She’d thought.
She wasn’t so sure now. This place was intimidating as hell.
“Wow.” She cut the engine. “I seriously can’t believe you grew up here.”
He was silent, almost as if he hadn’t heard her, his mouth a grim line and a muscle in his jaw twitching.
She waited a few beats, but when he made no move and didn’t speak, she tried again. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You don’t even have to tell Chef Lalande that you didn’t do it. He doesn’t know you’re here, so he’ll never know you bailed.”
He started nodding then, very slightly, but repeatedly. “But I will.”
“Okay then. I’ll wait here, getaway car at the ready?”
That got his full attention. He turned in his seat, his eyes boring into her face in a way that would have felt sexual in another context. He was looking at her like she was a delicious dessert, or a life raft.
“Would you come with me?” he asked softly, and then the intensity of his regard evaporated, replaced by a sheepish grin.
“Of course.” She was disproportionately thrilled that he’d asked. The idea that her presence might provide some measure of support or comfort was almost enough to bring back those tears that had been threatening.
“I have no idea how this is going to go down,” he said. “It might be ugly.”
“Pshaw.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I work in fashion. I’m well versed in ugly. I know ugly, my friend.”
He cocked his head, and his stare turned quizzical.
“What?” she said.
“I think I know what you mean, but it’s just a funny thing to hear you say, because you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”
* * *
They might not even be home, Bennett told himself as he levered his body out of the tiny car. They’d had him later in life, so they would be into their sixties by now, but even so, he’d be surprised if his father was retired. And his mother used to have DAR meetings on Tuesday afternoons—how the hell did he remember that?
Anyway, it wasn’t like he was off the hook if they weren’t home. He couldn’t come this far and not follow through. If no one answered the door, they’d have to wait. It would just be—
Gia grabbed his hand, interrupting the tumble of his manic thoughts, and the fact that it was her taking his hand and not the reverse gave him a weird injection of confidence. Like if Gia was on his team, it was going to be okay, even if things went to shit.
“Let’s do this,” she said.
He nodded, led her up the steps to the porch, and rang the doorbell.
If he’d been harboring any hope of putting this off, or perhaps a wish that the door would be answered by Mrs. Johnson, the longtime housekeeper, they were dashed when he heard footsteps clacking across the tile entryway.
He’d forgotten that noise, but it was immediately familiar, as close to him as if he’d never left. His mother always wore high heels, even at home.
She swung open the door, talking as she did so. “I told you that the peonies aren’t—”
She froze. Blinked rapidly.
She was so old. Life had lurched ahead without him. Of course it had. Not that her face betrayed her sixty-five years—his mother would never allow that to happen. It was more the reverse—she was too taut, her skin too smooth and stretched too tightly over the bone. She’d always been slim, but she was tiny now, like a little shrunken bird.
But the Chanel suit was the same. And the shoes.
Gia squeezed his hand.
“Hi, Mom,” he croaked.
“Bennett,” she said, like he was merely here for a routine visit. Like it hadn’t been fourteen years since they’d seen each other. She was no longer blinking, just looking at him with her eyebrows raised questioningly.
Gia squeezed harder.
“I’ve come to…” What? Apologize was not the right word, though he supposed some I’m sorrys were due on both sides. Make peace didn’t seem right, either, because that implied that they’d been at war, and they hadn’t. All there had been between them for the past fourteen years was silence. An absence. A hole.
“You need money,” his mother said, and he sensed Gia stiffen beside him.
“No,” he shot back, trying not to betray the hurt his mother’s assumption brought to the surface.
“Mrs. Buchanan.” Gia extended her hand—thankfully, Bennett was holding her left hand, which left her right free to offer to his mother in the form of a handshake. Bennett didn’t think he could do the rest of this without Gia’s hand in his. It was small but powerful. “My name is Gia Gallo. I’m a friend of Bennett’s. We’re road-tripping to Florida for a wedding, and we thought we’d stop in.”
