The Art of Romance (45 page)

Both Mother’s and Dad’s eyes lit up at the impressive educational pedigree. “And you’re a tenured English professor at Robertson now?” Mother asked, emphasizing
tenured
as if that were some kind of social status instead of employment designation.

“Yes ma’am. I’ve been teaching at Robertson since I earned my PhD ten years ago.”

Dylan decided to impress them some more. “Caylor did part of her graduate work at Oxford and the University of Dublin.”

“Oxford, really?” Calculation darted through Mother’s eyes. It was almost as if he could see her comparing Caylor’s and Emerson Bernard’s pedigrees and attributes—and finding Emerson lacking.

“Yes ma’am. My areas of study were British and Irish literature, so those seemed like the best schools to study at.” Caylor reached under the tablecloth and patted Dylan’s knee, which was bouncing rapidly.

He stilled at her touch.

“And who are your parents?” Dad asked, still cold and professional.

“Dean and Susan Evans. My mother was Susan Kirkwood before they married.”

Dad’s eyes went vacant for a moment as he probably thumbed through his mental Rolodex to see if he knew them.

“And what do your parents do?” Mother’s voice had warmed about thirty degrees since she’d walked into the room.

“My father is an independent computer software designer in the international banking industry. And my mother is an oncologist who’s been a leading cancer researcher with the World Health Organization for about twelve or thirteen years now. They live in Geneva.”

Yes! Way to go, Caylor, getting that info in there
. Dylan nodded, expression serene, and enjoyed watching as interest flickered in his father’s eyes.

After learning of Caylor’s impressive pedigree and social connections through her parents and grandparents—because unbeknownst to Dylan before tonight, her grandfather Frank Evans had been rather a bigwig in the recording industry and had, therefore, known lots of important people—Mother acted as if she was trying to make Caylor her new best friend.

After Dylan and Caylor split a trio of half-portion desserts between the two of them—though Caylor devoured most of the chocolate peanut butter cake and left the Boston cream pie and carrot cake for him—Mother surprised Dylan a second time tonight when she grabbed his bill before the waitress could hand it to him.

“This is our treat, son. To thank you for all the time and effort you put into making the auction such a success.”

Caylor had to still his bouncing knee with her hand again.

“Thank you, Mother. But really, you don’t have to—”

Dad cleared his throat, and Dylan swallowed the rest of his protest.

As they parted ways at the valet stand a few minutes later, not only did Mother kiss Caylor on the cheek—and not an air kiss, but a real one—she hugged her, too.

And Dad placed his other hand on Dylan’s shoulder when they shook hands in farewell. Dylan shook his head, trying to clear the buzzing disbelief of what had just happened: a pleasant evening spent with his parents. One he wouldn’t mind repeating—a few years from now perhaps.

Maybe given enough time—and enough exposure to Caylor—his parents could come around to being genuinely likeable people.

S
assy whistled as she rolled the muffins in cinnamon sugar. Caylor’s favorite treat—other than peanut butter cups—and usually indulged in only on her birthday. But today called for celebration. Because Sassy had finally figured everything out.

Watching Caylor and Dylan over the past few weeks had been a delight—especially since they didn’t mind spending at least one evening a week here with her, watching a movie or playing games. Dylan fit in with their little family as if he’d always been part of it, which, considering he was the offspring of her best friend, wasn’t that big of a surprise.

She set three muffins on a plate.

Sage trundled into the kitchen, carrying an overstuffed duffel bag. “Ooh, can I have one of those?”

Sassy jerked her head toward the counter behind her. “Help yourself. How’s the move going?”

Her younger granddaughter dropped the bag on the floor. An old, ratty athletic shoe fell out and rolled several inches away. “Fine. Good thing Angie had a bed I could use so I didn’t have any furniture to move—just clothes and stuff.” She bit into one of the cinnamon sugar–topped muffins, closed her eyes, and groaned.

“Is this your last load?” Sassy moved toward the stairs.

“Yeah. Are you going upstairs? Tell Caylor that I should have her car back to her in a couple of hours.” Sage shoved another large bite of muffin into her mouth.

“And then you’ll be getting that monstrosity out of my driveway?” Sassy tried to look stern.

“It’s a motorcycle, Sassy. And if memory serves, Papa had one for a long time.” She winked, finished off the muffin, grabbed a canned soda out of the fridge, shoved the escaped shoe back into the bag, and hefted it up again. “Besides, in this day and age, a motorcycle is much cheaper to operate than a car.”

Sassy held up her free hand to keep Sage from going on about the economic benefits of the old, rusty death trap she’d purchased with the first couple of paychecks from her new job as a receptionist at the music company in which Frank—now Sassy—held a large stake. She’d dropped two classes and cut back to part-time school hours, but the company had a great tuition reimbursement program, and her new bosses had encouraged Sage to aim higher than an office-management degree. She seemed to be fully embracing the idea.

“Just be careful.”

“I’m always careful. See you in a little bit.” The door slammed behind Sage.

Shaking her head, Sassy started up the stairs, rehearsing what she wanted to say to Caylor as she climbed.

“Caylor, can I speak to you for a moment?” Sassy peeked over the edge of the floor at the stairwell.

Caylor finished typing something then turned in her chair toward her. “Yes Sassy, of course. Come on up.”

Sassy topped the stairs and sat atop Caylor’s credenza, handing her the plate of muffins. “I feel like I’ve hardly seen you the last couple of weeks.”

