“Must you throw it in my face?”
“I’m not trying to throw anything in your face. Though now that we’re on the topic, maybe it’s time you start taking better care of yourself.”
“This again.” She rests her head against the pillows, looking up at the ceiling. Sitting in her bed, raised up the way she is, with her hair neatly combed and a touch of lipstick, she’s more like the woman I’ve come to know and adore.
And need. Terribly.
“Yes, this again. Maybe it’s time to cool it with the afternoon cocktails. And the evening cocktails too. And your diet could use a little work.”
“Pardon me, but I eat very well.”
“You eat foods full of sodium and saturated fat. Peter told me so.”
“Peter?” She groans. “The traitor. Telling tales behind my back.”
“He’s going to start preparing healthier foods, whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t like it one bit.”
“I realize that. So does he. But that’s the way it has to be. Grandmother,” I insist when she mutters what sounds suspiciously like a foul curse, “we both want you to be around for a long, long time. We’re not ready to get along without you yet.”
“That much I believe. I don’t know what either of you would do without me.”
“At least you’re sounding more like yourself.” I wave my arms around the room, indicating the almost-obscene number of floral arrangements. “And we’re not the only people who couldn’t do without you, in case an entire church full of flowers isn’t enough proof.”
She purses her lips, eyes narrowing. “Or a funeral home.”
“Grandmother.”
“Those catty bitches only want to see me six feet under, so they can be queen bee or top dog or whatever they want to call it.”
“You’re too hard on them.”
That gets me a withering look.
“I’ve known them a lot longer than you have, my dear. I know what I’m talking about. They don’t care the first thing about whether I make it out of this hospital alive.”
“Well, I do.” I close a hand over hers. “Very much. I don’t want to lose you. Okay?”
“Dear, odds are, you will. I’ll go before you will.”
“I’m not ready. I’m not. I need you.”
She scoffs. “You’ve done very well without me.”
“Why are you so determined to tell me I don’t feel the way I feel? Is it that hard to accept that you’re my last living family member and I’d be completely lost without you?”
She allows a tiny smile. “I don’t doubt you’d be lost.”
“There you go. That’s the attitude I expected.”
“What about you?” She fixes me with one of her patented appraising stares.
“What about me?”
“How’ve you been? It’s been more than two weeks since the auction, but we haven’t had the opportunity to talk about what came of it. Did you sink a knife into that bastard’s back?”
Boy, she’s feeling feisty today. Must be all the rest she’s gotten.
“Not yet. No, I don’t think that’ll ever happen. We’ve gotten past it.”
“I knew you would.”
“You’re very wise.”
“Smirk all you want, young lady, but I know you. I know my granddaughter. You have a sweet, generous heart, and you don’t hold a grudge.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
“Oh, you might tell yourself you’re holding a grudge, but you don’t. When push comes to shove, you’re a reasonable, kind person who wants to smooth things over as soon as possible.”
“You make me sound like a pushover. And if you don’t mind, I’m taking my hand back.”
She holds on tighter than ever. The woman’s darn strong for somebody who had a heart attack, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise. She’s always been stronger than she looks. Only a real fool would mistake her for a weakling just because she’s petite and getting on in years.
“Not until you tell me what I want to know. And you’re no pushover, my dear. Don’t mistake me on that.”
“Because I sort of feel like one now. I mean, now that you mention it, I rolled over and agreed when my editor told me the type of books I needed to write. Even though I didn’t want to.”
“That isn’t being a pushover. That’s an example of someone who can change course when they know they need to. A tactical maneuver. Not weakness.”
“If you say so.”
“You saved your career because you weren’t too stubborn to change course at the advice of a professional. Yes, dear granddaughter, I do say so.”
“Okay, you’ve made your point.” I can’t help but feel a little overwhelmed when she puts it that way. “Why is it that we can always see things about other people’s lives and not our own?”
“I don’t have to listen to your inner voice in my head all day long, don’t forget.”
“Lucky you. It can be a real nightmare in there.”
“So? Bryce? What happened with him?”
I finally withdraw my hand and lean back in my chair. I feel this is going to be a long visit, so I might as well get comfortable. “Our relationship is progressing, I think.”
“You think? What does that mean?”
“It means, I should hate him and want to watch him burn, but instead, I’ve been out with him several times, and I have plans to see him tomorrow.”
“That’s nice. I’m glad you worked things out. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?”
“Just a little.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger, maybe a quarter of an inch between them. “He seems like a genuine person too. He’s grown up considerably. You should’ve seen him with the kids when he dressed as Santa during a party they had at the firehouse. It was incredibly sweet. And those flowers and the teddy bear are from him.” I point them out, almost lost among the rest of the plant life taking up more space than her bed does.
“You seem slightly smitten with him.”
“I didn’t want to be. Does that sound wrong?”
“No. It sounds honest. And I will never be unhappy to hear you speak honestly.”