That all sounded…reasonable.
His mother hadn’t taken Gia’s hand. She merely let her gaze flicker up and down Gia’s body. It stopped on the blue hair, which Bennett realized with a start he’d gotten used to. But yeah, blue hair would not be in his mother’s wheelhouse.
None of it seemed to faze Gia. She just smiled brightly, though Bennett recognized it as false—and was somewhat startled to realize he knew her well enough to make that judgment.
His mother stepped back and gestured them inside without a word.
The smell of hydrangeas hit Bennett as they moved into the entryway. His mother always kept a large vase of them on the marble table in the center of the grand foyer, and the sense memory bore down on him with a force that mere flowers should not have been capable of.
“Shall we sit in the garden?” his mother asked, as if this were an unremarkable social call.
“That would be lovely,” Gia said, when Bennett took a little too long to answer.
Before he knew it, his mother had called for refreshments, and a housekeeper he did not recognize had brought a pitcher of tea to the veranda out back.
He watched Gia screw up her face when she took a sip of the tea. It was extremely sweet, and if you hadn’t grown up on it, he could see how it would be distasteful. That little nose scrunch was another gesture he recognized as distinctly hers.
“Where’s Dad?” he asked.
“Probably in his library,” his mother answered.
Jesus fucking Christ. Bennett had assumed his father was at work. Because, really? He appears on the doorstep after fourteen years, and his father is in the house and his mother doesn’t even bother summoning him? Weren’t southerners supposed to be warm?
Had his mother ever been warm?
Gia took another sip of her tea, and this time it was followed by a little cough. She was trying not to be rude, but she hated it. Warm was not a word he initially would have used to describe Gia. Certainly not when she was flipping out at the airport or bristling over the lack of Wi-Fi at the restaurant. But there was something that ran deeper with Gia. Something subtler and stronger and less cloying. It was a kind of warmth, or maybe loyalty was the better word, but you had to earn it, which made it all the sweeter.
He cleared his throat. “Do you think you could go get him?” Because, shit, were they just going to sit here and stare at each other like they were statues in the Museum of Southern Gentility?
After a tense moment of silence, his mother nodded, rose, and clacked out of the room.
He reached over, picked up Gia’s tea, and drained it.
“Oh, thank God. I didn’t want to be rude, but…” She made a face.
“I know.” And his mother’s tea was much sweeter than his—he’d downscaled the sugar in his over the years. “It’s an acquired taste. They pretty much hook you up to an IV of it from childhood here.”
“Also…” Even though they were alone, Gia turned her head toward him as if she meant her expression exclusively for him. She made an exaggerated face of incredulous disbelief.
He wasn’t sure if she was referring to the over-the-top grandeur of the house or the low-key freeze-out his mother was performing, but either way, his response was the same. “I know.”
; She pursed her lips and performed a tense sigh. The idea that a third party, an impartial observer, was offering up some solidarity was buoying. He could do this. He still had no earthly idea what he was going to say, but he knew now that his goal was to make his parents less…a thing. Like turning on the light and realizing that the monster lurking in the corner was just a pile of clothing.
Didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous as hell, but he was ready to unmask the monster.
“Bennett?”
His father appeared at the door, alone. He looked older, and unlike with Bennett’s mother, it had been a more straightforward sort of aging. His face was creased with deep lines that hadn’t been there before. He was much thinner—almost gaunt. His father had become an old man.
“Bennett,” he said again, and his voice wavered this second time.
Bennett stood.
And eff him if his father didn’t walk over and embrace him.
Bennett was stuck there for a moment, paralyzed. His father had never been a hugger.
Tentatively, almost as if some part of him expected the gesture to turn into a prank, he let himself hug his father back.
His father tightened his grasp, holding on to Bennett with a strength that was belied by his outward fragility.
