*
Jonathan stared at the attic in frustration. With everything reorganized, it was easy to tell what types of things were where, but he wanted a specific item. He poked his head through the trap door. “Bailey.”
“Yeah?” She’d grumbled about being mostly confined to the couch, but acquiesced when she figured out it gave her an excuse to make lists of the auction items they uncovered.
Having the power back on made it easier to get through the outstanding work. Especially since an awkward silence hovered in the air every time he and Bailey were in the same room. He didn’t regret making his offer last night, but it changed things. Where did it leave them? Friends? Nothing?
“Did you come across that old movie projector?” The note he found in the bottom of the safe sat in his wallet now, not offering more answers than when he first read it. He could decipher one riddle, though–what was on the film reel under the old photos.
“To-sell stack. Probably on the bottom.”
That gave him what he needed. Moments later, he unearthed the gray box and hauled it from the pile. Something else tumbled to the ground, and he frowned. A small, velvet jewelry box. He flipped the top, to expose a gold ring, inlaid with diamonds and engraved with delicate leaves. He recognized it. It was Nana’s mother’s wedding ring. An heirloom, passed down for generations. He was glad it wasn’t lost.
He pocketed the box and hefted the projector down the ladder. He paused in his room to grab the film, and then made his way to the living room.
Bailey looked up from her notes. “What’s that?” Before he could respond, she added, “Besides a projector.”
He raised his brows, entertained. “I found a movie. I want to see what’s on it.”
“Government secrets?” Her words were playful.
He dragged the coffee table to a spot close to an outlet but far enough from the blank wall on the far side of the room, that the image would show up. “My money’s on deleted scenes from Gone with the Wind.”
“Original director’s cut of Casablanca?”
“Shirley Temple auditions.” He almost expected one or all of the above. Or hoped for it. With all of Nana’s stories about her adventures when she was younger, it would be amazing if the film was something rare and fantastic. He plugged the projector in, loaded the reels, and dimmed the lights. “Ready to watch history… of some sort?”
“Bring it on.” Bailey laughed.
He flicked the switch. Crackles filtered through the ancient speakers—not caused by sound from the movie, but by the age of the film and player—and a sepia image covered the wall. It was Nana, looking identical to the woman in the photos upstairs. Fortunately this moving version was fully clothed.
“Wow.” Awe filled Bailey’s voice. “Is that really her?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, better than all of the above.”
He agreed. There was no sound, as the woman on the wall moved about. The room she stood in was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. It wasn’t any of the houses around here, that he remembered. A man strolled into the frame. The same older gentleman as in the pictures.
“Is that Papa Hemingway?” Bailey’s question flipped a switch in Jonathan’s head.
“I think it is.” That was why he looked familiar, as did the room. Ernest Hemingway’s historic estate sat on one of the other Keys. The home of the American poet was a tourist attraction now. It all rushed back—Nana’s tales about her torrid affair with the much older man; how she used to tease Jonathan’s dad about being an illegitimate child; the way she insisted Hemingway killed himself. Accident, cleaning his gun—my ass, she’d say. He knew he’d seen the best of life and wanted to go out on a high note.
On screen, the man approached Nana. Jonathan almost choked, when Hemingway swept her into an embrace and kissed her passionately. Nana cupped the man’s crotch, and Jonathan muttered, “Oh, God.” Her partner tore her dress from her shoulders and groped her breast, and Jonathan flipped off the projector. “Nope. We’re done.” Historic documents were one thing, but there was no way he was watching his grandmother in some sort of late-forties amateur porn movie.
“Holy…” Bailey trailed off. “That wasn’t real. There’s no way.”
“I’d like to agree.”
“Can you imagine how much that’s worth if you can prove it’s legit?”
Jonathan glared at her, and she held up her hands. “Teasing. Seriously. Where did you find it?”
In the closet of shattered childhood delusions. He kept the sarcastic thought to himself. “In a safe upstairs.” He stalled on the part about the note for him, and wasn’t sure why. Maybe because, if Nana left the letter there, she intended for him to discover all of this.
“Do you think… That is… Were her stories about your real grandfather true?”
“No.” He shook his head until his brain rattled. “Those were to fluster Dad; I’m not the illegitimate grandson of…” He couldn’t say the name. It felt like sacrilege.
She sank back into the cushions. “How many more of her tales do you think are real? If this one happened, all bets are off.”
“I’m going to go with all of them at this point.” He dropped to the other end of the couch. Bailey shifted her legs to make room for him, then rested her feet on his thighs. “Hell. I think I want that treasure map and to go check out the far end of the island, to see what that iron key belongs to.” He was being facetious. It was easier than processing the awe and disbelief. His entire life he thought he knew the woman who raised him, but apparently he had no idea.
She meant the world to him. Gave him more support and affection than his own parents. For as long as he remembered, her existence seemed to revolve around him, and he took that for granted. Yet, before he came along, before his father, she’d lived a rich life.
Ernest-Fucking-Hemingway, for God’s sake. An author—an artist—who influenced the world. Jonathan struggled to reconcile the sweet old woman who led him on fake treasure hunts with the vibrant young girl in the movie looking up adoringly at her lover.
