by Beck, Jamie
“I’ll stop over later tonight for a visit. Sadie brought me a whole cheesecake for my birthday yesterday.” She clucked. “I need help to finish it.”
His mom turned and patted Mitch on the chest. “You know my Mitchell is a wonderful baker, too.”
“A man of many talents.” Mrs. Brafman smiled and then turned to go inside as Mitch uttered thanks for the compliment.
While his mom unlocked her own door, he glanced around the aging brick building. His dad had been so proud when he’d bought the family’s first home. Not a castle, but condo ownership had represented a piece of the American dream. While Mitch had since paid for a few upgrades to his mom’s kitchen and master bathroom, the unit looked very much like it had when he was young. Same old furniture. Same chipping brick exterior. Same scent of vanilla candles and cooking oil wafting throughout its rooms.
He turned on the lights and helped his mom remove the light jacket she wore everywhere in summer as protection from overly air-conditioned offices and restaurants. “I’ll do a load of laundry and cook a lasagna to get you through tomorrow night. I’ll be back to check on you Sunday. In fact, I’ll treat you to dinner if you’d like.”
She hung her purse on the coatrack by the door and settled onto his dad’s old leather BarcaLounger. Her glasses sat with the television remote on the small table beside the chair, but she didn’t reach for them. “You promised you’d stay and take care of me after my trabeculectomy.”
When she tossed out the big vocabulary words, she meant business. His full name might come next.
Mitch closed the door and held his breath for three seconds before replying. “I’ve been here all week, Mom, commuting to the city. The doctor gave you high marks. You can manage for thirty-six hours at this point. I’ve loaded the fridge, so you won’t need to go anywhere, lift anything heavy, or do anything else. I’ll even wash your hair for you today if you want to make sure you don’t get water in your eyes.”
“You know I appreciate all the help. It’s just that I’ll miss your company, honey. Can’t you stay tonight since the party isn’t until tomorrow? Or come home tomorrow night after the party?”
“I need to address a few things at my place tonight, and I’d like to have a few drinks tomorrow night without worrying about that long drive.” Nor did he want to miss an opportunity to curl up with Peyton again, even if it was as chaste as their night in London.
His mother sighed and reached for the TV remote. “Guess I’d better hope that there are some good movies on tonight.”
Mitch moved aside a stack of quilting magazines from the coffee table before taking a seat in front of his mother. “Mom, you’ve been encouraging me to meet someone for ages. I’d think you’d be happy now that I have.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What’s wrong with Katherine’s daughter, Sadie? She’s a sweetheart. She lives around the corner, helps her mom . . . If you moved back here, or even to Jersey City, you two could take the ferry or the PATH in to work. She works as an assistant to some bigwig banker, you know. She’s smart. Why can’t you date her?”
He recalled Sadie as a cheerful girl, five years his junior. He’d never given her a second thought as a teen, and couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her. “I’m sure Sadie is a nice woman, but Peyton—”
“Peyton. What kind of name is that? I mean, I’m sure she’s very interesting, but she’s not our people. Can you imagine her living here in Hoboken? You guys would have to be all the way down by Fourteenth.” She punctuated her comment about the tonier part of town with an eye roll.
“I don’t live here in Hoboken.”
“Don’t remind me.” She pulled his dad’s fraying afghan across her bare legs.
Mitch stood with a heavy sigh. “Aren’t you being a little ridiculous? You don’t even know Peyton.”
“I know enough. Don’t get me wrong—I feel sorry for what she’s gone through.” She made the sign of the cross. “Her book is good, and she’s doing a wonderful thing with this charity stuff. But she grew up in Connecticut with a giant silver spoon. What will she have in common with me or your sister? With you? Will her parents even approve of us? And even if none of that is a problem, I worry she’s going to change you to be more like her. I like you the way you are now.”
He smiled at the compliment and the passionate, if pained, voice of her mini tirade. “You’re jumping way ahead. This is a date, not a wedding. But she’s surprisingly unaffected. I think you might like her. She’s a dreamer, like Dad.”