This was not the reaction he’d expected from his father. Not that he’d expected it from his mother, either, but his father had always been the less involved parent. He would show up at Bennett’s baseball games, but only when his mother made a point of having his secretary put them in his schedule. His father had always followed his mother’s lead—going where she said to go, wearing what she said to wear.
Not getting out of the car that night at Lalande’s when she said not to.
Bennett had to clear his throat when they separated. “I thought you’d be at work.”
“The old ticker gave out.” He sat down. “Quadruple bypass six months ago. Meyer made me retire. Didn’t believe me when I vowed to scale way back.”
Bennett laughed. He could picture it. Dr. Meyer had been the family physician since before Bennett was born—he had delivered Bennett, in fact. “Dr. Meyer was always a smart guy.”
The news was jarring, though. As much as he’d thought he’d been content to cut all ties with his parents, it was alarming to learn that his father could have died, and Bennett never would have known. His throat thickened.
“Dad, I—”
His mother reappeared with the housekeeper in tow. The woman, who was not wearing a uniform as Mrs. Johnson had during Bennett’s youth, set a tray of lemon bars down on the table. When his father reached for one, she swatted his hand away. Bennett sucked in a breath. Mrs. Johnson would never have said a word to Bennett’s father, much less touched him.
“Those are not for you, Brian.” She handed over a small bowl of what looked like popcorn seasoned with some kind of spice.
His dad rolled his eyes. “Rae Lynn is determined to keep the grim reaper at bay.”
His father would never have called Mrs. Johnson by her first name. Bennett didn’t even know what it was. But the housekeeper calling his father Brian? Well, shit. Bennett about had to call for some smelling salts.
“Well, someone has to do it,” Rae Lynn snapped, but there was affection in her sass, as there had been in his father’s complaint.
Which was…utterly unprecedented.
“Where are my manners?” His father introduced Bennett to Rae Lynn. That, in turn, prompted Bennett to introduce Gia.
Once that was done and Rae Lynn had retreated, there was nothing left to do but find some goddamned words to say. To deliver his nonapology, closure, whatever speech.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call first. I—”
“We’re sorry,” his father said, which caused his mother to stiffen and Bennett to stifle a gasp.
“That’s not…” He’d been going to say, “That’s not necessary,” but actually…maybe it was.
“We handled things poorly back then.” He glanced at Bennett’s mother, whose face betrayed nothing. “I handled things poorly.”
“Your father’s brush with death has made him emotional,” his mother said tersely, the slight wrinkling of her nose as she spoke communicating her opinion on the display of emotion currently underway.
“Maybe so,” said his father. “But the fact remains that I never intended, or wanted, not to see my own child for so many years.” He turned to Bennett. “We should have gone to therapy with you. We shouldn’t have forced Chapel Hill. Most of all, we should have let you come home. I’m so sorry we didn’t.”
“So in retrospect, you wanted to have an addict in the house?” his mother said incredulously.
“No,” his father said. “In retrospect, I wanted to have a son in the house.”
Bennett had to swallow a few times before speaking. “It worked out okay. I found my feet. And…” He had to meet his father halfway here. “I’m sorry.” The words were coming out easily now, almost of their own accord. “I’m sorry I caused you so much grief.”
His throat was impossibly heavy, but the rest of his body felt like it was floating to the surface of a lake after years of being submerged.
When nobody spoke, Gia said, “Did you know that Bennett owns a Cajun restaurant in Manhattan?” Her voice sounded strange amid the conversational swirls of all these Buchanans. It was high and girlish and lacked the southern drawl so apparent in everyone else’s voice. It wasn’t a bad strange, though, not at all. It was a familiar, soothing balm.
And he found he wanted his parents to know of his success.
His parents answered Gia’s question at the same time. His mom said, “No,” and his dad said, “Yes.”
Then his dad turned to his mom and said, “Oh, come on, Rhonda. Tell me you haven’t googled him.”
His mother said nothing, just continued to look like she was sucking a lemon.
