Sweet Secrets

by Rhonda Sheree

  Actually, my room has a balcony. I start to walk around to the back of the house. Man, oh, man, is this a fantastic piece of real estate. On my left, the house is flanked by trimmed hedges and flowers; on the right stands a wall of the most beautifully cut trees, with pines needles instead of leaves. No neighbors in sight, which is convenient for my first attempt at breaking and entering.

  Kind of ironic, considering what happened to us last night.

  I think about those boys, those young, stupid, kids. What they did was wrong and they should be punished, no doubt. But what if they had broken into someone else’s home? Someone with a gun? Someone who would’ve—

  No. I don’t want to think about what could’ve been. There are a thousand possibilities and Mom and I don’t come out on the positive side in lots of them.

  Blaming my fatigue on all the drama last night, I begged off a house tour when Grayson offered. I’m glad I did. I wouldn’t want him to see how my mouth is agape right now, looking at his serene zero-edge pool flanked by lounge chairs and the view of the New York Harbor in the distance. And land. That thing that men have shed blood over in years past and even present is plentiful here. A couple of acres at least, which isn’t so bad for a single guy.

  Which makes me wonder why a single guy has this much house in the first place. Just because?

  I don’t have the luxury to stand back here and ponder the issue. White columns run from the ground up to the second level of the house, but they’re too thick to wrap my arms and legs around. I grab a chair from the outdoor dining set and move it beneath the balcony. I balance myself on the chair and reach up. It is then that two thoughts occur to me. One: What if this isn’t my balcony? And two: How exactly am I to reach it, even while standing on the chair?

  I really need the table. But it’s metal and big and surely it’ll make noise if I drag it over here, so that’s not an option. As for it not being my balcony, I guess I’ll just have to take that chance. My only other option is to ring the doorbell…and say what? I was out for a morning jog in my pajamas? No way am I going to make a fool of myself.

  I climb on the chair and jump in hopes of grabbing onto the lower edge of the balcony. Doesn’t work. I try again and almost fall off the chair and onto my face. An untied shoe slips off and falls to the ground.

  “Whoa!” I hiss and steady myself on the chair.

  As I’m stooped over, balancing myself, I look directly in front of me and see eyes—confused, inquisitive, heat-inducing golden eyes staring at me from behind glass French doors.

  And surely I, at six-thirty in the morning, standing on a patio chair in the backyard, wearing a crooked do-rag, one shoe, and a robe with dirty knees, can explain…

  Chapter 14

  I ease off the patio chair and recover my stray shoe. Then I stall for time by moving the chair back to the table. Grayson stands inside the open doorway and looks at me as though he’s just walked upon a circus elephant balancing itself on a beach ball.

  “Morning,” I say and manage a weak smile.

  “Good morning,” he replies and rubs the lens of a pair of glasses with the hem of his T-shirt.

  “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

  “They’re for reading.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  I’ve run out of morning babble and intend to casually ease by him and get back inside the house when he says, “What were you…?” He points vaguely at the chair with his glasses.

  “Oh, you know,” I say and swat away his concern like it’s a lethargic fly. “I was going to sit out here for awhile. Enjoy the early morning air before work.” I take a big inhalation of air. “That’s nice, isn’t it? And the birds. Chirp, chirp, chirp.”

  Nervous laughter from me.

  He nods slowly, but he’s unconvinced. “But you were on a chair. Jumping.”

  “Oh, that? Yeah, see, I kinda locked myself out.”

  I can see now that Grayson is thoroughly bemused and won’t let me escape this dreadful conversation anytime soon. “And you were going to jump up to my balcony?” He looks up. “It’s fifteen feet high.”

  “That high, really? I still haven’t seen the whole place but I can tell you what I have seen is just gorgeous.”

  “Callia, why didn’t you just ring the doorbell?”

  “And wake you and Mom? No,” I say and shake my head. “I’m not that inconsiderate.”