She’d lived. What was he doing with his life as a thank you for the time she gave him? Working. Earning. Ignoring anything inside that threatened to hurt. Was there something to her letter? Not that he thought he was running from fate, but was he letting life pass him by?
For the first time since hearing about her death, joyful memories of her flitted in without the grief. He wanted to hang onto this feeling for as long as he could.
Chapter Fifteen
“You're sure you don't want to sell the movie? Classic pornography with a famous leading man has to be worth a fortune to the right collector.”
Jonathan stared at Bailey in disbelief, waiting for her to crack. She looked back impassively. He finally said, “With my grandmother.”
She laughed. “Ow.” She pressed her hand to her forehead.
“That's what you get.” He kept his tone kind.
“Yeah, yeah. That won't stop me from doing it again.”
“Teasing me? Wouldn't have it any other way.”
She massaged her temple a bit more, before dropping her hand back to her lap. “I'm sorry about the other morning. Yesterday? I guess it was only a day ago.”
“Don't worry about it.” He was still wrapping his head around the old movie—not just the contents, but all the thoughts it knocked loose. How much Nana and her stories meant. How she was there for Bailey when he wasn't. That he missed her so much it hurt in his chest and joints and every inch of his frame.
“I'm not dropping this until I've said what I need to. It can't fester when you leave. I won't let it be like last time.”
He didn't have an argument. “I'm listening.”
“I don't want to take back what I said.” She frowned. “Well, I do, but it would be dishonest. I want to take back that I meant it, but I can't. It's not true anymore. I've blamed you forever for what happened, though I shouldn't have. In a way, I'm glad it happened like this.”<
br />
He must have misunderstood. “How could you possibly be glad about it?”
“I don't like my time with Danny. That freaking hurt, and it came close to destroying me. But I came out the other side, and I like to think I'm better for it. I don't want you to hang onto it either.”
“Already over it.” He struggled to keep the teasing in his voice amid the chaos of emotion inside.
She chucked a throw pillow at him. “Bozo.”
He snagged it from the air and set it on the ground. Lucifer crawled out from under the couch and climbed onto the plush. She turned around twice before lying down. “Have you been watching her since…” Nana passed. He couldn't say the words.
“I leave food out for her and clean her litter box. She hid until you got here. Thank you for putting food out for her while I was out of it.”
“Will you take care of her once I leave?”
“Of course.”
He managed to grab one of the many thoughts flitting around and force words to it. “I'm not as forgiving as you. If I saw Danny, I'd still deck him without hesitation.”
“And I'd enjoy seeing it. Have you ever punched someone? Doesn’t that dirty the suit?”
He was wrong before; Bailey wasn't three separate people. Teenage-her, bitter-adult-her, and the teasing seductive siren were all the girl he grew up with, and he'd missed her a lot. “It probably would, but you're worth the dry-cleaning bill.”
“You're such a hero.” She looked around. “Dang it. The cat stole my projectile weapon.”
It felt good to laugh. It didn't erase the heaviness from his heart, but it sweetened the sadness. “I'm going to miss you.”
“You don't have to.”
He couldn't decipher her meaning. “I don't?”
“You know how to email. I’m half-surprised you didn’t charge your phone the minute we got power. Either one of us is capable of hopping a plane. You don't have to drop off the face of the earth again.”
“I won't. I promise. And I am sorry for the things I said yesterday.”
She raised her brows in question.
“My made-up past for us. I don't think it would have gone down that way.” Not that he could predict things like what if when it came to people. If she were a stock, he could guess to the penny. “But neither of us would be who we are now, and we're pretty fucking awesome as we are.”
“Cornball.” As if agreeing with her, thunder crashed outside and lightning lit the room, before the lights blinked out.
“I'll get the flashlights.” He was reluctant to move. Sitting with her feet in his lap, simply talking, felt right.
“It'll wait. Tell me more about what Mr. Freaking Awesome does with his life.”
This was the way it should be. They had their friendship back and wouldn’t surrender it even with a country between them. He’d go back to work, she’d do the same, and somewhere along the way, they’d be happy for each other when they found the loves of their lives.
The idea wrenched in his stomach, and he swallowed his response.
* * * *
The storm blew out by the next morning, and by ten, they had power again. Bailey resisted the urge to tease Jonathan about plugging in his phone within minutes of having lights, but she did get in a jab when he grumbled about still not having any service. He was treating her like a china doll, watching most of her movements and asking every few minutes how she was. He let her get up and walk around, as long as she promised not to do anything that would jar her broken arm. Which meant ignoring most of what she needed to do.
When a loud ring carried through the house, it took her a moment to place it. The phone.
“Got it.” Jonathan slid past her and grabbed the handset. “Hello. She is…?” He was silent for almost a minute. “I see. Is everyone—? I’m glad. I’ll let her know. This afternoon works. See you then.” He hung up and looked at her. “No clue why Phillips thought to look for you here.”
