Sweet Secrets

by Rhonda Sheree

  “That maid’s a good cook,” Carmen says.

  “How would you know?” I retort. “You didn’t eat anything.”

  “I ate enough. Not all of us are okay with letting ourselves go with age.”

  “Girls,” Mom says. We heed the one-word warning and settle down. “I could stay here forever,” she says, looking at the vast property. “Gail lives in that little house over there.”

  “I know,” I say. Instinctively, I touch the necklace that hangs from my neck. I feel Mom’s eyes on me. I drop my hand.

  Carmen says, “Mom. You can’t stay here forever. Eventually Grayson is going to want to date, bring women home and all that. Your presence will cramp his style.”

  “You mean like you’re cramping mine right now?” Mom says.

  “I’m trying to be serious here,” Carmen says. “You should go into the senior community, sell the house, and split the proceeds between the three of us.”

  “Oh, really?” Mom says.

  “Carmen, I don’t want a third of the house,” I say.

  “Are you even looking for a place of your own?” she asks me.

  “I’m saving money right now and Grayson says that we can stay here as long as we like.”

  “And we like,” Mom pipes in and sips her wine. She’s had a full glass already and is working on her second. Watching her stand up is going to be a sight.

  “Pace yourself, Mom.” I nod to her glass.

  “What gives you two the right to tell me what to do all of a sudden?”

  “Never mind,” I say, “don’t pace yourself. But at least fix your afro—it’s crooked.”

  Mom sets her wine glass down and promptly removes her wig. Her black hair is braided front to back and banded at her nape. Not a single, solitary gray hair.

  “Have you been coloring your hair?” Carmen asks. “Mom, why don’t you let me do that for you? You don’t need those wigs, either. You know I do hair for a living.”

  “I do not color my hair,” Mom says indignantly, “because I do not have gray hair. I do not have gray hair because I do not let my children worry me.”

  Carmen and I look at each other and opt not to argue. Who can ever win an argument against a tipsy fabulist?

  Mom surprises us both by saying, “As a matter of fact, Grayson has secured a real estate agent for me.”

  “What?” Carmen and I cry simultaneously.

  “He didn’t tell me anything about that,” I say.

  “It isn’t his business to tell,” Mom counters. “You work with him, Callia. Get the place packed up and sold. I’m going to look for a senior living community and if I don’t like what I find, then I’ll rent a little apartment until the Lord calls me home.”

  “What about the money?” Carmen asks. “What are you going to do with it?”

  Mom takes a sip of her wine. “Why are you always so obsessed with things that aren’t yours?”

  “I lived there too, Mom.”

  “Child, you never paid one dime on that house. You’ve got all those married boyfriends. Why can’t they buy you a house? Oh, that’s right. Because they’re already paying a mortgage, raising kids, and supporting their wives.”

  Mom’s had too much. Her tongue is getting slippery and callous. She might be a sweet little old lady. But she’s a rude little old drunk.

  “Fine,” Carmen says. “Do whatever you want. You don’t have to drag my personal life into it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mom says. “I shouldn’t have said that about your married boyfriends.”

  “Why do you have to keep calling them married?”

  “What else should I call them?”

  “There’ve only been three and two were separated. Cut me some slack.”

  “Mom,” I begin to steer the conversation in a safer direction, “are you comfortable with Grayson dealing with the real estate agent on your behalf?”

  “Yes, but I’d like you to help him out,” Mom says. She begins to fan herself with her novel.

  “Why don’t I help?” Carmen asked.

  Mom says, “Sweetheart. You know I love you very much. But if there’s one thing a mother knows it’s the strengths and weaknesses of her children.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Carmen asks. Her stomach rumbles and we look at her. “Excuse me,” she says.

  “Girl, you barely ate,” I say. “Why don’t you go in there and make yourself a plate of food and really eat instead of picking at it?”

