Chapter 3 - A Room That Had Been Waiting
Grant did not explain the message.
Claire told herself she had no right to demand explanations beyond their agreement. Still, when he left her studio, the coffee he had brought remained half-finished and cold beside her laptop.
The next morning, Beatrice called.
“Are you free Sunday?”
“That depends whether this is a social invitation or a family ambush.”
“With us, darling, the distinction is mostly decorative.”
Beatrice wanted help planning a small holiday luncheon for a local literacy nonprofit. Claire agreed to meet her at Whitaker House, provided any professional work went through her business at its normal rate.
“Excellent,” Beatrice said. “I dislike favors. People use them as furniture and expect you to live underneath.”
On Sunday, Claire arrived carrying fabric samples and a proposal.
Grant answered the door in jeans.
She stopped on the front step.
He glanced down.
“Something wrong?”
“I assumed those were illegal in your tax bracket.”
Lucy appeared beside him holding a cardboard box.
“We’re making a house.”
“For whom?”
“Someone small enough to fit.”
The sitting room floor was covered in cardboard, tape, and what appeared to be an abandoned attempt at structural engineering. Beatrice sat nearby, reading invitations through half-moon glasses.
“Grant has designed a residence that could survive a hurricane,” she said. “Unfortunately, it has no door.”
“Doors compromise the load-bearing wall,” he replied.
Claire knelt beside Lucy.
“That’s why we hire professionals.”
Within an hour, they had added windows, a crooked chimney, and a front door painted red. Grant watched Lucy crawl inside, then emerge laughing with a strip of tape stuck to her sleeve.
It changed his whole face.
After lunch, Lucy fell asleep against Claire on the couch.
Grant reached for her carefully.
“She usually fights naps.”
“Construction is demanding.”
He carried the child upstairs. When he returned, he found Claire studying a photograph on the mantel.
A younger Grant stood beside a woman with his eyes and an unruly smile.
“Amelia?”
“Yes.”
“She looks like she could talk you into anything.”
“She could.”
He stood beside Claire.
“The night she died, she called me three times. I was negotiating an acquisition in London. I sent her a message saying I’d call afterward.”
Claire turned.
“Grant.”
“She wanted to tell me Lucy had learned to whistle. That’s what the voicemail said.”
His voice remained controlled, but his hands had curled at his sides.
“An hour later, a truck crossed the median.”
Claire let the silence breathe.
Then she said, “Missing her call didn’t cause the accident.”
“I know.”
“Knowing and believing aren’t always the same.”
He looked at her then, and the distance he usually maintained seemed exhausting rather than natural.
Before either spoke, Beatrice entered carrying a folder.
“Claire, the dining room measurements.”
Grant stepped away.
The moment closed.
Later, Beatrice found Claire packing her samples.
“My grandson mistakes being needed for being trapped.”
“He seems devoted to Lucy.”
“He is. But devotion becomes a lonely business when you think asking for help is a confession of failure.”
Claire hesitated.
“What’s happening in December?”
Beatrice’s expression changed.
“The board votes on whether Richard becomes executive chairman. Grant opposes it.”
“And I’m involved?”
“Richard thinks a man raising a child should look settled. Evelyn thinks a suitable marriage would settle several problems.”
Claire felt the room tilt slightly.
“Does Grant?”
“Grant thinks he can manage people the way he manages contracts.”
Outside, Grant waited beside her car.
“You could have asked me.”
“I did.”
He accepted that without argument.
“Richard has been positioning himself for control since my father died. My mother believes an engagement to Vanessa would strengthen my side.”
“So you hired a girlfriend to avoid acquiring a wife.”
His silence answered.
Claire folded her arms.
“You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
“Is Lucy part of this?”
“No.” His answer was immediate. “Nobody gets to use her.”
Claire wanted to believe him.
As she opened her car door, he touched the roof rather than her arm.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked up.
“For withholding information,” he said. “You deserved to choose with all of it.”
It was the first apology he had offered without defending himself afterward.
That mattered.
On Wednesday, he invited Claire and Tessa to a children’s book drive at his Providence hotel. Lucy would be there.
Claire nearly declined.
Then Grant added, “No photographers. No family. You can say no.”
She went.
At the end of the evening, Lucy slipped her hand into Claire’s.
May you like
Grant reached for the other.
For one dangerous moment, standing between them beneath paper stars, Claire forgot anybody had paid her to be there.
