Secrets Gone South (Crimson Romance) (16 page)

“Sit,” Arabelle said, depositing the drinks and lemon on the table.

He hesitated. The table was round. There was no head and he wasn’t sure if there had been, if that would have been his place. He sat in the chair nearest him. There was a salad in front of him with cucumber, mushrooms, tomatoes, and cauliflower. It looked like art.

Arabelle put a small plate of cut up raw vegetables in front of Avery and took her seat.

“The salad’s pretty,” he said. The food he’d grown up with had not been pretty. It had been cans of ravioli, ham sandwiches on white bread, and cereal that you fixed yourself. Sometimes his mother would make a pot of stew or a pan of chicken casserole but you were still on your own when it came to eating.

Arabelle laughed. “Nobody makes a better salad than I do. I am the grand champion of salad makers. We’ll see how it goes with the chili. Is Italian all right?” She put her napkin in her lap and passed him a glass bowl of salad dressing. She hadn’t made it. The bottle was on the counter. But she had gone to some effort to make it nice, maybe just because it was their first night here.

“Do you eat like this all the time?” he asked.

“Like what?” she asked with a frown. “Believe me, Will, this is no gourmet meal.”

“No, I mean here.” He gestured to the table. “At the table together. With the napkins and all?”

“Well, yes. Where else would we eat?” She looked at him intently.

“I don’t know. I guess it made sense at Luke and Lanie’s today. Sunday lunch and the grandparents in. I just didn’t know—” He was giving too much of himself away. Maybe she wouldn’t pick up on it.

No such luck. “Will, didn’t you sit down with your family to eat when you were growing up?”

“No.” The table was always piled high with mail, groceries that hadn’t been put away, and liquor bottles. He picked up a slice of cucumber from Avery’s plate and put it in his mouth. “My dad worked shift work. We ate at different times. We were usually on our own.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t have a table at my house. I haven’t gotten to it. I eat while I watch television.”

“I see.” So, great. Now she thought he was a barbarian.

“I don’t mind eating at the table,” he rushed to say. “I mean, it’s not like I don’t have any table manners.” And it was true. He’d learned from watching rich people eat on his mother’s soap operas. “I
like
eating at the table. With people. You. Avery.”

“Good.” She came across with a smile. “I made an a-p-p-l-e c-r-i-s-p,” she spelled out. “We’ll have some after Avery goes to bed. He’s already had i-c-e c-r-e-a-m and c-a-n-d-y today. I don’t want him to have any more sweets. But I warn you, we might have to eat it in the living room in front of the TV.
Downton Abbey
is on tonight and I have to see it.” She gave him a little wink.

That was when he knew for sure Arabelle’s mad, hateful phase was just that—a phase. Deep down she was the consummate lady with a kindness that ran so deep it swam with giant squids. She knew how to take another’s discomfort and cast it to the wind. She’d known how to do that when he was sixteen years old bringing her lunch to a country club poolside table and she knew how to do it now. More than that, she cared enough to do it.

And that’s why he loved her, why he’d always loved her.

He had to be careful, very careful. No repeats of what happened this afternoon in the kitchen. She had said she wasn’t ready and she had to come to him.

After dinner, Will insisted on cleaning the kitchen. From heat to domesticity—or what passed for domesticity. As Arabelle gave Avery a bath, she wondered if there would be any of that heat later after Avery was in bed. She didn’t wonder if she
would
allow it, but she wondered if she
should.

But the only heat that surfaced was from the warm apple crisp and the television when she turned on
Downton Abbey
.

She took her usual place on the sofa and Will settled into the club chair that wasn’t big enough for him. She considered offering to switch but was afraid he’d think she was offering an invitation to join her.

So she turned her attention to the doings of the Grantham clan. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that Will was staring intently at the screen. She was about to ask if he watched the show when he spoke.

“Where did these people get their money?”

“Well,” she said. “They don’t really have any money. That’s part of their problem. Lord Grantham married his wife—who was a rich American—to bring money into the family. But that’s gone.”

“What happened to it?” He took another bite of his apple crisp.

