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Elle’s hand slips into mine eagerly. She’s nearly bouncing on her heels.
“Let’s go!”
Shaking my head with amusement, I lead her away.
I can feel Debra watching us the whole time, and I wonder what’s on her mind.
When I lead her past the elevator, Elle hesitates. “We’re not going upstairs?”
“Aunt Clara’s office isn’t upstairs.”
I can almost feel her bristling with questions, but she holds her tongue and follows me dutifully as I lead her down a narrow corridor to a service door normally used by the building staff. The hallway we step into is dimly lit and utilitarian.
We’ve walked only a few feet down before another door opens up to let us back outside. It leads into the rear courtyard, which has been fenced in and turned into a private oasis.
Stepping stones wind their way across the grass, making a path that loops through trees, flowers, and bushes and ends around a small glimmering koi pond.
Elle sounds so delighted as we cross the stones, throwing glances everywhere. It makes me feel like I’m seeing this through her eyes—experiencing something I can’t.
The wonder, the magic of finding this secret hidden away in the heart of the city.
When the little rose-colored studio hidden in the trees comes into view, she lets go of my hand and claps both of hers over her mouth. Her eyes sparkle as she takes it in.
It’s little more than a cottage-style gardening shed, just large enough to share a workspace and a few conveniences with the living areas. Elle already seems enchanted.
“She works here?”
What is my mouth doing.
Why is it pointing up at the corners?
It feels strange. Very, very strange, especially since I didn’t tell it to do that.
I ignore this goddamned smile and answer, “Yes. She’s never done well in corporate spaces. She needed a private place she could make her sanctuary, so I purchased the rear courtyard from the building owners and let her design it as she pleased. Possibly doesn’t jive with zoning laws, but no city councilor wants to be known as the hack who made Clara Marshall miserable.”
“Amazing! I could sit out here and draw for hours.” Elle looks at me. “Can we meet her now?”
“Only if you promise not to tackle her like a hyperactive puppy.”
“I wouldn’t dare!” Elle protests with a laugh, then pauses. “Um, I might do that.”
“Don’t,” I groan, but I cut myself off as the white-painted door to the studio opens.
Aunt Clara steps out, and this time I don’t have to ask myself why my mouth is doing that thing.
No matter how much other people irritate me, it always makes me smile to see her.
She’s a tall woman—as most of the women in our family are—and she carries herself with a certain poise that evokes the Deep South and bygone class.
There’s nothing superior or withdrawn about her. She carries herself with a welcoming warmth, and that warmth radiates off her as she comes closer and grips my hands, looking up at me, her blue eyes just a half shade off from mine creasing with her smile.
“August.” No one says my name the way she does in that soft Georgia lilt that just screams motherly love. She pulls me down to kiss my cheeks, her half-greyed bun of black hair tickling my skin where it wisps around her face. “It’s so lovely to have you back in town.”
“Aunt Clara.” I pull her into a brief hug.
She squeezes me back, then turns to Elle, looking her over thoughtfully with her smile never wavering. She folds her hands against the soft drapes of the gauzy, stylish wrap she wears over a well-cut silk suit.
“You must be the Elle I’ve heard so much about,” she says. “Debra’s spoken quite highly of you. And I do so appreciate you helping my nephew with his predicament.”