His father’s eyes had grown suspiciously watery. “I thought so many times about sending a letter to the restaurant. I wrote a few—pretty much every year around Christmas.” He paused and cleared his throat. “But then I would tear them up. I wasn’t sure you would want to hear from me. I wondered if sending a letter would be selfish. Would open wounds that I hoped had healed over for you.” He blew out a breath. “But now that you’re here, I can see that was another misstep. Another thing to be sorry for.”
Bennett wanted to say it was okay, to offer some absolution—he had felt the same way, hesitating over emails drafted but not sent many times over the years—but he found he couldn’t speak.
“The restaurant is a big success.” Gia, bless her, was filling the awkward silence that had settled. “The food is out of this world.”
“I’m sure it is.” His father smiled with something that looked like…pride?
“And how did you get into…cooking?” his mother asked, emphasizing the word cooking like it was distasteful. And for her, it would be. Bennett was supposed to become a southern gentleman lawyer, join his father’s practice, which had been founded by his great-grandfather. In his mother’s view, he might as well have become a garbage collector.
But to his surprise, he didn’t bristle at the veiled criticism. He found he didn’t care what his mother thought of him. Well, that wasn’t true, exactly, but he understood that he couldn’t control what she thought of him. And that, in turn, meant she’d lost her power over him. That he was a disappointment to her was unfortunate, but it didn’t matter, materially, to his life. The apology from his father had been more than enough.
“It’s a long story,” he said, casting his mind back to the night Marc caught him behind the restaurant.
“Maybe you’ll tell it to us over dinner?” his father asked, and it was impossible to miss the hope infused in his voice.
It was hard to imagine telling his father the story. Because it wouldn’t just be the story of how he got into cooking, but the story of his life. He struggled with how to answer.
“They’re saying thunderstorm
s beginning in a few hours,” his father went on. “You’d be welcome to stay the night.” He looked between Bennett and Gia. “Both of you.”
The olive branch his father had extended was both welcome and astonishing. But it was also…too much. He needed time to adjust to this new reality. To absorb the fact of this incredible détente. He didn’t want to be rude, but suddenly he had to get out of here.
But how to look at his father and refuse, after the man had reached so far over the chasm that separated them?
“Your invitation is so kind,” Gia said smoothly, “but I’m afraid we’re on a bit of a schedule. We’re on our way to a wedding in Florida. We were supposed to be there two days ago. I’m sure you heard about the big storm that hit the eastern seaboard?” His father nodded. “Our flights were canceled, so this whole road trip is a bit of a race against the clock. So I think we really need to get some miles under our belt, especially if a rainstorm is going to hit.”
His father nodded, resigned. “Well, I’m grateful that you made the detour to see us.”
“I’m glad we did, too,” Gia said. “Perhaps we can plan for dinner at Bennett’s place in New York?”
Yes. Exactly. Telling his father the story of his life in the confines of Boudin was something Bennett could imagine. He’d be able to show his father his success, to let the restaurant speak for itself. Leave it to Gia to arrange the perfect scenario, one that didn’t make him want to panic. He almost laughed at how spot-on she was—she knew what he needed before he did.
“Yes,” his father said. “Name the date, and we’ll be there.”
Bennett’s mother remained silent. Bennett wasn’t sure “they” would be there, but that would be okay.
“So why don’t you all exchange numbers, and Bennett can be in touch about getting together in New York?” Gia said, and God bless her, she was doing an A-plus job of moving them along.
His father produced a phone from his blazer pocket. “And I’ll look forward to getting to know you better, too, Gia. I’m so glad Bennett has found someone like you.”
Bennett was about to issue the “we’re just friends” correction, but Gia grabbed his hand. Ah, the feel of her hand. It was soothing even though he wouldn’t have thought he needed soothing now that the visit was almost over and had gone better than he had expected. She beamed at him and said, “I’m the lucky one.”
Three Little Words Page 13