  Grayson nods with a faint smile on his lips and steps out onto the patio. He puts his hand on my shoulder and guides me further out. Even through the thick guest robe I can feel the heat on my skin from the intimate touch of his hand.

  “You see that little cottage right there?”

  I look in the direction of where he’s pointing. A stone trail leads the way through skinny trees with pale pink leaves. Behind them peeks a brick cottage that is as cute as a gingerbread house.

  “That’s where Gail lives. She, like myself, is an early riser. You can see her lights are already on. And she has a key to the house.”

  “How do ya like that? I didn’t know.”

  “And I’ll get you one as well.”

  “No need,” I say and turn back to the house. “I won’t be here long enough to need it.”

  “You never know,” Grayson says. “And we can’t have you climbing through windows. Especially considering I have some crazy fans out there.”

  “Fans?” I stop and turn to him. “Since when do small business owners have fans?”

  Grayson shifts legs, squirming at my question, although I don’t know why. He’s the one who brought it up.

  “I’m also a writer,” he admits.

  Any minute he’s going to start laughing. He’s going to throw his head back, point at me, and say, “Gotcha!” So I wait for it, but it doesn’t come.

  “A writer?” I ask.

  He nods. “Are you hungry? I can make you breakfast before work.”

  “Dad was a writer,” I say. “Fiction. Although he never shared his work with anyone except me.”

  “Maybe I got the bug from him. Callia, I’m really sorry about your dad.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Grayson. It’s not like you killed him.”

  He flinches. I guess the memory of my father’s sudden death still affects him, too. Dad died of a heart attack. While Mom and I were out getting my hair done for prom, Carmen was home with Dad. She came out of her room and found him dead at the bottom of the stairs. Our lives changed after that.

  Grayson leads the way back into the house. “Do you have a preference?” he asks.

  “Fiction or non?”

  “Pancakes or omelet?”

  “Oh,” I say and shrug. “Eggs, I guess. What do you write?” Now that my embarrassment has ebbed, I want to talk to him, learn a little about the Grayson I’ve missed out on over the past decade.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?” He looks at me curiously.

  “Right,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to be late on my second day.”

  “I’ll meet you in the kitchen when you’re done.”

  * * *

  I rush up the stairs, trying to get dressed and back down there as soon as I can. I must say, spending time with Grayson would be much more preferable than doing anything else I can imagine doing today. And I am fully aware as to what’s happening, too. My heart is clearly beginning to slip into the all-consuming quicksand that is infatuation. While my brain is fighting to hold onto the reality that Grayson has been cavalier and dishonest and as such, should not be trusted, my heart has other intentions.

  The second I enter the bathroom in my room, the lights come on automatically. I had been so tired last night that I’d fallen straight into bed. Now, I take a second to look for the sink and realize that the snow-white bowl resting on the dark wood vanity is the sink. New toiletries await me. How thoughtful. Gail must have put these out before we’d gotten in last night. Some time between calling the cops and their arrival, Grayson had called Gail. And now, neatly laid ou
t before me, are lightly scented soaps, rich Shea butter, and other necessities.

  When I’m halfway done brushing my teeth, I realize my toes aren’t clamoring for the warmth of socks. “Hot damn,” I mutter as I look at the heated ceramic tiles beneath my feet. The rich have it so good. A cool tush in the car and warm feet in the bathroom. It’s so friggin’ civilized.

  As it turns out, by the time I’m done trying to figure out how to flush the toilet (it flushes automatically) and fiddling with the push panel computer in the shower that controls the four jets spraying me from all sides, I am ready for the simpler, poorer life that I know instead of this sci-fi adventure.

  After I put on my navy skirt suit, I grab my purse and head down the spiral staircase toward the smell of bacon.

