Hannah
GARRETT’S FATHER’S HOUSE is not the mansion I expected it to be, but a brownstone in Beacon Hill, which I suppose is Boston’s equivalent of mansion living. The area is gorgeous, though. I’ve been to Boston several times, but never to this ritzy part of it, and I can’t help but admire the beautiful nineteenth-century row houses, brick sidewalks and quaint gas lamps lining the narrow streets.
Garrett barely said a word during the two-hour drive into the city. Tension has been rolling off his suit-clad body in steady, palpable waves, which has only succeeded in making me even more nervous. And yes, I said suit-clad, because he’s wearing black trousers, a crisp white dress shirt, and a black jacket and tie. The expensive material fits his muscular body like a dream, and even the perma-scowl on his face doesn’t take away from his sheer hotness.
Apparently his father demanded he wear a suit. And when Phil Graham found out his son was bringing a date, he requested that I also dress formally, hence my fancy blue dress, which I wore to last year’s spring showcase. The silky material falls to my knees, and I paired it with four- inch silver heels that made Garrett grin when he showed up at my door, as he informed me that he might now actually be able to kiss me standing up without getting a crick in his neck.
We’re greeted at the front doors not by Garrett’s dad, but by a pretty blonde in a red cocktail gown that flutters around her ankles. She’s also wearing a lacy black overlay with full sleeves, which I find odd because it’s like a million degrees inside the house. Seriously, it’s hot in here, and I waste no time shrugging out of my pea coat in the elegant parlor.
“Garrett,” the woman says warmly. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.” She appears to be in her mid-thirties, but it’s hard to judge because she’s got what I like to call “old eyes.” Those deep, wise eyes that reveal a person
has lived through several lifetimes already. I’m not sure why I get that sense. Nothing about her elegant outfit or perfect smile hints that she’s seen hard times, but the trauma survivor in me immediately feels an odd kinship with her.
Garrett answers in a brusque, but polite voice. “It’s nice to meet you too…?”
He lets that hang, and her pale blue eyes flicker with unhappiness, as if she’s realized that Garrett’s father hadn’t told his son the name of the woman he was dating.
Her smile falters for a beat before steadying. “Cindy,” she fills in. “And you must be Garrett’s girlfriend.”
“Hannah,” I supply, leaning in to shake her hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your father is in the sitting room,” she tells Garrett. “He’s very excited to see you.”
Neither Cindy nor I miss the sardonic snort that sounds from Garrett’s direction. I squeeze his hand in a silent warning to be nice, all the while wondering what she means by “sitting room.” I always assumed that sitting rooms were where rich people gathered around to drink their sherry or brandy before sauntering into their thirty-seat dining rooms.
But the interior of the brownstone is a lot larger than it looks from the outside. We walk past two rooms—a living room, and yet another living room—before we reach the sitting room. Which looks like…another living room. I think about my parents’ cozy split level in Ransom and how that measly three-bedroom house has nearly bankrupted them, and it brings a rush of sorrow. It doesn’t seem fair that a man like Phil Graham should have all these rooms and the money to furnish them, while good people like my parents are working so hard to keep their roof over their heads.
When we walk in, Garrett’s dad is in a brown wing-backed chair, balancing a tumbler of amber liquid on his knee. Like Garrett, he’s wearing a suit, and the resemblance between them is jarring. They have the same gray eyes, the same strong jaw and chiseled face, but Phil’s features seem sharper, and he has wrinkles around his mouth, as if he scowled one too many times and his muscles froze in that position.
“Phil, this is Hannah,” Cindy says cheerily as she settles on the plush loveseat next to Phil’s chair.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Graham,” I say politely.
He nods at me. That’s it. A nod.
I have no idea what to say after that, and my palm goes clammy in Garrett’s hand.
“Have a seat, you two.” Cindy gestures to the leather sofa near the electric fireplace.
I sit.
Garrett remains standing. He doesn’t say a word to his father. Or to Cindy. Or to me.
Oh fuck. If he’s planning on keeping up this silent routine all night, then we’re in for one long and awkward Thanksgiving.
Absolute silence stretches between the four of us.
I rub my damp hands on my knees and try to smile, but I feel like it might actually be a grimace. “So…no football?” I say lightly, glancing at the flat screen mounted on the wall. “I thought that was a Thanksgiving tradition.” God knows it’s all my family does when we go to Aunt Nicole’s for the holiday. My uncle Mark is a rabid football fan, and even though the rest of us prefer hockey, we still have a good time watching the all-day game fest on TV.