  “No,” she says defiantly and flips her hair over her shoulder. “What was that supposed to mean? Strengths and weaknesses.”

  Mom says, “Your strength is making people look good. Your weakness is money. You want too much of it, Carmen, and I’m not sure I’d trust you not to bilk me out of the proceeds from my house. There. That’s the truth of it and I’m sixty years old and I’m not going to bite my tongue.”

  “I am so offended by that,” Carmen says. She gets up. At least her lips can still move. They’re frozen in a perfect pout. “I’m going home.”

  “Don’t be mad,” I say. “Mom’s been drinking.”

  “Don’t be mad,” Mom repeats in a mocking tone. “Mom’s been drinking.” She begins to laugh hysterically then wobbles to her feet. “Come give your Momma some sugar, Carmen. I love you, despite your greedy little heart.”

  She gestures for Carmen to bend down to her level so that Mom can plant a kiss on her forehead.

  “I’m still mad,” Carmen says, although her pout is gone. She crosses her arms and looks up at the house. “Where did Grayson say he was going?”

  Instinctively, the hairs on my arms rise.

  “I think he left,” I say.

  He’s probably in his room or office or gym—which I’ve yet to find—but I don’t see any benefit in telling her.

  “Hmm…” Carmen says. “On that note I guess I really should head out. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, ladies. I’ll meet you at the train station at noon.”

  “We’ll walk you out,” I say.

  “No need,” she says and starts to walk back in the house. “I think you’d better catch Mom.”

  I turn in time to keep her upright. “C’mon, little lady. Off to bed with you.”

  As I guide Mom into the house, I make sure to keep my eyes on Carmen up ahead. When she gets to the front hall, she stops, turns, and looks up the stairs. Then her eyes latch onto mine. Carmen smiles, waves, then saunters out the front door.

  What are you up to, little sister?

  Chapter 22

  I’d gone to bed without dessert. Not like I needed it—trust me. I’ve easily packed on five pounds my first week back home and I don’t feel all that bad about it. I turn over in bed and check the clock. One o’clock. The house is silent. I lift myself up and take a sip of water but I’m not sated. I want sugar.

  I swing the cover off, tie a robe around my nakedness, and make my way downstairs. Last night, I couldn’t decide whether to make cupcakes or muffins, so I made both. They came out even better than I had expected, considering it’s been at least a month since I’ve done any serious baking. But I’m going to restrain myself tonight. Right now, more of that mango juice I found in the fridge earlier should do the trick.

  As it turns out, I’m not the only person with insomnia. I see Grayson walk out of the kitchen and down a back hallway. I’d never been that way before. It gets me curious. What’s he up to at this time of night? My bare feet don’t make a sound as I hurry to turn the corner and catch up to him. There is a faint glow beneath a cracked door. What is that noise? Pecking? Typing?

  Ah. That must be his home office. I knock softly at the door and push it open. He’s so intent on what he’s doing on his computer that he doesn’t see me. That’s when I notice the earbuds in his ear. He’s listening to music and eating something; his mouth is moving as fast as his fingers. I lean against the doorjamb. The room reminds me of Mom’s place, it’s so overfilled with books. I can’t read them from my vantage point, but I swear I
see one on the coffee table that was also at Mom’s house—I must be seeing things. I start to say something to him, but I’m distracted by his sheer beauty. Grayson wears only striped pajama bottoms and glasses. I could stay here and observe this man all night. His smooth, light brown chest is toned, not chiseled. Grayson’s shoulders are broad and his biceps are much more prominent than I would’ve guessed. He has the body of a man who has an active lifestyle but doesn’t worship the gym. I like his body better than Robert’s, who’s so ripped he looks like he’s made of heavy machinery rather than human flesh.

  Grayson pushes up his glasses, takes a hunk of whatever he’s eating, and shoves it in his mouth. Then he looks up and sees me for the first time. Startled, his mouth freezes.

  “Why are you up?” I ask him.