“Except when I’m telling you how to eat and to stop drinking so much.”
“Naturally, because those things happen to do with me, and I don’t like being told what to do.” If she were a clam, she’d close her shell tight at the mention of the lifestyle changes she needs to make. Folding her hands over her covered lap, she informs me, “Peter has another thing coming if he believes he’s in any position to tell me what to do.”
I clear my throat at the mention of his name. This could either go well or ridiculously bad. Either/or. Fifty-fifty. I don’t love my odds, but I think something needs to be said. She deserves to know.
“Remember what we were just talking about?” I venture, leaning in a little.
“Kathryn, I had a mild heart attack. I don’t have dementia. Of course I remember.”
“So, you remember that whole part about other people being able to see things better than we can since they’re standing outside a situation and can see the big picture? This isn’t the first time we’ve talked about that recently, is it?”
“You’re right. Though I don’t see why you’re bringing this up.”
Here goes nothing. “I think it’s time to consider Peter caring about you as more than an employer.”
Her face goes completely blank for a second, which scares the ever-living heck out of me. Did I kill her? Was that too much for her heart to handle?
When she bursts out laughing, I don’t know if I’m relieved or annoyed. “Peter? Oh, come now.”
“Grandmother, are you honestly telling me you don’t see how he could’ve come to care about you over the years?”
“I’m his employer! He works for me!” She waves a dismissive hand, shaking her head, still chuckling like this is the best joke she’s heard in ages.
It doesn’t dissuade me. It angers me. “I’m
disappointed in you.”
Her laughter dies instantly. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You had a heart attack. You didn’t go deaf.”
Color blazes on her cheeks. “Young lady, you will speak to me with respect.”
“I just told you something somebody else told me in confidence, hoping it would convince you to change your attitude toward them or at least consider their feelings, and you laughed about it. That’s downright cruel. I never imagined you were cruel. Difficult, yes. Demanding, yes. But cruel?”
I’m on my feet with my purse over one shoulder by the time she stops me.
“Wait. Wait, please.” She holds out her hands, though it’s not like she could stop me that way if I was determined to leave.
It’s the tremor in her voice that brings me to a halt and turns me in place.
“What is it?”
Her eyes dart back and forth over my face, her brow furrowed. “Who told you that in confidence?”
“Peter,” I whisper. “Who do you think? He told me so the night you came in here, when you had the attack. He sat next to you, made sure you were covered up and comfortable. I don’t think he left until after you woke up, did he?”
She blinks rapidly. “I—that is, he was by my bed when I woke up. I remember that. There was a great deal of confusion, but I remember seeing him. And then you.”
“I know. We were here together. He didn’t leave your side. I encouraged him to go, to sleep since you’ll probably need even more help once you get home and he needs to rest up for that. He refused. He wouldn’t leave your side.”
She leans back, almost deflating. “Well … I mean … that’s to be expected. He’s been by my side for a long time. He’s accustomed to it.”
“Grandmother, get real.” I pull the chair closer this time and sit next to her. “Like I just said, he told me so. In confidence, yes, but I thought you should know. Maybe you could be a little nicer to him.”
“He told you?”
“He did.”
“He … cares for me?” She stares at the wall beyond the foot of the bed. “He told you he does?”
“He told me he does. He’s been with you for so long. Of course he was going to feel close to you after a while. He takes your health seriously. He takes your well-being seriously. I mean, think about it.”
“I am. I am.” Her voice is soft, far away.
I almost feel bad for how confused she looks and sounds even though I think she’s blind for not having known this before. I mean, granted, I just now figured it out, but she had to know.
When she looks at me again, her eyes shine with what I realize are unshed tears. “You have to understand something. In my world, the way I was brought up, servants are one class, and we’re in another. I never considered him developing feelings for me.”
“He’s practically your live-in boyfriend.”
“Kathryn.” She clicks her tongue in disappointment. “I’m experiencing a revelation, and you think this is a time to make jokes.”
“I’m not making jokes. In a way, that’s how the two of you live. You sit and read the paper on Sunday mornings over coffee and muffins. He goes to concerts and plays with you whenever you have an extra ticket. He cooks your meals and eats many of them with you. He cleans up after you; you provide for him. I mean, come on. You two are closer than a lot of couples I know—and you get along better too.”
“Are you trying to talk me into having an affair with my butler?” The woman looks downright horrified.
“No. I’m trying to talk you into seeing what’s right in front of you. Don’t be a snob. For once, look past your patrician nose and see what’s there. Don’t talk yourself out of anything just because he’s a servant. That’s all I want. And for heaven’s sake, be kind to him.”
“I can do that much,” she offers.
I can tell this has knocked her sideways, poor thing. She really had no idea. Now, I bet she’ll spend the rest of the day looking back over every little conversation, every memory, seeing it through different eyes.
It’ll be better if she’s alone for that.
“I’ll see you later. Be nice to the nurses.”