  In the kitchen, Grayson is near the stove, chopping peppers. He doesn’t hear me come in. I stand in the doorway for a second and admire him. He’s dressed in faded jeans that hug his nicely shaped behind. The left knee is tattered, which is a trend far too old for a guy near thirty, but they’re sexy as hell on him, so I forgive him for that. Through his light blue T-shirt I spy deep ridges of muscle in his upper back. My, how I’d love to run my fingers over—

  He turns suddenly. “Hey, what are you doing over there?”

  I flush and make my way over to the breakfast counter and sit on a stool. “It’s not every day someone cooks me breakfast. I guess I’m in shock.”

  “Your boyfriend didn’t cook for you? What was his name?”

  I’m surprised Grayson remembers at dinner that night when I mentioned the guy I’d left behind.

  “Robert.”

  “Ah, Robert,” he mutters, as though the name is the most ridiculous he’s ever heard.

  “The only breakfast Robert would make me involved a raw egg, kale, ginger, and an organic apple. With that as my option, I passed on breakfast in bed.”

  “He’s a musclehead?”

  “Yep.”

  Grayson snorts but keeps whatever comment he’s thinking to himself. “Vegetable omelet’s okay?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “So why did you leave Robert behind?”

  I shrug. “He’s a very nice guy, a little on the arrogant side. Ultimately, we were incompatible.”

  Grayson beats the eggs like he’s chastising them. They sizzle in revolt when they hit the pan.

  “No marriage proposals?” he asks. “Nothing ever quite that serious?”

  I shake my head. “No. And it’s fine. I don’t know that I’m the marrying kind.”

  Grayson turns and gives me a funny look, like I’m full of crap or something. “Really? You’re not interested in the big wedding, two-week European honeymoon, the pitter-patter of tiny feet?”

  I giggle at his romanticized description. “I think you have me confused with Carmen. That’s her thing.”

  “Yeah?” Grayson moves over to the coffee maker and pushes a button. “What’s your thing?”

  I rest my chin on my hand and wonder if I’m really going to divulge my hokey little dream. Why not? I’ve got nothing to lose here. “My thing would be to fly off to a Caribbean island, get married on a beach wearing a pink strapless summer dress, then eat fresh lobster at a restaurant overlooking the ocean. And the pitter-patter of feet will come in my mid-thirties, when I’m able to support myself.”

  “But you’ll be married, so you won’t have to support yourself.”

  “Where are you from, the 1950s?”

  “I understand you’d want to work and all that, but you won’t be raising a kid alone so you don’t have to wait until you’re on your feet. It’s a team effort, right?”

  I narrow my eyes. “I don’t trust men. If my guy up and leaves me then it’s my responsibility to raise the kid.”

  “He’d have to pay child support.”

  “I wouldn’t ask him for a cup of water if I was on a desert island.”

  “But it’d be his responsibility.”

  “Men have a habit of shirking responsibility.”

  Grayson runs over to the eggs and turns down the flame. “You know, I’m really surprised you went into the service. You always struck me as a free spirit. Responsible, definitely, but also someone who’d like a more unstructured life.”

  “Yeah, well. That hasn’t happened for me.”

  Grayson throws some bread in the toaster, then checks the bacon in the oven. I must say, the man does know his way around a kitchen.

  “What about you?” I ask. “You’re obviously not married yet. What’s up with that?”

  “I was waiting for you,” he says. Grayson shuts the oven door and looks at me. Naturally, I’m speechless. He throws his head back and laughs. “Wow. I figured out how to get silence out of you.”

  A buzzer rings and Grayson wipes his hand on a towel.

  “Be right back.” While he’s gone, I wander around the kitchen. The stainless steel refrigerator comes equipped with a couple of subzero freezer units. There is a double wall oven that makes me ache to use it, a secondary sink located in the center island, and more marble than in all of Italy.

  I look out the window and see Grayson with a team of landscapers behind him. He gives them some direction, then enters through the French doors that we’d come in through earlier.

  “Sorry about that,” he says. “They come once a week to take care of the lawn.”

  “Tough work in this heat.”