  “Hmm?” he asks. Grayson begins to chew so slowly I immediately conjure an image of a cow grazing. He removes the earbuds from his ear.

  “Better yet, what are you eating?”

  He shrugs and chews quickly this time. Swallows.

  “What?” he asks and stands up. Grayson notices my attire. I’m wearing my red silky robe from home instead of the one that Gail had set out for me on my first night here. I pull it tighter around me, although I’m not sure if I do this out of modesty or flirtation. I feel emboldened by his enraptured eyes.

  The only light comes from the lamp beside his computer. I take comfort in the fact that he can’t see much but I do hope his imagination is working overtime, as is mine.

  My eyes drift down his six-foot frame. It’s a good thing I’m already leaning against the doorjamb; otherwise, I swear I’d fall over.

  “Now you’re making me suspicious,” I say.

  “It’s late.” He runs his hand over his mouth, ridding it of crumbs. “You should be sleeping instead of lurking around like someone in an Agatha Christie novel.”

  “What do you know about Agatha Christie?”

  “I have a few of her books. She’s—”

  “No,” I say. “Diversion won’t work.”

  “You asked me a question.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “And I’ll repeat it.” I will my legs to step inside the room and stop inches from Grayson, who’s acting more than a little nervous. Why? Can my presence be affecting him that much? “Why are you up this late?”

  He starts to look over his shoulder but stops, and looks back at me. I see the muscles in his stomach tighten and I want to reach out and touch each and every one.

  “I was getting some writing done before you rudely interrupted me. If you were looking for the kitchen, you took a wrong turn.”

  I take another step closer, our eyes locked on each other, our skin only an inch apart. I place my bare foot gently on his.

  “Grayson?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m going to ask you a very direct question. If you answer me honestly, I’ll let your foot be. If you lie…” I start to apply pressure, then ease up. “I’m going to crush it until you cry like the ten-year-old I know still lurks behind that big boy body of yours. Okay?”

  “Okay.” His eyes widen and his lips begin to curl into a smile. He knows what I’m about to ask him.

  “Grayson?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you eating some of the pastry I made last night?”

  “You mean those cupcakes?” he asks.

  “Yeah, the cupcakes.”

  “Are those the ones with the frosting or without?” he asks.

  “Those are the ones with the frosting.”

  He thinks about this for a second. “No, I haven’t eaten anything with frosting.”

  “Mm-hm,” I say, apply light pressure to his foot, then ease off again. “What about the ones without the frosting?”

  “The ones without the frosting?”

  “Mm-hm,” I say patiently.

  “Those are the muffins or the cupcakes?”

  “Those are the muffins.”

  “The muffins,” he says and ponders the question. He is delighting in this little game as much as I am. “That is a definite possibility.”

  “Definite possibility?” I say and put more of my weight on his foot.

  “Ouch!” he says. “I considered it an advance on the rent you’re not paying. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that some of those were for me to take over to the Meads’ place in the morning and the others were for our little taste test.”

  “There’s still plenty left. I only ate one.”

  I cross my arms. “Well? What did you think?”

  “Uh-huh,” he says. “We’re going to have to have a formal taste test. In fact, why don’t we have it now?”

  “Now?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, why not? You don’t have to go to work. What time is this breakfast?”

  “I promised I’d be there at nine.”

  “And then you’re going into the city. So no hanging out with me tomorrow.”

  I shake my head. “Afraid not.”

  “Then we have tonight. Let’s fill a plate with some samples and hang out by the pool.”

  This is not happening. Me and Grayson Lane hanging out at one in the morning by the pool like a couple of kids who have nothing in the world to worry about except our own selfish happiness. I like it.

  “You’re on. Let me go slip on some clothes.”

  “I don’t mind what you’re wearing,” he says and smiles.

  “I bet you don’t.”

  “You know these glasses have X-ray vision.”