Garrett, however, refused to show up any earlier than he had to, so the afternoon games have already been won and lost. I’m pretty sure the Dallas game is just starting, though.
Cindy is quick to shake her head. “Phil doesn’t like football.” “Oh,” I say.
Cue: more silence.
“So, Hannah, what are you majoring in?” “Music. Vocal performance, to be exact.” “Oh,” she says.
Silence.
Garrett rests his shoulder against the tall oak bookcase near the door. I sneak a peek in his direction and notice that his expression is completely vacant. I sneak a peek in Phil’s direction and notice that his expression is the same.
Oh God. I don’t think I’ll be able to survive this night. “Something smells wonderful—” I start.
“I should go check on the turkey—” Cindy starts.
We both laugh awkwardly.
“Let me help you with that.” I practically dive to my feet, which is a big oh-no-no when you’re wearing four-inch heels. I sway for one heart- stopping moment, terrified I’m going to topple over, but then my equilibrium steadies and I’m able to take a step without falling.
Yep, I’m a terrible girlfriend. Uncomfortable situations make me nervous and itchy, and as much as I want to stick by Garrett’s side and help him through this hell of a night, I can’t stomach the thought of being trapped in a room with two males whose animosity is tainting all the oxygen in the room.
Shooting Garrett an apologetic look, I trail after Cindy, who leads me into a large, modern kitchen with stainless steel appliances and black marble counters. The delicious aromas are stronger here, and there are enough tin-foil-covered dishes on the counter to feed an entire third-world country.
“Did you cook all this?” I exclaim.
She turns with a shy smile. “I did. I love to cook, but Phil rarely gives me the chance to do it. He prefers to dine out.”
Cindy slips on a pair of plush mitts before opening the oven door. “So how long have you and Garrett been seeing each other?” she asks conversationally, setting the enormous turkey pan on the stovetop.
“About a month.” I watch as she lifts the aluminum foil off the massive bird. “What about you and Mr. Graham?”
“A little over a year now.” Her back is turned to me, so I can’t see her expression, but something about her tone raises my guard. “We met at a charity event I was organizing.”
“Oh. Are you an event planner?”
She sticks a thermometer into the breast area of the turkey, then the legs, and her shoulders visibly relax. “It’s ready,” she murmurs. “And to answer your question, I was an event planner, but I sold my company a few months ago. Phil said he misses me too much when I’m at work.”
Um. What?
I can’t imagine ever giving up my job because the man in my life misses me too much when I’m at work. To me, that’s a red flag if I ever saw one.
“Oh. That’s…nice.” I gesture to the counter. “Do you want me to help you heat everything up? Or are we not eating right away?”
“Phil expects to eat the moment the turkey is ready.” She laughs, but it sounds forced. “When he sets a schedule, he expects everyone to follow it.” Cindy points to the large bowl by the microwave. “You can start by heating up the potatoes. I still need to make the gravy.” She holds up a gravy mix packet. “Usually I make it from scratch using the turkey juices, but we’re strapped for time, so this will have to do.”
She turns off the oven and places the turkey on the counter before turning her attention to the gravy. The wall over the stove is covered with hooks of pots and pans, and as she reaches up to grab one, her lacy sleeves ride up, and either I’m imagining it, or there’s bluish-black bruising on the undersides of both her wrists.
As if someone grabbed her. Hard.
Her arms come down and the sleeves cover her forearms, and I decide that the black lace was playing tricks on my eyes.
“Do you live here with Mr. Graham or do you have your own place?” I ask as I wait for the mashed potatoes to finish nuking.
“I moved in with Phil about two weeks after we met,” she admits.
I have to be imagining things, because there’s no way that chord in her voice is bitterness, right?
“Oh. That’s kind of impulsive. You guys hardly even knew each other, huh?”
“No. We didn’t.”
Okay, I’m not imagining it. That’s absolutely bitterness.
Cindy glances over her shoulder, an unmistakable flicker of sorrow in her eyes. “I’m not sure anyone ever told you this, but spontaneity has the tendency to backfire on you.”
I have no clue how to respond. So I say, “Oh.”
I get the feeling I’m going to be saying that word a lot tonight.