Caylor’s eyes glazed over. “Cinnamon-sugar muffins!” She reached for one then drew her hand back. “What’s going on?”

Sassy tried to keep her expression innocent. “Does there need to be something going on to have a treat?”

“Don’t tell me, you’re celebrating getting your spare bedroom back?” Caylor cocked a brow and took a muffin from the plate.

Sassy swung her feet back and forth like a little kid, her hands tucked under her thighs. “Sort of. But there’s something else, too.”

“What?” Caylor set down the half-eaten muffin, instantly wary.

Taking a deep breath, Sassy dived in. “Caylor, there’s a big decision I’ve been thinking about and praying about for some time now. And I finally know what it is God is leading me to do.”

Caylor leaned back in her office chair and crossed her arms. “What’s that?”

“I’m going to sell the house and move in with Perty and Gerald. Perty has been after me to do it for years—we go everywhere together anyway—and they’re looking for a more permanent tenant for that apartment over their garage, anyway.”

“The apartment—the carriage house? But that’s where Dylan lives.”

Sassy’s heart beat a little faster, hoping Caylor would catch on quickly to what this meant. “I know. So this isn’t going to be an immediate move. But I wanted to inform you of my decision to sell the house before I contact a real estate agent. Because I wanted to give you the opportunity to buy it before it goes on the market.”

“But Sassy, I can’t let you do that. I can’t let you give up your life, your independence for me.” Tears welled in Caylor’s eyes.

Blinking against the gathering moisture in her own faulty eyes, Sassy reached over and caressed Caylor’s soft cheek. “Give up my independence for you? Caylor—I’ve never been independent. But you were before Papa died, and you gave up everything to move in and take care of me. It isn’t fair—I never should have let you do it. I should have moved into Trevecca Towers or some other assisted-living facility rather than let you make the decision to give up any hope of a future so that you could take care of your blind old grandmother.” She dashed away the tear burning a path down the side of her nose. “I will
not
let you give up on the very real hope of a future between you and Dylan for me. I’d rather die first.”

Tears escaped and ran down Caylor’s cheeks. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. You’re the only grandparent I have left, you know. I can’t lose you.”

“Then let me do this.” Sassy swallowed against the choking emotion blocking her throat. “At Perty and Gerald’s, I’ll have as much independence as I want—and much less house to have to keep—as well as Perty’s kitchen to cook in. And I’ll know that my granddaughter has the ability to life a full, abundant life and experience the kind of happiness I had with my Frank.” She leaned forward and pressed her warm, smooth palms to Caylor’s damp cheeks. “You’ve sacrificed for me long enough. Now it’s my turn to sacrifice for you.”

Sassy kissed her forehead. “I’ll set up a time when you and I can sit down with the lawyer and discuss the house sale if you decide you’d like to do that. But for now, I’ll let you get back to work.” Sassy returned to the kitchen and leaned against the counter over the sink. “Lord, please let this have been Your hand guiding everything. And help Caylor make the right decision. I can’t live with myself knowing she’s holding back her heart from Dylan because of me.”

Peace, like that which had come when Perty had offered her the carriage house, once again descended and soothed her spirit.

Yes, God was in this. She now needed to have the faith that Caylor would realize it, too.

Unable to calm her mind, Sassy pulled out ingredients to make bread. When she set the dough aside to rise, she mixed up batter for a pound cake and set it in the oven in time to punch down the bread dough and start shaping it into loaves.

“Sassy?”

She jumped at Caylor’s voice. “Yes dearest?” She wiped the flour and dough off her hands onto a dish towel.

“I…um…I want to buy the house from you. I know I haven’t spent a lot of time thinking about it, but I know it’s the right thing to do. I feel like this is God’s way of telling me that I need to move forward with my life.” Caylor gave her a rueful smile. “I’ve had a taste of what my future could be, and I’m afraid if I don’t listen now to what might be God’s leading, I’m going to lose everything.”

Sassy crossed the kitchen and hugged her granddaughter. “I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.” She stepped back, holding Caylor at arm’s length. “Why don’t you call Dylan and invite him over to tell him.”

But Caylor shook her head. “No. Sassy, I have to figure out how to tell him in such a way that it doesn’t come across like I’m pushing him to move faster with our relationship than he’s ready for. I’ll tell him soon—probably tomorrow. I just need to work out how to do it.”

“And if he decides to take the relationship to the next level when he hears this?”

Caylor shrugged, but a smile danced around the corners of her mouth. “Then I guess you’d better get ready to start meddling in our wedding the way you’ve been meddling in our relationship.”

Sassy pressed her hand to her heart. “Me? Meddle? Why, I can’t believe you would even think that.” But then she laughed. “You know I would enjoy nothing more.”

Oh Lord. Please let that boy see the light and make my granddaughter as happy as I was with Frank. Sooner, rather than later, would be better. I’d like to hold my first great-grandchild while I can still see it
.

“Sassy?”

“Yes?”

Caylor kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for meddling.”

D
ylan read the last page with a sigh and then glanced at the clock in the corner of the computer screen. Oh no—he jumped up from the table. Church service started in less than five minutes.

He threw on a pair of khakis, a navy T-shirt, and his brown leather jacket; dug up a pair of matching socks from the nest of them in his top drawer; and shoved his feet into his favorite pair of loafers.