  “Really?” I say and pose provocatively. “How’s the view?”

  “Better if it were a little closer.”

  “Don’t press your luck,” I say.

  His eyes linger over my body. “You have a great rack.”

  “You call yourself a writer and the best you can do is ‘a great rack’?”

  He laughs. “Boobies. You have awesome boobies.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. I’ll be back in five.”

  I glide through the hall and back up the staircase like Mary Poppins. My feet never touch the ground.

  Grateful Journal

  Grayson just saw me naked. Well, kinda. Not really. Complimented my breasts. We’re gonna meet out by the pool in, like, two minutes so he can taste test my muffins. Not those muffins, you dirty girl. The ones I actually baked!

  I’m so happy right now I am floating on air. I don’t know what’s about to happen but I’m ready for anything.

  So very, very happy!

  Gotta go. He’s waiting. Bye!

  Chapter 23

  The kitchen light is on when I return from slipping on a pair of shorts, a tank, and a jacket, just in case the air’s chilly. I see Grayson outside. From what I can make out from the glow of the outside house lights, Grayson is putzing around, though exactly what he’s doing, I don’t know. I grab a plate and place some of the pastry on them. Considering how much baking I did last night, I should be exhausted, not floating about like a lovesick schoolgirl.

  “I made way too much,” I mutter and grab the plate.

  As soon as I get outside, I realize I underestimated how cool late May can be in upper New York. There’s more than just a slight chill in the air; I’m damn near freezing and my shorts might be cute but they are woefully lacking in the appropriate attire department. Grayson doesn’t seem fazed. In fact, he’s slipped out of pajama pants and into swim trunks.

  “What are you wearing?” I ask. “It’s freezing out here.”

  He comes and gets the plate from me. “That’s why I’ve got the hot tub going.”

  I look out at the far end of the pool—I’d never noticed the hot tub built into it. I let Grayson guide me down the side of the pool, his hand lightly touching my shoulder.

  When I get there, I’m stunned by the beauty of it all. I forget about the cool air and feel my insides melt like a hot marshmallow. Grayson’s turned on the lights inside the pool and hot tub, which give off a pale blue glow. Steam
rises invitingly and I’m anxious to get inside. A bottle of Moscato D’Asti on ice and two flutes await us.

  “I don’t have a bathing suit.”

  He takes the plate from me and holds my hand as he leads me to the steps. I remove my flip flops and jacket and step inside the water, still wearing my denim shorts and tank.

  Grayson sets the plate down while he gets into the water. His dark nipples are hard as pebbles. I busy myself with napkins while he opens the bottle of wine.

  “What are we toasting?” I ask.

  “To the start of a beautiful business relationship.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t have a business, Gray.”

  “Yet,” he says and touches his glass to mine.

  We take a sip. The wine is cold and delicious. I can’t make out the label, but I don’t mind. It’s not like I’m going to be dropping his kind of dollars on wine any time soon.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  I remove the clear glass dome that’s covering the food and pull the plate closer to the edge of the hot tub. I made mini-muffins and cupcakes for us and the Meads. There’s an assortment on the plate that I’ve cut in half for each of us to sample.

  “Try that one first,” I say. “It’s a strawberry muffin.” Grayson and I pop our halves into our mouths. “It’s rare to find strawberry muffins and I came up with this recipe myself.” He nods, chews, swallows. “And it isn’t too dry,” I continue. “Or bitter. The strawberries are just right.”

  “No argument from me.”

  “Do you like it?” I ask.

  “It’s great. What’s next?”

  “Chocolate chunk,” I say. Grayson takes a sip of wine then dives into the mini-muffin half. I wait for his reaction but all I get is a slow head nod. “There’s a special art to making a muffin that isn’t too dense or dry. You want it to be light, but not so light where it falls apart as soon as you touch it.”

  “I see,” he says and smiles at me. “I like the positive words you wrote on each of the cupcakes.”