“Bad investments, I think.”

“You should only invest what you can afford to lose.”

She laughed. “That’s true. Most people don’t know that.” She turned back to the program.

After a minute, Will said, “How do they pay all those people who wait on them like they haven’t got sense enough to wipe their own mouths?”

Good question. “I’m not sure. Maybe they don’t. Or maybe it takes everything they’ve got to pay them.”

“Those women don’t seem to have any shortage of clothes.”

“Maybe they’re wearing their old clothes. Maybe they haven’t bought anything lately.” The Grantham clan was about to go into dinner. Will would probably like that. After all, they all sat at the table together.

“Know what I’d do?” he asked.

Clearly she wasn’t going to hear this program.

“No. What would you do?”

Having finished the apple crisp, he picked up the bag at his feet and plucked out a small wooden block and a chisel.

“I’d fire most of those people and put those girls to work doing the chores. I’d sell off some of that property. And I’d rent out some of the rooms in that house.”

“I don’t think that’s how it worked back then.”

“No doubt.” He frowned as he went to work on the wood. “Which is why they don’t live like that over there anymore.”

“Some do,” she said.

“I bet not many. Why is it an abbey anyway? Do they have a church on that property?”

“The house
is
the abbey,” she explained. “It would have been a real abbey before Henry VIII set up the Church of England. He dissolved the monasteries and such. Some, he gave as rewards to nobles who had been loyal to him. So he would have given Downton Abbey to one of the earlier Lord Granthams.”

“Ah.” He didn’t look up from his carving. “I could have told them that wasn’t going to end well.”

“Could you, now? Would you? That might have cost you your head.”

He looked down. “I’m making a mess.” True enough there were wood shavings in his lap and on the floor. “At home, if I want to work on something inside, I have a big copper dish that I let my mess fall in.”

“I could get you a dishpan,” she offered.

He looked at the block and grimaced. “Naw. It’s not working out anyway.”

“Is it your hand?” Maybe she had told him he could get back to work too early.

“No.” He flexed it his hand. “It feels fine. But when I work, everything needs to feel right. And it just doesn’t.” He put his tools and the wood back in the bag and began to pick up the shavings from his lap and the floor.

“I have a vacuum cleaner,” she said.

“The noise would interfere with your TV show. I’ll just pick it up.”

Once again, she turned back to the program. Now, Lord Grantham was outside, walking toward Lady Mary with his dog at his side.

“Maybe we should get Avery a dog,” Will said. “A boy should have a pet.”

Oh, hell no. “Are you going to take care of it?”

“Absolutely.” He went into the kitchen, presumably to put his wood shavings in the garbage.

“Really? You’re going to interrupt your work and drive in from your workshop and take this dog out every day? Twice a day.”

He reentered the room and shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe not. Do you want some more apple crisp?”

“No. Do you?”

He leaned on the wall and considered. “Maybe.”

“It’s on the counter.” Surely he didn’t think she was going to get up and get it for him.

He sighed. “No. I don’t really want it. Though it was good. I’ll just clean up these dishes.” He made a lot of noise stacking up dishes and taking them to the kitchen. Still more noise—water running, dishwasher door slamming, dishes rattling.

Lady Mary was crying, though Arabelle had no idea why. Maybe she could catch enough to figure it out. Just when she thought that might be possible, Will barreled back through and started down the hall.

“I’m going to make sure Avery is covered up.”

“Don’t wake him,” she warned. Clearly, he was bored and she was more than sure he wasn’t above waking Avery on purpose.

“I won’t.”

Ah, Lady Grantham and the Dowager Countess were having tea. The Dowager was Arabelle’s favorite, with her catty remarks and dry humor.

“I’d send that old bat packing!” came a voice behind her and she jumped a foot off the sofa.

“I didn’t hear you come back in!”

He gestured to the television. “So I am guessing the younger woman is the American—the one with all the money that got squandered.”

“Yes. That would be her. Lady Grantham.”

“And she just sits there and lets that woman talk to her like that?”

“You have to understand the Dowager. She’s very beloved.”