  “Yeah,” he says, although his mind already seems to be elsewhere. “Now where were we?” I take my position back on the stool. “Ah!” he says, remembering. “I date here and there. I haven’t met anyone yet that I want to share all this with.” He gestures toward the house.

  “This is a lot of house for a single guy.”

  “I guess I’m hoping I don’t have to be single for very much longer.”

  “You seem to be doing okay for yourself. You know how to cook. You have Gail to help you out. Got a good career. What more could you possibly want?”

  “Love,” he says and looks at me like I’ve just landed from Jupiter. “Unconditional. Not as easy to find as one might think. Even with all this. Especially with all this.”

  I squirm in my seat at his candid admission. We both want the same thing, but is it possible for us to have it with each other?

  Grayson fixes our plates, then brings them over. I help out by grabbing a couple of mugs and filling them with coffee. We sit at the breakfast bar in silence while we perfect our coffee: two fake sugar packets and a dollop of half and half for me, two real sugar packets and no cream for him.

  The eggs are good and I tell him so. He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

  “I shouldn’t eat this bacon,” I say.

  “It’s turkey bacon. Not bad as all that.”

  “You never told me what you write.”

  Grayson swallows his food and wipes his mouth. Then he says in a high-pitched voice with a terrible southern accent. “Romances. Sweeping love stories that make women believe in the unbelievable. I am Georgia Kinsey.”

  I laugh at his horrible impression. “You’re awful,” I say. “You writing romance books is about as likely as me running a marathon.”

  The thought of me running a marathon reminds me that I haven’t exercised nearly as much as I should have since I’ve been back. Robert would be appalled. I bite into my splendidly buttered toast.

  “Seriously,” Grayson says. “I’ve made a nice supplemental living selling motivational books. One of them made the best-seller list.”

  I think this is the most unexpected thing that could’ve come out of his mouth.

  “Really?”

  He nods. “Being a kid who was abandoned by his mother, raised by an alcoholic father, and who manages to make something substantial of his life is something that can inspire others. And isn’t that what we’re here for? To use our lives to inspire others?”

  What the hell is he talking about? I mean, of course I agree with the sentiment. But I’m so far from the point in my li
fe where I can use it to inspire others that it makes me feel like I should be reading his books instead of pretending to be his peer. The lonesome boy always looking for a fight has managed to eclipse the daughter of a teacher who had all the advantages of a solid home life.

  “I’d better get going,” I say. “This was really good, Grayson. Thanks.”

  “Maybe we can do it again some time.”

  “Yeah,” I say and get moving. I feel his eyes on me as I leave and wonder if I measure up to what he imagined I would be like after all these years. Did he wonder? Did he think of me at all?

  I pass one of the landscapers when I get to Mom’s car and am a bit surprised to notice the landscaper is a woman, though it’s hard to tell exactly what she looks like with the baseball cap, oversized shirt, and baggy shorts. I give her a wave but she averts her eyes and continues to mow the grass.

  “Just trying to be nice, lady,” I mutter to myself. After all, she could be my boss someday. I start up the car and head off to my nonexistent job.

  Chapter 15

  Grayson Lane is a writer. The truant kid who was on the edge of failing everything except English lit has managed to turn his life around. Amazing. I ponder this as I make my way to the nearby library. I discovered it when I left the school in a haze of anger and irritation. I needed to kill time. It hadn’t occurred to me at that point to pretend every morning that I was jetting off to work. But after driving around aimlessly and finally coming to the library in Richmond, I’d found a way to spend a day while also using the computer to look for a job.

  At first, I hadn’t even recognized the building as a library. It was an oddly shaped modern structure that was more glass than brick. It reminded me more of a futuristic medical research center than a place for kids to while away the hours. I pulled into the parking lot, got out, and took a look around. Inside was even more impressive than the outside. A circular staircase led the way to four floors of books, computers, and cozy sitting areas complete with leather chairs and fake fireplaces. This library was fancier than the one I had at college, where students paid twenty grand a year to attend.