“Fascinating. That’s the address,” she said, giving her a nudge. “Go ring the bell.”
Callie didn’t move, transfixed by the massive climbing rose that all but buried the arbour spanning the walk, heavy with crimson blooms.
“Or you can try the other one.” Rachel indicated the neighbouring house. “What’s the problem? They’re grandparents. Rulers of the Land of Milk and Cookies. At least in my world.”
“What if they’re crazy like my parents?”
“They won’t be. That crap skips generations. That’s why you’re so normal.”
That earned Rachel a dubious look.
“Well, mostly normal. Hey, look! The door’s opening.”
The front door, partially shielded by the arbour, was indeed opening, and a woman with large garden shears emerged, laughing over her shoulder at someone. She was in her seventies, tall and a bit plump, with lovely skin and short coiffed hair wherein pepper was losing the battle to salt.
“Recognise her?”
“No. If I really met them, if I were really here once, I was too young to remember.”
“That’s the Keller granny, right?”
She nodded.
A man followed the woman out, and she shuddered. “He reminds me of my mom.”
“If it weren’t for the Brylcreem, I’d bet his hair would look just like yours.”
That made her giggle. The man’s hair was completely white, and thick, and vital . . . and solidly controlled with hair product. Even still, a couple of short corkscrews had escaped management. He, too, was tall; slimmer than his wife, but didn’t move with quite her ease.
“Neighbours are coming out, too,” Rachel observed, and the Dahl household popped out a very tall elderly couple—the man with silvery thinning hair; the woman with long, dyed blonde clipped up—who eagerly waved to the Kellers. They all met at the property-line hedge, at which Mrs. Keller was hacking with the shears. Mr. Dahl had a bottle of wine; Mrs. Dahl had wine glasses; in no time, drinks were poured and they were toasting each other and chatting at length.
“Cool,” Rachel said. “Better than milk and cookies, in my book. Hey, why are you so short?”
“I’m not short.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not pushing six feet like your grandmothers are. Five-four is no giant.”
“I’m five-six, well above statistical average. And they probably had better nutrition as children,” she added in all seriousness. She sighed. “Okay, let’s go.”
“We’re not leaving. You’re hustling your butt out of my car and going to say hello.”
“But they’re happy with their lives. Why stir the pot?”
“Because you’re their granddaughter! A brilliant, successful, pretty girl anyone would want to have as part of their life. You moron.”
That made her laugh very hard. The laughter carried even through the closed car window, and Mrs. Keller glanced curiously in their direction.
“Crap! She’s seen us!” Callie panicked.
“Well, don’t be rude. Go say hi before she chucks the garden shears at us.”
“You won’t drive off?”
“Tempting, but no. Bet they invite us for dinner. Hope so. I’m hungry.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Move it,” Rachel growled.
Heaving a huge breath, she opened the door and climbed out, nervously smoothing her short skirt and snug tank, wishing she had worn something more modest. Something befitting a respectable granddaughter. She chewed on her thumbnail and shuffled her feet. And then, up the walk she went, under the arbour.
The heavy scent of attar and the warm reddish gloom caused a flash of that not-memory nostalgia, calming her somewhat. And there—her breath caught—just on the other side of the arbour, nestled in its shadow, was a dome toad house with a green frog on it. It wasn’t exactly the same as the one she had bought, but close. And the colours were virtually identical.
As she emerged, the Dahls and Kellers were looking at her expectantly with politely welcoming and curious smiles.
“Hi,” she said, and cleared her throat.
The shears clattered to the walk. “Lorraine?” Mrs. Keller gasped.
“Er, no, actually—”
Mrs. Dahl shrieked. “It’s Callie! It’s Callie!”
The gate in the hedge flew wide and Mrs. Dahl ran—pretty damn’ quick for a woman her age—embracing Callie in a tight yet tender hug. She smelled of cookies and fresh bread, lavender and lemon. Homey and warm. It triggered another nostalgic moment.
