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I made my way to the stairs that led to the kitchen, packing away my heart and getting a brutal reminder that I hadn’t eaten anything today other than OJ and half a bagel.
I had memories of that kitchen once churning out the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I’d ever tasted, courtesy of my grandmother. Grandpa would have given her the world, including a personal chef and whatever else led to her not having to lift a finger, but she refused. My grandparents grew up in poverty and despite Grandpa’s work in telecommunications ensuring neither would have to work another day of their lives, they lived well below their means. Delilah was their one indulgence. A dream that Grandpa had as a child. I just wish he’d had more years to enjoy her.
I moved down the stairs to the kitchen like I was running from my past. Running from the emotion that bubbled inside me. Memories of the two people who were essentially my safe haven growing up.
The man who was bent over the stove snatched me right out of the past and dumped me into the bittersweet present.
Francois Drumond prepared the best beef wellington I’d ever had while I was on a business trip in Paris a few months back. I’d offered him a salary that made his mahogany eyes nearly drop into the soup he’d been in the middle of taste testing. I’d asked if he'd fly to the states for any special events. And tonight, I hoped, would be very special.
“Mr. Cox!” Francois greeted me with a hearty hand shake, the smell of salmon and an array of top secret seasonings reassuring me that at worst, Natalee would walk away with the best culinary experience of her life. Something to make up for my fumbled attempts at romance.
I knew I was playing with fire by trying to sneak a peek at his progress. Under different circumstances, he would have snatched his chef’s hat off and hurled it at me, complete with a string of accented profanity. Instead, he gave me a pinched smile and busied himself with stirring some unknown treat in a stock pot.
“Dinner is about twenty minutes out, sir.” His accent was chipped with thinly veiled impatience.
“Say no more!” I grinned, making my way back to the staircase. I paused, my hand gripping the bannister, catching the tiniest imperfection in the glossy wood. It was a spot Grandpa always intended to fix. A spot I still hadn’t fixed, for nostalgic purposes.
I cleared my throat, pausing on the second step, realizing I’d forgotten something. “Thanks for your help, Francois.”
The stirring stopped and when I peered over my shoulder, I saw the man was gawking at me like I’d just quoted “Lady Marmalade”. “You’re welcome, sir.”
I continued my ascent, a disgusting thought batting around my head. Why did I get so wrapped up in business, in myself, that people were flabbergasted when I showed gratitude?
On that note, I moved soundlessly through the halls, wondering what Lauren had in store since I’d asked for her help in setting up the evening. I told her the G-rated version of me and Natalee’s story, wincing through my fuck ups and focusing on the fact that this woman was different; that I wanted her to know that what we were doing was different and new and meant something to me.
When I twisted the knob for the main cabin, I’d guessed that the room would be filled with candles. Rose petals scattered across the bed. Enya wafting through the room, setting the mood with her ethereal whatever.
Instead, the lights were dimmed, the glow from the night streaming in from the balcony. There was a single red rose on the bed and I followed the line down the middle of the expansive room to the balcony, where a second rested in a crystal vase on a table set for two.
I made my way toward the balcony, frowning, trying to figure out the second item on the table, nestled beside the vase. When I reached the french doors, I realized it was my grandfather’s journal. A leather-bound book he left for me in his will, along with Delilah (much to my mother’s chagrin).
I scrubbed my face of the emotion that seemed to be inescapable within these walls, wondering if I should have just invited Natalee to my place. It would have been easier. Safer.
I brushed my finger along the worn leather cover. Picking it up, but not opening it. Grandpa was long gone now, but it still felt too soon. Too private. Too raw.
“So...what do you think?” Lauren’s deep voice drifted up from the lower deck. My fingers gripped the leather like I was locked in some silent prayer. Hoping Natalee’s reply wouldn’t be, ‘Could you sneak me off this thing before Jason notices?’
Even though I couldn’t see Natalee’s face, my mind conjured her up. The gentle curves of her eyes, the green deepening as she tried to pretend that she could care less how this thing turned out. Her lips—the bottom left pulled into her mouth as she chewed on the words that lingered on her tongue, left unspoken.
Natalee cleared her throat nervously. “It’s...”
I held my breath.
Too much?
Too late?
I was hoping that Lauren wouldn’t offer any help in filling in the blanks. When we first met, I’d been a seventeen year old prick. She was the help, and I treated her as such. It wasn’t until my grandmother’s funeral when she helped Grandpa to the altar with tears swimming in her eyes that I saw how much she’d meant to them. How much they meant to her. That made me feel even more guilty because ‘the help’ was closer to family than I was—and I realized it was 100% in my court if I wanted to make the most of the time Grandpa had left.
Lauren tolerated me for those final years and Grandpa had ensured that the two of us would have to bury the hatchet eventually, if we didn’t want to drive each other crazy.
Lauren lived on Delilah practically full time, and Grandpa ensured that no one, not my mother, or even me, could send her packing. Having Lauren onboard was like a piece of Grandpa was still around, which meant I wouldn’t bring pieces of tail onboard. This place meant too much to me.
That was definitely something I wished I’d shared with Lauren, so she’d be more likely to put in a good word with Natalee.
“Overwhelming,” Natalee finished, exhaling like she was grateful that she could finally unload some truth.
“The yacht?” Lauren asked gently. “Or-”
