I give her a I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing-and-heeeeeelllllp look, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Probably because she’s beaming as we turn toward the dining room. I bet in two-point-five seconds, she picks up the phone to call Malik’s mom and tell her about how Charles has come out of his shell and is dining with his neighbors.
If she knew my identity—and thus, her job—hung by such a precarious thread, she wouldn’t be so excited.
“Holiday,” Mrs. Hannigan, the lady who gave me all her old doilies, calls out and my stomach drops into my knees. No, no, no, no, no. Five seconds into the dining hall and I’m going to have to drag out my ridiculous story again.
Malik is going to think I’m insane when he sees just how big my supposed holiday-loving reputation is.
“Where ya been hiding lately?”
Malik raises a brow at me, and my heart revolts, feeling like it’s trying to climb up my throat.
“Um, you know, just busy!” I say to her, steering Mr. Buchannan in the opposite direction. I can’t miss the way Malik stares, and I know he’s wondering if my “holiday obsession” is a little out of hand.
“I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” I call over my shoulder. I meet Malik’s gaze, shrugging. “My, um, grandma has lived here a long time, so I know a lot of the residents super well. Sometimes I help other people decorate for holidays, too. It’s one of those my-reputation-precedes-me sort of things, if you know what I mean.”
I bring Charles and Malik toward one of the smaller tables, near a window, just far enough removed from the rest of the diners that it’ll put off anyone else in the room trying to talk to us.
I pull out a chair for Charles, one that will give him a nice view of the lake but puts his back to the crowds, so he doesn’t get overwhelmed. He hangs his cane on the edge of the table and sits down, studying the place settings.
I hope he knows how to use them, because I sure don’t.
“This silver is rather shoddy,” Charles says, holding up a fork. “Does no one polish it?”
I swallow. “Um, mine looks pretty sparkly,” I say. “I’m sure someone polishes it.”
A waitress swoops in then, filling our water glasses and saving me from more talk of silverware.
Charles doesn’t speak until the waitress leaves, and then he peers down his nose at the menu. “Have you eaten here before?”
“Yes, a few times,” I lie. I don’t know what most of the words on the menu even mean, so I’ve always picked one of the other two on-site restaurant options to eat at. But I know enough about the restaurant to fake it. “Um, they’ve received two Michelin stars. The food is very good.”
“Hmph,” he says, flipping the page of the menu.
I don’t know what else to say, so I open up my own leather-bound menu and study it. As I pretend to read, the table falls awkwardly silent. I’ll just let them order first and say, “Me too,” and then hope I don’t hate it.
“I was thinking we could go to an art auction,” Charles says abruptly.
“Really?” Malik says, his shock evident. “That would be amazing.”
Has Charles really not left his place at all? It’s been weeks since we went and bought the Goya. How could he just . . . stay inside his apartment? I mean, sure, his place is big, but if he doesn’t even come downstairs for the recreational stuff, doesn’t he get stir crazy?
“You too,” Charles says, nodding in my direction. “You can choose which one.”
My jaw drops. “You want me to pick an auction for you?”
“You were right about The Nude Maja, weren’t you? I’ve been out of the art world too long. Find me something exciting, and maybe I’ll go.”
I can tell by Malik’s stunned reaction that this is the most outgoing he’s been in months . . . maybe longer. When I don’t reply, Malik nudges my ankle with the toe of his shoe.
“Oh, um, yes!” I say, realizing I’m just sitting here, gaping. “That would be great. I would be happy to find you something. What are you looking for?”
He shrugs. “Something grand to hang over the fireplace.”
“Sure. Yes. Definitely. I can find something with paintings.” I don’t even know if that’s true—I don’t know how to find something worthy of Charles Buchannan.
“Hello!” comes a voice, and the screeching of a chair.
I look up to find Henrietta taking the fourth, empty seat, beaming from ear to ear.
