
&
nbsp; “There are all different kinds of love. I love Will as a brother, Sydney as a best friend and father figure, and Birdie, as a daughter.”
“How’d you love Montgomery?” It was a bold question, but he was genuinely curious.
“I loved the idea of him, as a husband and a father. I created a character, much like I do now in fiction. Only, he was none of what I’d constructed in my head. I was looking for love, met him, then applied all of the qualities of a person I’d like to love to him. In the end, none of them fit.”
He nodded, understanding in a roundabout way. “Do you think you can fall in love before you truly know a person? Like all those qualities you thought you were looking for don’t apply to your true love?”
She looked at his chin for a long moment, not meeting his eyes. His burned into her.
“I don’t know.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Maybe you’ll know when you find him.”
“I’m not looking.”
“Then how will you find your forever?” He was flummoxed.
Even though the teacup was empty, he was full of emotions and had enough talking about them. He abruptly got to his feet.
Chapter 11
Charlotte
Charlotte expected Wyatt to storm out the door. The conversation over tea at the table had gotten intense. It wasn’t what she wanted or intended. Thinking about losing her mother and Sydney scored her old wounds and her new ones. It made the ache in her chest throb and she knew it would never heal.
It was clear Wyatt had his own burdens. He’d stiffened when they’d discussed marriage. He claimed to have been in love once, but it didn’t work out. Had he given up on her or himself? Were they not compatible or did they rush into it? Had they changed or did they not have enough in common?
Yet, there was something on his lips when he spoke of love and marriage and forever that defied his words and lack of belief. Still, she couldn’t bear to look into his eyes for confirmation of that hunch because she feared what she’d see there. Or worse, that she’d be hooked. Until he said or showed her otherwise, according to him, there was no such thing as forever.
Her attention held on the mass of paperwork on the table. Unanswered mail, old newspapers, notices for events and sales that had long expired. There were solicitations from not one, but two lawyers. She couldn’t deal with any of it. Easier to keep it buried under her grief along with everything else.
Wyatt’s voice boomed from upstairs, startling her. What was he doing up there? The kitchen and dining room were enough of a mess. She didn’t want him seeing the rest.
When she and Birdie had moved in, she returned to her old room, which Sydney had preserved along with Will’s. Birdie took the guest bedroom. It was the only space she allowed herself to modify, hanging Birdie’s favorite pictures and arranging her toys and dolls.
The rest of the house was like a museum as she held onto anything and everything that connected her to Sydney. She couldn’t bear going through the horrible process of sorting through his things, igniting old memories, and saying goodbye again.
“Birdie has a lot of toys,” Wyatt’s voice echoed from down the hall. He leaned on the doorframe to her daughter’s room, poking his head in.
“What are you doing up here?” Her voice was harsher than she’d meant. She hadn’t noticed him leave the kitchen.
“Looking around.” His lips quirked.
“I’d have given you a tour if you’d asked.”
“This is a massive home. Mayfair is a desirable part of the city, right?” He hinted at something, but she wasn’t sure what.
“Well, of course. It’s historical and the homes here are valuable. Sydney grew up here and he left it to us. He wanted Birdie to grow up here too.” Instead of her one-room flat in Shoreditch.
Sydney didn’t mind visiting the artistic, club-filled area but hadn’t seen a reason for her to live there. It was the best she could afford, given her single income. Her pride and belief in herself made her refuse Will’s offer to buy her a flat or Sydney’s constant attempts to transfer money into her bank account. He’d say, “Charlotte, when I die, I can’t take it with me. I’d rather see you taken care of now.” In the end, he’d left it all for her anyway. Will got the dog, but she’d ended up with him too. She believed the two had conspired when he’d drafted his last will and testament—with Will insisting Sydney bequeath all his wealth to her, along with the townhouse—because her brother was already a billionaire and they both wanted to see her looked after.
She sighed. Wyatt’s large frame, still filling the doorway, brought her mind back to the moment.
He pointed at the heaps of toys, filling Birdie’s room.