“Not by me. And, judging by the look on Lady Grantham’s face, not by her.” He walked over to the mantle and began to inspect it. “This is not as tight against the wall as it ought to be. There’s a gap. Do you have a drill?”

“No. I do not have a drill.” Lady Grantham looked particularly distressed. That meant the Dowager had delivered a very special barb. Too bad Arabelle had missed it.

“Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll bring mine tomorrow and fix it. Might need some touch up paint. Do you know where that is?”

Touch up paint? “I don’t think I have any.”

“Everybody has touch up paint.”

“I don’t.”

“Didn’t Lucy redo this apartment?” he asked.

“She did.”

“I’ll get a paint chip from her and get some. Don’t worry about it.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

“Hmm.” He began to pace around, looking out the window, circling through the kitchen, down the hall, and back. Then he started all over again. “Hey,” Will said after his third caged-lion expedition. “Did you know there’s some air coming in around the window in Avery’s room?”

“I did not.” The Dowager Countess was leaving now.

“I put a towel in the crack. Tomorrow I’ll get some caulk and fix it right.”

“Great idea.” Carson and Mrs. Hughes were having an intense conversation about the footmen. Will sat down in the chair and then got up again. “I forgot to do something,” he said, clearly thrilled that he had thought of something to fill some time.

She did not ask him what he had forgotten. Maybe his task would be a quiet one. The staff was eating dinner. That was always a good part. There was noise in the hall. Will seemed to be moving his bags down the hall—all the way down the hall to the little spare bedroom. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Finally, he reappeared, wearing flannel pants printed with trees and a tight t-shirt. He stretched his arms over his head and yawned. Did he have any idea that when he did that, his shirt rode up to reveal an inch of skin all the way around? Taunt, smooth, kissable skin. Did he even suspect how appealing that was?

Maybe he did and he was about to suggest that they go to bed together. After all, they had been getting along for going on three hours now.

“I guess I’ll turn in,” he said. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she said to the empty room. And the
Downton Abbey
credits began to roll.

Will woke at a little after five—not that he’d slept much. Between trying to relax in a bed that had been built for a seven-year-old and being horny, it had been a long night. He’d gone to bed way before he was sleepy but if he hadn’t he would have jumped Arabelle’s bones right there in that closet of a living room. How he’d kept from it was beyond him. She’d started out sitting on the couch but then had reclined with her knees bent and one leg thrown over the other swinging her foot. There was just something about that moving leg that had made him imagine it moving toward him, against him, around him … Damn.

To distract himself, he’d started asking her questions. Besides, he loved listening to her talk, especially when she thought she was sharing information. He knew very well about the tyranny of Henry VIII and why abbeys became private residences but he had pretended he didn’t just to hear her talk.

When the distraction hadn’t been enough, he’d tried to pull himself out of the situation in the only way that he knew how—by putting his hands to wood. He wanted to carve Avery some old-fashioned alphabet blocks—maybe a whole set or maybe just the letters of his name. The
A
block would have an apple, and airplane, and—best of all—a picture of Avery. He’d already done the sketches and Avery’s likeness would be astoundingly recognizable. He figured it was something he’d work on at night a little at a time.

But he couldn’t work here, in this crowded little place with its gas logs and tiny windows. The wood didn’t feel right, but it wasn’t the wood’s fault. It had felt right in his shop, where he’d first began work on the little project. But here, there was no calmness, no strength. Having always worked on small projects when he traveled, he hadn’t expected it to be like it was in the woods but he hadn’t expected to shut down completely.

He sighed and sat up on the side of the bed. If he couldn’t work, what in the hell was he going to do around here at night after Avery was in bed? If last night was any indication, he and Arabelle had different tastes in television. He could read some. And, of course, there must be a hundred things around here that needed fixing. He’d seen a dozen last night and he hadn’t even been looking. Also, his billing and correspondence with clients could be saved for nighttime, though after he’d had to fire Aspen, he’d gotten into the habit of doing it first thing in the morning. And it was possible that he could design, even if he couldn’t work here. Doubtful, but he’d try.