Page 22 of Changing Lanes

“Do you like soufflés?” I ask.

“I’m not sure.” His eyes are big with wonder.

“It’s a chocolate mousse,” I explain.

“Sounds great. Is that what you want to make for Thanksgiving?” He leans over to look the recipe I have pulled up on my laptop.

“Yes, what do you think?” Raising my eyebrows in question.

“I think it looks delicious.” He smiles at me. “It’ll be perfect.”

Early Wednesday morning, we grab our bags and leave for the airport. Brannon shows no surprise when a car and driver sits waiting for us when we land. He’s a little shocked with the traffic and none too pleased. Showing him the sights as we get closer to the city, we discuss coming back just for sightseeing.

Brannon’s birthday is February ninth, maybe a trip for his big day or Valentine’s Day? Or both? He’s nervous, he won’t admit it, but he is. He’s twisted in his seat a hundred times. His poor tie may not make it another fifteen minutes. I giggle at the thought.

“What is it? Is it me? What?” Oh, yeah. He’s primed.

“It’s not you. You are adorable and handsome when you’re not fidgeting.” I pat his hand to help calm him.

He pretends to pick lint off his pants. “I was going for manly and self-assured.”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? Confident, a man’s man.” His eyes snap to mine as we chuckle.

“Pretty sure that was it. I’m nervous, sorry.” Giving me a tight smile, he does his best to look relaxed.

“No reason to be nervous. It’s me he doesn’t approve of, babe.” I lean over and kiss him.

JFK airport is thirty minutes from my home, but with traffic, it’s about an hour or maybe more. Naturally with the holiday, the highway is packed. The longer it takes us to get to my parents’ home, the antsier Brannon becomes.

Crossing the Hudson, the landscape changes as the road becomes tree lined and sprawling homes set off the road behind gated communities. Greystone on Hudson is a majestic sight to see, only the elite live here. It’s ostentatious and pretentious.

I know, I grew up here, but it’s my parents’ home. I’m not against being wealthy, and I’m not a do-gooder. I just have a strong belief that a home big enough for you and your loved ones is what you need. Nothing more. And how many homes and shelters could the extra money build to help people?

My father would say I’m being absurd. He thinks the charity works he allows the company to help with absolves him from doing more. That the money he earns should be used for family, only family. He hasn’t even made provisions for charity if he should pass away.

What good is it to accumulate such grandeur, if you are not willing to fight the good fight? Brannon has no clue. He honestly thinks he needs to impress my father, to show him he’s a good man. Personally, from what I’ve learned over the last three months about Brannon, my father has some catching up to do.

When Brannon let’s go of my hand, I look up to realize we are at the gates of my home. His eyes are bugging out of his head with his mouth hanging open. The broad, paved drive leads us to the grand house sitting just beyond the trees.

We circle the drive, coming to a stop at the entrance. The almost twenty thousand square foot home sits on two and a half acres about thirteen miles outside of Manhattan. Nine bedrooms and eleven baths are over the top for a family of three.

My father argued the extra room would be nice for out of town guest, then he added a second kitchen on for parties. I must admit, the loft library is my favorite place in the entire house. The cozy couch sits on an elevated platform and makes for an amazing reading nook. I’d squirrel away up there for hours every day while my parents’ do what they do.

“It’s going to be fine.” I squeeze his hand as we walk up the front steps.

“I’m with you no matter what.” He offers a tight smile. God love his heart, he knows he’s facing the firing squad and yet, he marches on.

“After you,” Brannon says as he holds the door open for me.

“Thank you.” I wink at him.

Walking into the black and white grand entrance makes quite a statement; I’m too rich for my own good would be my choice. I look toward the curving stairway for signs of life, but I see no one. Welcome home, baby. Not a soul in sight on the balconies either.

It’s then I notice Brannon isn’t by my side. I turn to find him standing by the doors with our luggage. His hands crossed in front of him as he checks out his surroundings. He’s tightened his tie so much so the Windsor knot looks like he’s tied a knot to hang himself by.

I walk over to him and loosen his tie, retying the Windsor knot. “Are you trying to hang yourself already?” I giggle at the look on his face.

“Maybe.” He eyes me carefully as he fidgets nervously.