Because the town thinks we’re a couple now that you’re back. She didn’t need to delve into that. She and Jonathan had their footing and friendship again. No reason to disrupt a good thing, and she was grateful for the peace they’d reached. “He knows I’m working on the estate. And you did bring me in.”
“He says his clinic is up and running, and he wants to see you today for that X-ray.”
“What else did he say?” There might not have been more, but Bailey had a haunting feeling that churned inside and made her wonder if she wanted the answer.
He turned his gaze to his feet and worked his jaw up and down before finally looking at her. “There was a fire downtown when the power came on last night. They think the wind blew branches into exposed electrical and sparks went up…”
“Is everyone all right?” Her looming dread crept in further.
“No one was hurt. They got it before it spread through all of Main Street, and put it out before the wind picked up again.” He clenched his fist, then jammed his hand into his pocket.
“And…?”
He furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” She didn’t like this. Did he realize dragging things out made it worse?
“The fire started in Margaret’s gallery. The prints, photos, paintings in oil… Phillips says it lit up like a pile of tinder. But she’s all right. She left for the mainland before they closed the roads.”
“That’s something.” Bailey’s head spun, and she leaned against the wall for support.
“I know you were— You would have done a good job with the place, I’m sorry it’s gone.”
She forced herself to stand. “Nothing to do about it.” She didn’t believe her words. “I’ll be fine. We need to get to the doctor, right?”
They kept up a steady string of conversation—or rather, Jonathan did most of the talking—on the drive into town. She was grateful he didn’t bring up the gallery again. It wasn’t as though she’d lost something that was hers, and she was grateful no one was hurt, but she needed to process losing that dream, and she wasn’t sure how to cope.
The clinic’s waiting room was packed to the point of standing room only with people with sniffles, coughs, and minor injuries they’d held onto through the hurricane. Bailey chatted with all of them and refused to acknowledge the knowing looks they shot Jonathan. She was grateful for the reprieve when she was shown back to a room. Even waiting another thirty minutes to see the doctor didn’t bother her. It was a chance to be alone with her musings.
While she never thought she could find the funds to buy the gallery, that hadn’t stopped her from hoping. The loss wouldn’t wreck her business, which followed the estate sales. She’d still spend her weekends in Georgia and marvel at the antiques and memories people collected without realizing they did it.
The nurse made small talk while they X-rayed Bailey’s skull, then left the room again. Moments later, Dr. Phillips joined her and pinned the slides to the lightbox on the wall.
“You’re looking good.” He pointed at the black and white image. “On the surface, there are no cracks. How are you feeling?”
Physically? Fine. Mentally, tired of the question. “Arm hurts, but the dizziness is gone.”
“Glad to hear it.” He flipped off the light beneath the images. “I don’t think you’ll have any long-term damage, but I want to know the minute you have any issues with things like balance or memory.”
Issues with memory. A thought was triggered in her head, and she failed to grasp it. “Can I ask you something?”
“Certainly.”
“Did Nancy Woodhouse have any issues with her memory?”
Dr. Phillips let out a breath as if he’d been socked in the gut, and turned away from her. He pulled off his glasses and polished them with the hem of his scrubs top. “Why do you ask?”
“I found two prescriptions in the medicine cabinet.”
“You did.”
She didn’t like the evasion. Did no one in this town know how to give a straight answer? �
�Yes.”
“I’m grateful it wasn’t Jonathan, but I’m sorry it was you. She insisted I leave the bottles there after her death, but I didn’t want either of you to find out this way. I was hoping you wouldn’t have to find out at all.”
Fuck. Bailey’s world tilted, and the missing pieces of the puzzle, the ones she refused to see before, clicked together. “Was the Percocet bottle I found really full two weeks ago?”
“I shouldn’t tell you this. Patient privacy and such. But she wanted you to know. I wish to God she’d told you two herself.”
The words wouldn’t form in Bailey’s head, despite the knowledge being there. “Tell us what?”
“Four years ago, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She didn’t want anyone to know. The medication didn’t work the way we hoped, and she was slipping.”
Acid churned in Bailey’s gut, and she considered telling him to stop—insisting she didn’t want to hear the rest. This was a truth that needed to come out, though. “And?”
“You knew Nancy better than anyone.” Dr. Phillips didn’t look at her. “Knew how much her memories meant to her. She couldn’t stand the thought of losing them while she was still alive.”
“No.”
“I tried to talk her out of it.” He looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes, as if searching for forgiveness. “She made her point. Convinced me this was the right thing to do. I don’t regret helping her. She went quietly, with as little pain as possible. Took her memories to the grave with her, rather than having them evaporate into nothing. Went out on a high note.” Exactly what Nana used to say about Hemingway.
“Jesus.” Bailey couldn’t hold back her sob. Nana killed herself.
“I wish there was a better way for you to find out.” Dr. Phillips rested a hand on her knee. He didn’t say anything else, just let her cry and handed her a box of tissues.
When she was spent, he helped her stand and let her wash her face in the sink. “Do you want me there when you tell Jonathan?” he asked.
Auctioning Affection: A #GeekLove Contemporary Romance (Your Ad Here Book 3) Page 11
