Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
And because she’s the consummate southern hostess, I can’t tell if she’s being genuinely kind or telling me to fuck off.
“I brought some of Lizzie’s favorite chocolate covered pretzels too. I make them each by hand.”
Mrs. Huntley takes the box. This time she frowns, and my heart dips.
I fight the urge to politely excuse myself and run like hell for my car.
“That is . . . thoughtful,” Mrs. Huntley says at last. She cradles the box in her hand and stares down at it.
“Brooks is working really, really hard to get the foundation off the ground,” I say, mentally rolling back my shoulders. “He’d be crushed if you didn’t come to the fundraiser. I know y’all aren’t my biggest fans—”
“My husband.” She suddenly looks up and meets my gaze. “That’s my husband you’re talking about.”
Now my heart is going absolutely nuts. “Pardon?”
Mrs. Huntley sighs. That’s when I notice the hint of dark circles under her eyes, not quite concealed by what is no doubt the best makeup money can buy. “James tries to do the right thing. He just . . .” She sighs again. “Sometimes he gets it very, very wrong. Would you like to come in?” She opens the door a little wider and steps to the side. When I hesitate, she tilts her head. “Please. I just need five minutes of your time. Maybe you and I . . .” She shakes her head. “Well.”
“Okay,” I say, and step inside the hushed marble expanse of the foyer. “Your home is beautiful, Mrs. Huntley. I see where Brooks gets his good taste.”
Mrs. Huntley smiles. This one is genuine—I can tell by the way the edges of her eyes crinkle. “He does have good taste, doesn’t he? And please, call me Gretchen.” She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. It hits me that she’s not talking about houses or furniture.
She’s talking about me.
My knees wobble. What in the world is happening?
Before I can delve too deeply into that question, Gretchen leads me to a pretty kitchen with grey cabinets and a massive arrangement of live white orchids set on the vast expanse of the island.
It’s painfully quiet. I imagine a house this big gets lonely; Brooks told me his mom quit her job when he and Lizzie were born, and has focused exclusively on their family ever since.
She sets the chocolates and the envelope on the counter. “Wine?” she asks, turning to open a fridge hidden behind a cabinet panel.
“Um.” I’m not sure what the right answer is. It’s only three o’clock. But I’m also in the middle of a horrifically painful conversation with my boyfriend’s mom.
“Don’t say no.” Gretchen holds up a bottle of chardonnay. “Just a sip. I think we both need one.”
I tap the edge of my fist on the countertop. “Then I won’t say no.”
She makes quick work of opening the bottle, pulling out the cork with a satisfying pop. Then she gives us each a healthy pour in crystal wine glasses that are about the size of my head.
“Doesn’t matter how big the glass is,” Gretchen says, reading my mind. “Even if you fill it, it’s still just one glass.”
I smile, and tap mine to hers when she offers. “I like that idea.”
“I like you,” she says after her first sip—more like a chug.
I nearly spit out my wine. Covering my mouth, I manage, “I’m sorry, that was just . . . unexpected. I mean, you’ve known me for all of three minutes—”
“Long enough.” She takes another sip and sets down her glass. “You’re the first girlfriend Brooks has had in forever. When he settles on someone, it means something. Something big. Doesn’t hurt you’re George’s sister. I adore George.”
Furrowing my brow, I set down my glass too. “But you’re not worried about our age difference? Or the fact that I own a bakery, or—”
“Sweetie, my son met you, and now he’s starting a foundation to honor Lizzie. Which means he’s talking about Lizzie. You’re talking about Lizzie. I know my son. And I know he wasn’t ever going to be truly happy while pretending Lizzie’s death never happened. But he’s finally acknowledging it, and I have to imagine that’s because of you. So I couldn’t care less how old you are or what you do for a living. You performed a miracle, Greer.” She covers my hand with her own. “Thank you.”
I pick up my wine and take a Gretchen-sized sip. I feel like I’m going to cry. “I appreciate that.”
“It’s my deepest regret,” she continues, “not talking more about Lizzie. But I didn’t know what to do after she died. Part of me wanted to die too, but I still had a son to take care of. James and I, we did the best we could. You have to understand that people of our generation . . . back then, no one talked about these things. So I didn’t talk about it enough. James didn’t at all, so neither did Brooks. And that was a mistake. Only recently was I finally able to start talking about it myself on a regular basis. And that was with a therapist.”