“Callie, Callie,” she sobbed.
“Callie?” Mrs. Keller was still in a state of shock.
Mrs. Dahl held Callie at arms’ length, sniffing loudly. “Look how beautiful you are! Look at her, Ivy!”
“Um,” Callie said.
The grandfathers were smiling and talking over each other as they crowded in around her.
“Haven’t seen you since you were just a babe!”
“Three years old!”
“Playing hide-and-seek in the garden.”
“Hunting for toads.”
“Carrying around that piggybank we gave you!”
“You stayed here for almost a year. Do you remember?”
“Do you remember?”
“A little,” she said at last, her eyes fixed on Mrs. Keller, who at last had shaken off her shock, and had now approached the circle.
Mrs. Keller stopped; glanced at the arbour. “Who’s this?”
Callie looked to see Rachel surrounded by roses, smiling encouragingly, but ready to fetch her out of there if the grandparents turned out mean or crazy. “This is my friend, Rachel Meier. She drove me here.”
While Rachel was welcomed by Mr. Dahl, urged into the fray and promised dinner, Mrs. Keller touched Callie’s face, cupping her cheek. “Our granddaughter.”
Callie was enfolded in another hug, and this time, she started to cry. Flashes of memory came through. Memories of hugs and kisses and hot meals and bedtime stories and unconditional, effective love.
The scent of baby powder from Mrs. Keller’s skin surrounded her, and for the first time in over twenty years, she remembered what it was to feel safe.
Chapter Eighteen
The city trees were blushing with tiny glimpses of fall colour as September advanced, and Callie looked through the multi-paned windows that offered a lovely view of both the Valley and the downtown core from the vantage point of South Riverdale.
“All appliances are included, and all ELFs, but not the window treatments.” The real estate agent tilted her head. “What do you think, Callie? Willing to make an offer?”
The warehouse condo-conversion was spacious, its eleven-foot ceilings and open-concept design giving the impression of an even more vast space. With one largish bedroom and a much smaller one that would serve well as a home office, one-and-a-half baths, narrow-slat hardwood floors that almost sneered at the idea that carpet had or would ever touch them, and a balcony—the size of which would impress no one but Juliet—the condo was far better than she expected for her first attempt to get on the property ladder.
And far more expensive.
Opening cupboard and closet doors repeatedly, still overwhelmed by possibilities and scared out of her wits, she finally nodded. “All right, Mrs. Langford—”
“Jane,” the older woman insisted for the umpteenth time, laughing. “I’ve been friends with Maddie Ransome time out of mind—since she was Maddie Falco—and the way the Ransomes run on about you, I think we can be on friendly terms!”
“Sorry,” she replied distractedly. She didn’t want to be friendly with yet another of Lucius’ friends slash business associates. But distance-keeping was starting to come across as overtly rude. “Jane. I’ll make an offer. But twenty-under asking.”
“The property is already undervalued,” Jane warned. “They dropped the price finally just to du
mp it, as it’s been listed longer than they expected, but to go in that low, you run a risk losing it altogether.”
The undervaluation was the only reason Callie was contemplating the purchase; for most, real estate might be about location, location, location, but for her, it was about ROI, ROI, ROI. Even though more than she wanted to spend, it was still much less than the place was worth.
Fingertips explored the cool stainless steel of the magnificent fridge. “It’s time I learned to risk a little,” she replied calmly, even though her insides quaked at the thought. “Sweeten the offer with an early close date. October first.”
“That might work.”
A call placed to the owners’ agent resulted only in delay.
“They’re divorcing,” Jane informed her confidentially, “and refuse to make a decision the other might approve of. We’ll likely hear in a few hours. Any counter offer to any counter offer?”
“No. My offer is final.”
So they left it at a waiting game, and Callie walked home rather than taking the streetcar, her mind in a nauseating whirl that matched her churning stomach. Her cell rang as she reached the bottom of her street; seeing Jane’s number on the display, she prayed simultaneously for acceptance and rejection.