“Heyyyy,” I say, dragging out the word as I churn through all the ways the next few moments could go. I smile as wide as I can, glancing over at Charles. I don’t know if the extra company will set him off.
He is sitting perfectly still, staring at Henrietta as she carefully slides into the chair.
“Uh, may I introduce you to Mr. Charles Buchannan?” I ask, nodding in his direction. “He’s the new resident on your floor. And this is his grandson, Malik.”
She smiles, wide and warm, in that way only Henrietta can. I hope I’m half as chipper and outgoing as she is when I get to be her age.
Charles nods curtly in her direction.
But Henrietta is, as ever, oblivious to any verbal coldness. She grabs the linen napkin, smoothing it across her lap. “What is your favorite place in the world, Charles?”
“What?” he snaps, suspicion flaring in his eyes. “What kind of question is that?”
“She asks everyone that,” I explain, glancing over at Malik to find him pursing his lips in amusement. Now he knows I wasn’t kidding when I said I got my little question from Henrietta.
“It’s more interesting than asking what you do for a living,” Henrietta adds. “Especially at our age. Don’t you think?”
Charles sort of leans back in his chair, as if caught off guard by Henrietta’s forwardness. Or maybe it’s because he’s spent his life being defined by his company, and Henrietta has clearly expressed that she finds being defined by your career uninteresting.
Henrietta beams. “Mine is Venice,” she explains.
Surprise blooms across Charles’s face. “I love Venice. I have a vacation home there, on Calle Del Scaleter.”
Henrietta grins. “There’s a great restaurant on that street. They serve the best gnocchi I’ve ever had. It’s called—”
“Da Fiore,” they say simultaneously.
When Charles smiles, wide and bright, it’s all I can do to keep my jaw from dropping.
“You’ve been there,” Henrietta says.
“Every time I visit,” he says.
“It’s worth the long wait for a table,” Henrietta replies.
“The best things in life are worth the wait,” he says.
There’s a spark of interest in his eyes, and for the first time, I realize that maybe my mom was right about him needing this place.
Maybe if he realizes the residents aren’t just put out to pasture—they’re interesting people with full lives—he’ll come out of his shell. Maybe this is just one lunch, but it’s a step in the right direction.
If I can keep dragging him out of his apartment, he’ll realize Sunrise House is pretty awesome, and he’ll stay. . . .
And my mom’s job will be secure.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A week later, I follow Malik down a long corridor, my low heels clicking on the glossy hardwood, my fingers wrapped around a thin paper booklet. I really hope this auction doesn’t suck. It was the only thing on the Mozak and Klein schedule. I figured if they had the pull to put together an auction for Roger Cartwell, they probably sold other awesome stuff.
“Slow down,” Charles grumbles behind me. My step falters as a blush blooms across my cheeks. How could I forget he has a freaking cane?
Malik just flashes him a grin. “I thought you wanted time to read the catalog before they started.”
Charles harrumphs, as if to admit that Malik is right but he doesn’t like it.
“Dad,” a voice calls out, and I glance over Malik’s shoulder to see a stunning woman with wavy black hair stepping out
of the room we were heading to. Her long, slim legs and stiletto heels gobble up the distance between us, and I’m so awestruck by her wide-eyed, model-good-looks that it takes a moment for the truth to hit me.
If she called Charles Dad, that mean’s she’s . . .
“Mom,” Malik says, “I thought you couldn’t make it.”
As she steps up closer to us, she starts to speak, but then her eyes land on me and she turns away from her son.
“Lucy, I presume?” She flashes me a dazzling smile that clearly conveys she’s excited to meet me, and extends her hand.
She knows my name.
No, wait, that’s not my name.
“Yep, that’s me,” I say brightly, extending my hand. “Nice to meet you . . .”
“Patricia,” she offers. “Patricia Buchannan. It’s so nice to finally meet the girl who has inspired my father.”
Charles huffs beside us but says nothing.
“Oh, I mean, I don’t know about that,” I say, shyness suddenly overwhelming me. “I really didn’t do anything.”