His mom shook her head, her eyes growing misty. “I’ll never see you. You’ll work in the city and move up there, and the next thing I know you’ll have a sailboat or something!”
He lifted a bottle of pills and looked at the label. “I think the meds are making you a little goofy.” He chuckled, although he couldn’t deny the momentary allure of sailing with Peyton on the Sound. “You’re talking crazy. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Mitchell, there’s a reason for that saying ‘A son is a son ’til he marries his wife.’”
“By that logic, you should never want me to marry.”
“At least if you married Sadie, you’d be here in our neighborhood, and Katherine and I could babysit our grandkids together.” With a harrumph, she turned on the television and squinted while scrolling through the program guide. She stopped on the Hallmark Channel.
Mitch stood and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll go start the laundry and lasagna.”
She grabbed his shirt. “I love you, honey. I want you to be happy. In my experience, people from different worlds don’t last, no matter how exciting it seems in the beginning. And after how I grieved losing your dad, I can’t stand to think of you suffering that way if she gets sick again.”
The roughness in her voice came from a place of pain. Neither of them had quite learned to shake those feelings. Maybe that was why they’d been so close, while Lauren seemed almost an outsider at times with her barely there memories of their father. She hadn’t soldiered through that battle with Mitch and their mom.
He patted her hand. “None of us knows how long anything will last. Cancer patients can survive, while healthy people get killed by cars. I don’t know if this date will lead to more or not, but I can’t plan my life around variables, either. Besides, if you could go back knowing Dad would get sick, would you not have married him?”
Her eyes flashed with shock and anger. “I loved him.”
“Maybe I’ll fall in love, too. I can’t know if I don’t try. All I can tell you is that this woman makes me feel alive with possibility in a way I don’t know that I’ve ever felt.”
His mother frowned, and he couldn’t help but be sad that she’d soured something he’d been looking forward to all week.
A picture of Lauren’s first birthday party caught his eye. His father, a handsome man with piercing, intelligent eyes, stared him down. Mitch would never forget those eyes. Even at his sickest, Mitch’s father’s gaze had implored Mitch to be the man of the house and take care of his mom and sister. He’d kept that promise for years, but maybe it was time to reset the boundaries and get Lauren to step up. Surely his dad would’ve wanted Mitch to find the kind of love that his parents had shared?
He rose from the table, picturing Peyton’s smile as he made his way to the kitchen. Within twenty minutes, he’d assembled the layers of lasagna noodles, marinara sauce, sautéed meatloaf mixed with garlic and parsley, and ricotta and mozzarella and was placing the pan in the oven. Ninety minutes later, he’d washed and folded most of his mother’s clothes. Once the lasagna had cooled a bit, he cut it into small portions and saved them in Tupperware for easy reheating.
His mom had fallen asleep during a rerun of A Country Wedding. He wanted to make his getaway before Katherine came by with that cheesecake but hated to wake his mom. When he removed the remote from her lap and turned off the television, the silence woke her.
“Sneaking off?” she mumbled.
“Mom.” He sighed
, counting to five in his head. “You have my number—for emergencies only. Otherwise, Lauren will stop over at some point tomorrow morning to check in on you.”
“We’ll see,” she muttered with doubt, then raked her hands through her hair and scratched her scalp.
“I love you, Mom, but I’ve spent more than half my life working and taking care of you and Lauren. I’m not your husband—I’m your son—and it’s time I start looking ahead to something exciting that’s all mine. Haven’t I earned that without you making me feel like I’m letting you down?”
When he finished, her eyes were wide and her chin quivered. “I didn’t choose for your father to die. I’m sorry I needed help to raise your sister and pay the bills because I didn’t have an education and fancy job, but that’s what families do—they help each other. You always thought so, too, until now. Seems this Peyton is already changing you, just like I thought.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mitch rolled the window down while driving the Ford Focus Zipcar through the stone-and-wood front gate of Arcadia House. His heart sped up like that of a teen girl about to meet the royal family at Buckingham Palace as he crossed the estate’s threshold.