She barely gives me a distracted wave in reply.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Kitty, my darling girl, I don’t think you’ve ever submitted your first draft ahead of schedule.”
I wait for her to continue, but Maggie’s not in the mood to be more forthcoming, I guess. “Thank you? Is that a good thing?”
“It’s a wonderful thing!”
Good, because I darn near killed myself to get it to her so early. I barely slept, ate, or changed my clothes from the time I got home from visiting Grandmother on Sunday afternoon until I sent the draft over to Maggie on Wednesday night.
I then spent most of Thursday in what I like to think of as a waking coma. Time passed. I was awake for most of it but not exactly active.
I considered decorating for Christmas but could barely bring myself to get off the couch.
Matt came home at some point, but even the sound of Phoebe scratching at my door wasn’t enough to get me moving. I’m sure she’ll forgive me.
It’s Friday now, meaning I should get to see Bryce tonight.
Which means I’ve spent the morning cleaning the apartment in that special way a person does when they think there’s a good chance they won’t be spending the night alone. Clean sheets, clean bathroom, clean everything. I want him to come away from this with a good impression of me, obviously.
And wanting to come back again too. Which is why I don’t understand men who don’t bother cleaning before a woman comes over. Like … do they ever want to have a repeat visit?
Maybe they don’t. Maybe that’s the whole point.
Maybe I’ve thought way too much about this.
“So, what do you think of what you’ve read?”
This is always the worst part. The very worst. It’s like putting my beating heart out there in the world and asking somebody to step on it. Instantly, I doubt every word I wrote.
Every word I’ve ever written in fact.
“I think your sex scenes are much hotter, just the way I wanted them!” She even cheers a little. I can hear clapping in the background. “I mean, I sincerely felt the hatred Nina felt for Larsen in the beginning. But I could see how she fell for him too. He was so sexy and irresistible but so generous and brave. The perfect man.”
I have to bite my lip to hold back a giggle. If I laugh or show any glee at all, she’ll take it as me thinking of the man who Larsen is based on. Which means she won’t let me get off the phone until I spill my guts.
As it turns out, my self-control is all for nothing. I should’ve known.
“You do realize that you have to tell me all about the guy who inspired this character.”
“Maggie, I just completed a first draft for you in under three weeks. Can you give me a minute to breathe before you start asking personal questions?”
“Ooh, so he’s realer than I thought,” she murmurs.
“What makes you say that?”
“If you made him up, you would tell me so.”
Darn it. “I don’t want to talk about him. Please. He’s a nice guy, and that’s that.”
“A nice guy who saves lives for a living.”
“That’s also true.”
“Who you hated at some point …” The amount of hope in her voice is actually pretty sad.
There are times when I want to ask whether she has a life and whether she’s happy with it. Why is she so obsessed with my life?
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore, and I know you’re going to interpret that however you see fit.”
“Well, regardless of any of that, if he was enough to rouse this much creativity, he’s all right with me. I swear, I need a new pair of panties.”
And there it is. I knew she wouldn’t be able to finish without delivering one truly gagworthy comment.
“I’ll take that
as a sign of a job well done.” I swear, the woman is determined to embarrass me to death.
“Aside from a few notes here and there—nothing too serious—I don’t have much to say about it. You’re getting better at this with each book.”
“Really?”
“Since when have I blown smoke up your ass?”
That’s Maggie—blunt as ever. I don’t have the heart to remind her of how she fawned over me when I was on the best-seller list for my sweet romances.
“It’s just that I don’t feel that way. Like I’m getting better.”
“You’re improving with each book. I mean that. Especially considering how much resistance you felt at first.”
She’s got me there. If I hadn’t finally gotten over my phobia about writing on-trend romance, I would either have no career by now or I’d be a full-blown alcoholic. I could barely stand the thought of writing a sexy scene without getting drunk.
And then I ended up getting too drunk to write or even stay conscious. So, I’d be back in No Careersville, where I’d never write another intelligible word again.
“I appreciate your support. I know it’s been a difficult year, and I didn’t make it easy at first, but having you on my side has meant a lot. You didn’t have to tell me to keep writing. You could’ve let the publisher drop me. So, thanks.”
“Oh, Kitty. That means a great deal. Thank you.” For the first time in our working relationship, it sounds like Maggie’s a little choked up.
Which means it’s time to get off the phone. I’m sure by the time I read her notes, I won’t feel quite so warm toward her anyway, so it’s better to leave this sentimental moment where it is.
And that’s fine since I heard somebody come in from a walk just a minute ago, and I want to let him know I’m alive before he calls the authorities for a wellness check.
“I’ve gotta go, Maggie.”
“Bye, Kitty. I’ll be waiting for those edits,” she says in her usual clear voice.
Phoebe just about tackles me when Matt answers the door.
“She’s alive!” he croaks, walking with his arms outstretched like an old-timey horror movie villain.
Kitty Valentine Dates a Fireman Page 11