“Well,” she says brightly, the smile never leaving her face, “that painting you found certainly woke him up. So I owe you a big thank-you.”
“Um, okay,” I say meekly, fighting the urge to look over at Charles. He must be embarrassed by this, right? He doesn’t seem to like people judging him, picking him apart. Even I know that. “Uh, you’re welcome.”
“I saved us some seats,” she says, turning back to her father. “Middle of the room, just like you like.”
Malik and I swap a glance, and I know he’s remembering my insistence on our date to sit in the middle of the room. So maybe Charles and I have art and seating preferences in common.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” Charles says, waving his hand at her like a pesky fly. In that instant, I know I was right and his daughter’s words have embarrassed him.
Patricia takes Charles’s elbow, and they walk into the room ahead of us, making their way toward a row of seats in the middle. Malik and I trail after, our hands clasped.
“Malik!” someone calls out, the voice soft, feminine, and a little too high-pitched.
His fingers slip from mine as we both turn toward the voice.
A petite redhead with vibrant green eyes grins, flinging her arms around him and forcing me to step back or get smacked in the face. “It’s so great to see you!”
She does the whole air-kisses-on-his-cheek thing that I’ve only ever seen on TV, then steps back to smile at him.
She studies him, blinking demurely as she fingers an enormous diamond pendant. The kind of diamond that people look for in wrecked ships or something. The kind of thing that could pay for four years of college with money left over.
Whoever this girl is, she’s not removed from Malik’s world.
“You’ve been hiding from me, haven’t you?”
He laughs uncomfortably. “Of course not.”
She pouts, reaching out to run her finger down his arm. “You didn’t return my last call.”
I take a tiny, involuntary step back, immediately wondering if he ever reserved whole movie theaters for her.
Her eyes flit to me, as if she hadn’t seen me standing beside him until now, and her hand goes back to the diamond pendant. Her eyes narrow, until I can barely see them between her thick, curly lashes. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
“I don’t believe we have,” I say, trying to keep my voice level to pretend this girl doesn’t intimidate me.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Malik says. “Lucy, this is my friend Emma. Emma, this is my girlfriend, Lucy.”
I nearly gasp out loud.
My girlfriend. Oh my god, he just introduced me as his girlfriend! I’m about to start spinning in circles and singing, “The hills are aliiiive,” when reality hits.
Hard.
I’m not supposed to be his girlfriend. I’m his fling. This is casual. Completely, totally casual.
I reach a hand out, pretending not to notice that her freckled face seems to have paled. “Nice to meet you.”
She makes no move to accept my outstretched hand. Instead, her eyes sweep over me, and I’m suddenly, entirely grateful for Alex’s clothes. They might not be Armani or Gucci or whatever this girl is probably wearing, but they’ll do.
“Likewise,” she says, but there’s no truth behind the words.
I drop my hand, realizing I’ve left it sticking out about three heartbeats too long. I don’t know what to do with it since I have no pockets and no fancy diamond necklace to play with.
Malik saves me, his fingers finding mine and giving them a squeeze.
The shift in her is almost imperceptible, but it’s there: the flash of self-doubt, the slightest pink tinge to her cheeks.
Behind us—at the front of the big ballroom, someone speaks. “If you could please find your seats,” the man says, “we’ll get things started.”
“Well, it was nice to see you again,” Malik says, pulling me away without bothering to glance back at her.
“It was so lovely to meet you,” I add, almost feeling sorry for her.
Almost.
“Thank you,” Malik whispers, his words hot on my ear.
“Anytime,” I respond, trying not to analyze his gratitude and failing.
What’s he thanking me for? Not overreacting to meeting his Barbie-perfect ex? Pretending to be his girlfriend? Is that what happened back there? Did he actually mean it when he called me his girlfriend?
“I need to talk to you for a minute,” he says, pulling me in the opposite direction of our seats, back toward the door we originally came through.