He slowed to five miles per hour so he wouldn’t miss a single detail. The welcoming sound of pea stone grinding beneath his tires as he wound along the lengthy driveway prompted a smile. When he drew nearer to the home, breezes carried the scent of briny air through his open window. Lush green grass and hearty shrubs bursting with purple hydrangea made him conscious of how mind-numbing Manhattan’s monochromatic cement jungle could be.
Arcadia House sprawled proudly across the lawn, its magnificent shingle-style construction highlighted by a gabled roofline, multiple chimneys, white trim, balustrades, and a portico. His family home could fit inside its four-car garage with room to spare.
A handful of delivery vans, catering trucks, and workers gathered along the side of the house like ants at a picnic, no doubt delivering flowers, linens, and food for the party. It wouldn’t shock him if a movie director stepped out from behind a tree and told him where to stand. He imagined his dad smiling down at his kid being a guest at the home of one of America’s literary greats.
He shut his mind to the maudlin thoughts that often accompanied memories of his dad. And while the estate impressed Mitch, seeing Peyton was the real reason he came. He missed her intelligent blue eyes and smart-aleck smile. The casual grace of her stride. The sincerity that shone through even when she had her guard up higher and thicker than the Great Wall of China.
After grabbing the bouquet he’d picked up in town minutes earlier, he stepped out of the car and retrieved his duffel bag and the container of pale-pink macarons he’d made for her family. A perfect batch—smooth, shiny shells and small even feet. He was locking the door—probably an unnecessary step considering where he was—when he heard Peyton call his name. He turned in time to see her skip down the steps from the front door.
Her sunstruck hair shimmered as it bounced around her face, the sight of which filled him with light and heat. “You made it.”
Her happy smile allayed any lingering concerns that he was here because of Logan’s machinations.
He welcomed her quick kiss hello but couldn’t hold on to her because his hands were full. “The drive wasn’t too bad.”
She made grabby hands for the flowers. “For me?”
He handed her the bouquet of pink gerbera daisies, orange lilies, yellow santini chrysanthemums—fresh and unpretentious, like her.
“I love them, thank you.” She dipped her nose into the velvety heads, which looked beautiful next to her yellow shift dress, then nodded toward the container. “What’s in there?”
“I made macarons for your mother for allowing me to be a last-minute addition.” If life had taught him anything, it was that mothers never minded being remembered.
She clucked. “You’re very wise, and I can’t wait to try one of your signature treats. Now come on and I’ll show you around.”
A light breeze tousled her hair as she grabbed his sleeve and tugged him toward the front door.
“I’m probably not the first to say this, but your home looks like a movie set.” His gaze drifted from the massive white door to sunlight glinting off the home’s many windows.
“Let’s just hope it doesn’t turn into a horror flick tonight.” She flashed a cheeky smile.
He came to a stop at the base of the front steps. “Is that typical of Prescott parties?”
“I guess you’ll be the judge after you meet my crazy family. A closer look at my gene pool might convince you to catch the midnight train.”
“They can’t be that bad. They made you, after all.”
“Ooh, pretty smooth, mister.” She grinned before opening the door. “Let’s stash your bag in my room first, then I’ll give you the tour and introduce you.”
“Sounds good.” He stepped inside and then stopped again in the entry while he worked his way out of being awestruck. It smelled of hardwood and lemon oil and time and money. A stately residence filled with history and secrets. He could almost hear William Prescott’s ghost pacing the hallways—floorboards squeaking—while reading his drafts aloud.
From the entry, he could see straight through a great room at the back of the house to a double set of french doors that presumably led to a patio and the sea beyond. To his left lay a formal reception room with a massive marble fireplace at the far end. A glass door beside the hearth appeared to lead to a paneled room that he couldn’t see well. To his right, he surveyed an immense dining room with a door that also led elsewhere—perhaps a butler’s pantry.