The call was quick and she shakily disconnected, Jane’s warm congratulations and brisk arrangements to sign the papers still ringing in her ears. The offer had been accepted—the early closing date had sold the bickering owners.
In something more than two weeks from now, she would be moving into her own home.
She wanted to both cry and celebrate, as she had at nearly every turning point in her life. Would nothing ever purely good happen to her? Or was this just what everyone felt? Loss and gain in the same breath?
Numbly, she thumbed the speed-dial code for Leon.
“Little sister! How’s everything?”
“Good, good,” she replied, slightly annoyed at the genuineness of his bright greeting. “You sound happy.”
“Things are great! I hear you have news, too. I meant to call you to congratulate you.”
“You did? I do? You were?” She hadn’t told him about the grandparents, afraid he’d rook them out of their retirement savings. But the grandparents were all caught up on the last two decades, and assured her that they would love to see Leon and there’d be no rooking.
“Yeah, your promotion. GM of FalTech. Way to fly, Cal. Career’s really taking off. You deserve it. In no time, you’ll be COO of the Ransome Group, huh?”
“Yeah, right. Only a dozen more promotions to go.” She closed her eyes. Yes, life was perfect now. So bloody perfect, with her once-so-important personal goals all being met. “How did you hear about that?”
There was a long silence.
“Leon?”
“Um, look I have another call. I’ll call you later.”
“You don’t have another call! What’s going on?”
“Aw, shit,” he muttered. “Okay, Lucius told me. A couple of weeks ago now, I guess.”
“Wh—what? What? When did you—when were you—how do you know Lucius Ransome?”
“I wasn’t supposed to tell you anything. Don’t screw this up for me!”
“Don’t screw what up for you? What are you talking about?”
There was swearing and more cussing, and a long groan. “All right, all right. Promise me you won’t say anything to him.”
“We don’t talk much,” she replied sharply. “Apparently, you and he do, though. What the hell is this about?”
The explanation came in hasty, broken sentences, Leon half pleading and half angry, and one-hundred-percent scared. Some convoluted story about Lucius answering her phone back in July and offering to put up the money for a joint investment through Leon’s one-horse company, sharing the returns equally with Leon. And providing Leon with mentorship to boot.
“Oh, god. Oh, god,” she whispered, over and over, sinking to the curb, a hand over her eyes.
“One of the conditions was that I couldn’t ask you for any money, for this or any other investment. Another was that I couldn’t ever tell you about it.”
“Oh, god. Oh, god.”
“Don’t tell him you know. Promise me you won’t tell him.”
“Oh, god. How much money?”
He cleared his throat and mumbled his answer.
“A hundred grand? A hundred—Oh, god.”
“That’s chump change for Lucius Ransome.” He was angry again.
“Oh, god. Don’t you dare lose that money, Leon. Don’t you dare.”
“I—we—won’t! The investment was Lucius’ pick, not mine. It’s doing great, Cal. Really. He oversees it and I don’t make a move without him—another condition. Don’t tell him you know.”
“Oh, god. Oh, god.”
“Stop saying that! Shit! Don’t you trust me at all?” he demanded, obviously hurt.
“It isn’t that,” she said weakly. “It’s just . . . Oh, god. Lucius, Lucius.” She heaved a sobbing breath. “I’m happy for you. Learn what you can from him. He’s a brilliant and generous man.”
“You won’t tell?”
Never would she admit to Lucius that she knew what he had done. “Not a word.”
“Good, good. Thanks, Callie.” Heavy, relieved sigh. “So . . . why were you calling me, anyway? Was it to tell me about your promotion?”
“Yes, that’s it,” she lied dully.
“Feel like celebrating?”
“Oh, well, maybe some other night. We’ll have dinner . . . or something . . .”
“Sure. Call me when you have time. My treat, little sister.”
That would be a first, she thought rather bitchily. “Okay. I’ll call.”