We navigate upstream through the crush of people decked out in fancy suits and gold watches and tailored skirts moving to find their seats. I don’t miss the curious glances, the ladies whose eyes rake over Malik and then me in turn. I get the overwhelming sense that they all know him and he’s their golden boy.
The hallway is empty and unusually quiet. My heels echo down the hall.
Malik faces me, his lips curling into an adorably boyish smile. “Sorry you had to meet her.”
“She seemed delightful,” I joke.
He chuckles, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I have an overwhelming urge to close my eyes and lean into his touch.
“At the urging of my mother, I went on one date with her six months ago. I haven’t been able to get rid of her since.”
“Why? Does your mom like her?”
He shrugs. “Emma’s father is a senator, and she’s going to go to med school. It made sense, at first. I thought she’d get what I wanted to do. Why else would she want to become a doctor, if not to help people? But it wasn’t about that. It was about the prestige and the title. I don’t even know if she’s going to practice medicine after graduation, or if she just wants to put a few letters behind her name.”
“Oh.”
“But that wasn’t why I needed to talk to you.”
“Okay . . . ,” I say.
He glances back at the room we just left, as if he doesn’t want to be overheard. But when he turns back to face me, I realize it’s not about that at all.
He’s nervous.
“It’s just . . . when I introduced you to her, I didn’t mean to call you my girlfriend. It slipped out.”
Oh my god. That’s why he’s nervous. He’s backpedaling, trying to retract the label. The label I’m not supposed to want. I look down at the floor, feeling like I just went from zero to sixty and back again. I don’t want to acknowledge my disappointment. This is good, that he doesn’t want to be boyfriend and girlfriend.
We’re never supposed to label it. Flings don’t have labels.
“Hey. Look at me.”
I glance up at him, trying not to betray my thoughts. I force the best smile I can muster.
“The thing is, as soon as I said the words . . .” He steps closer, so that there’s scarcely an inch between us, and I have to tip my head back to look up into his eyes. “I
realized I wanted it to be true. I want you to be my girlfriend.”
Emotions wage war in my chest. I’m thrilled and scared, flattered and worried. But when I look at the sincerity and the hopefulness splayed across his face, there’s no way I can reject him.
“Okay,” I say. As the word slips out, I feel both relieved and guilty.
This can still be a fling. Being his girlfriend isn’t that big of a deal, right? There’s less than a month until I leave. It’s not like this little label will mean that much in the grand scheme of things.
He grins so widely, his pearly white teeth flash. “Yes, you’ll be with me? Exclusively?”
“Yes,” I say, unable wipe the smile from my face. “Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend.”
“Great. Now let’s go watch my grandfather buy an obscene amount of art.”
Two hours later, I’m standing on an observation deck outside the auction house, staring out across the water. Beside me, Charles leans on his cane.
Malik went to grab some coffee while his mother went to pay for the painting Charles purchased, leaving me alone with Charles and trying to feel out whether he’s enjoyed his day. He’s . . . oddly silent.
Until he’s not.
“That’s our building, you know,” he says, motioning to a tower in the distance.
“The tall one, right?”
“Yes. Tallest building in Bellevue.” Pride drips from his voice. “Even the materials used in the facility are American made. The steel, the flooring, the fixtures . . . everything.”
“Is that how your daughter’s real estate projects are done?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t allow her to be part of the company if she would do it any other way.”
“You must be very proud of all you’ve accomplished,” I say.
“I am,” he replies simply.
I glance over at him from the corner of my eye, trying to discern his mood. He’s chattier than normal, not quite as guarded. It’s almost like the art auction was what he needed to draw him out of his curmudgeon shell.
“Does it bother you, not going there every day?”
His lips thin, and he doesn’t speak, just gives me a curt nod.
“If your daughter aligns so well with the vision of the company . . . why isn’t she the one sitting in your office? Why isn’t she your voice in the boardroom?”
Everything but the Truth Page 13