“She hardly plays with them. Prefers reading, drawing, and walks in the park.” Charlotte hadn’t let Birdie put the toys elsewhere in the house because then they’d mix with Sydney’s belongings. However, there were a lot. Maybe it wasn’t fair to force her daughter to be surrounded by so many reminders of her father who’d left them.
“Instead of paying child support or visiting on weekends, Montgomery sends her toys.”
“Sounds like a loving father.” Wyatt’s voice dripped with contempt.
“She visits with her grandmother and they have a good relationship, but we both agree that at least for now Birdie is better off just getting the toys. Monty is rather selfish. The original numpty,” she said in a low voice.
He shook his head and then pounded the doorframe once, twice then turned to her. “Sounds a bit like your father.”
“I suppose.” She didn’t want to think about that and how much she stood to lose if either of them upset her carefully balanced life.
“Charlotte, we can do this one of two ways. I can stay here and help you get out from under this slowly filling grave or you can show me to your bedroom.”
She didn’t lift her gaze, but his burned into her. She practically choked then sputtered, not sure which comment she wanted to respond to first. “What are you talking about?” It was the best she could do. Her cheeks flamed with anger and embarrassment.
“It’s up to you.”
“This is not a grave. How dare you, Wyatt.”
He looked up and down the hall, piled with stuff: boxes, bags, books... Sydney was a wonderful man, but never threw a thing away. Even Will said it bordered on hoarding, but she was glad because she didn’t want to part with any of it. If she did, it would mean saying goodbye to him.
“Takes one to know one. I’ve been in your position. I know what it’s like to have a tough time parting with—”
Her hands landed on her hips and she accidentally upended a box of files, sending them spilling onto the floor. Neither moved to pick them up.
“You are not a single mother who never knew her father, lost her mother, her best friend, and has to go it alone,” she spat.
“Fair enough but I am someone who—” He cut himself off. “But you don’t have to go it alone, Charlotte.” A surprising tenderness filled his voice.
But that riled her up even more. “And you want me to show you to my room? Is that what this is about? I thought I made it clear. No marriage. No man.”
The hallway was packed full of seventy-some years of a man’s life. The space was close, forcing them together. Charlotte’s chest heaved and her pulse thundered in her ears.
His eyes surveyed her, but she just watched the rise and fall of his chest, awaiting his apology. She was not that kind of woman and shame on him to think so.
He shifted as though looking up and down the hall, but she wouldn’t know because she couldn’t bear to look at him. “I’m guessing it’s that one.” He took a few paces. “The one with your name on the door. Cute.”
He was too cocky for his own good.
She rolled her eyes. “Sydney was a hobbyist wood carver. Will has a sign on his door too.”
Never mind that they were far too old to have name labels on their doors when Sydney took on their guardianship. He’d been a friend of
her mother’s and in fact, she’d worked for him when they were small. When Maman learned she was sick, she signed over custody so the siblings wouldn’t end up in foster homes until they came of age. Sydney, never having had children of his own, took the role very seriously even though he’d been part of their lives since they could remember. In a lot of ways, he was like a grandfather and a father.
Wyatt poked his head out of her bedroom door. “Coming?”
“I’d never.” She glued herself to the spot.
After a moment, he leaned back and let out a loud belly laugh. “Wait. You thought. Oh, Charlotte, no. No. No. No. You’re Will’s sister. I’m sorry. I should’ve been more specific. Where’s your closet?”
Whatever kind of intimacy happened in closets, she had no idea, but she wasn’t that kind of woman either. Still, the idea of kissing him had occurred to her on more than one occasion. It stung that he only thought of her as Will’s sister and would openly laugh at the idea of the two of them being together in that way. But it was no surprise since he didn’t believe in true love or, apparently, marriage.
Wyatt disappeared into her room. She heard the closet door roll open then the dresser drawers slamming.
Unable to quell her curiosity, she peered into her room. “What are you doing?”
A suitcase lay open on the bed and he threw in clothing willy-nilly. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m packing.”
“For what?” she demanded.
“For your vacation.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She strode into the room.
“I insist,” he said without breaking from filling her suitcase.
Charlotte stepped closer. His mass overshadowed her as he blocked her from taking a pair of flannel pajamas out of the suitcase.