The phone clattered to the pavement as it fell from her numb fingers, and it was several minutes before she could rouse herself enough to pick it up again, and several more before she dragged herself to her feet and moved up the street.
That Lucius had made this terrific and expensive gesture for her, she had no doubt. But why? Yes, he was a ridiculously generous man, but to do this for her . . . what did it mean? It was the sort of thing one did out of love, but Lucius didn’t love her. He couldn’t love her. Couldn’t love her. Cared for her, yes. Maybe loved her a little, in a transient sense. But a hundred grand worth? No.
Unlocking the front door to the house, she entered without her usual desperate alacrity to get by Mrs. Turner unobserved. That lady’s door creaked open, but Callie didn’t bother acknowledging.
“I’ll be putting up your rent next month,” the woman croaked.
“Go ahead,” she retorted tonelessly, and idly marvelled that without a lease, she didn’t legally have to give notice—and forfeiting last-month rent deposit did not matter to her at all. The faster she was out of this place the better.
A small bubble of joy tried to rise, but was held down by the general trauma of more recent life events. Or rather, the general traumas of her life sharply etched over by recent specificity.
She had just topped the attic stairs when the old-fashioned clapper doorbell sounded loudly—to her knowledge, it hadn’t rung since she moved in—and she literally jumped at the foreign sound. It was tempting to ignore it . . . but as it rang again, she knew there was no way in her present mood that she could stand the annoying noise one more time.
Trotting down the stairs again, she wrenched open the front door—and gasped sharply.
The Ransome family stood there—most of them, barring Gramps and, naturally, Lucius—taking up all of the space on the veranda and steps, and overflowing onto the shabby front yard.
“Hello, Callie.”
She swallowed hard as she surveyed them, and hoped the emotions clutching her throat would not end in tears. “What are you doing here?”
Maddie gestured and Benedict moved through the mob, bearing a crated object that could only be a painting. “We—the family—wanted you to have this. To thank you for all of your help.” Maddie dashed a hand ov
er her eyes. “It’s the larks.”
One of the Birds? “Oh, I can’t accept that. Those should stay in the family. You can’t give them away to a stranger.”
“They only have sentimental value,” Tom said. “You said so yourself. And you are family.”
Christian muttered something, grunting when Maddie’s elbow met his ribs.
“Shh. Lucius said—” Maddie caught whatever it was Lucius had said before it escaped her lips. “Anyway, love, we wanted you to have it. All of us.”
Lucius, too? She ached to ask after him. “You shouldn’t. I shouldn’t accept it.”
But she did.
“Now, you come and visit soon,” Maddie declared as Benedict set the crate in the foyer; Callie smiled agreement, though how she would get up to the estate without a car was a logistical problem she would neither give voice to nor try to solve. But then: “We’re selling the house—and the others. We’ll be taking over the Old Place, and descending on Gramps, too. A Ransome commune in Rosedale,” the lady grinned, eyes twinkling at the use of Lucius’ scorning turn of phrase.
That was news. “I’m moving soon, also,” she said, swallowing tears and wishing she had her glasses to hide. “If you decide you want the painting back, you can reach me through the office.”
Maddie kissed her cheek and Christian hugged her tightly, muttering about stupid young idiots and improving gene pools, and a variety of other things that did not make any sense.
One by one, they wished her goodbye, with hugs and kisses and a few tears. Her vision hazy, the fight to hold back her own tears birthed a monstrous headache as she watched them trail away to their various luxury vehicles.
I was so mean to them!
Benedict hovered for a moment, eying her thoughtfully, reminding her so much of Lucius.
“It’s a real waste,” he finally said cryptically and, with a quick kiss on her cheek, trotted with lithe grace down the walk.
She waved until the last of them were gone, then retreated into the stinking heat of the house.
“What’s that about moving soon?” Mrs. Turner demanded through the chained door. “And what’s in the box?”
“When either thing becomes your business, I’ll let you know,” Callie told her quietly, and started the long trudge upstairs with the crate.
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