Peyton pointed straight ahead, then moved her finger clockwise. “Casual living area, dining room, parlor, and behind there is my dad’s office, where we’ll go later.” Peyton then pointed up the curved staircase. “This way for now.”
He readjusted his overnight bag on his shoulder and followed her up the stairs, zooming past the family pictures he would like to see. The second-floor hallway ran in two directions, like carpeted bowling alleys flanked by many doors. He followed her to the left.
She led him into a spacious, airy room with many windows, white beadboard wainscot, and cornflower-blue walls. A large window seat stuffed with bolster pillows offered a prime view of the Sound. Her room even had its own brick fireplace—painted white—at one end, and a bathroom en suite.
He set his bag and the cookies on the window seat’s cushion and stared at the glittering sea. Nothing like the view of traffic and telephone poles on Madison Street, making it tough to shake his mother’s voice from his head. Having lived this platinum-spoon life, perhaps Peyton couldn’t be satisfied with less for long. “You woke up to this every day as a kid?”
“I’m lucky, I know. I didn’t realize it as much at the time. This is what I knew—my normal. Don’t be fooled, though. Life here wasn’t as perfect as it seems.”
“Or maybe your expectations of life are too high.” He closed his eyes, wishing he hadn’t voiced that.
She chuckled as if he’d been joking. “Anything’s possible.”
Rather than apologize and make a bigger deal out of what he’d said, he turned and glanced at her queen-size bed. In nanoseconds he imagined being wrapped up with her in its blue-and-white-checked quilt. First he had to endure the party.
She grasped his hand and he held fast. “Quick tour and then we’ll get a vase for these flowers. My mother is either in the kitchen or out on the patio orchestrating everything.”
“I don’t want to disturb her.”
“Don’t worry. She’ll brush us off in a matter of minutes, but we’ll say a quick hello. My father keeps the good bourbon in his office—another reason that’ll be our last stop.” With a wink, she gestured toward the door.
He grabbed the cookies and followed her lead. “Whatever you want.”
“Funny how that always works for me.” She laughed.
They buzzed through the house at a dizzying pace,
pausing briefly in the different rooms on their way to the kitchen, which was substantial and charmingly preserved in the period of the house despite its modern conveniences. Four chefs from All In Good Taste were already chopping, toasting, and roasting. He detected hints of rosemary, lemon, and sherry in the mix. In another life, he might’ve liked life as a pastry chef.
Through the windows, movement on the patio caught his eye. Dreamy white gauze curtains were blowing in the breeze. The disparity with which they lived their lives nearly made him laugh at the same time he had to tamp down some envy. He would love to treat his own family to something so grand.
Peyton stood in the center of the kitchen, arranging her flowers in a vase she pulled from a cabinet. When she finished, she spun on her heel, arms gesturing about. “My mom treated this affair like a small wedding, but it will be beautiful. The tent alone is worth the effort.”
“But it isn’t calling for rain.”
“What she got wouldn’t do squat in the rain. It’s all about ambiance. Romantic, open—flowy.” She pointed toward the door. “Let’s go introduce you. She’ll be nicest in front of strangers.”
Peyton winked, but he wondered if there wasn’t some truth to her remark. His own mother had complained that Peyton wasn’t “their kind,” so he couldn’t begrudge Peyton’s mother if she harbored similar doubts about him.
They walked out to the flagstone patio, where a long table was being set. Florists wearing red collared pullovers embellished with a “Smell the Roses” emblem were arranging fistfuls of white roses, hydrangea, and pale-pink peonies on a bed of willow that spilled across its length. He’d attended fancy parties in his career, but that spectacular centerpiece was made more resplendent by the crystal candelabras placed at every third chair. Some lady counted out square gold chargers, while another was doing something fancy with napkins. Mitch noted stacks of china and rows of stemware as well.