Winter White (20 page)

“Is that a turkey?” he asked, pointing to her hand.

Izzie held up the craft proudly. The glue from the feathers was still wet. “This is the craft I did with the residents today. Cute, right? I got the idea from Connor’s kindergarten
class. I displayed the residents’ in the front windows.” She pointed them out. “This one’s Grams’s.”

“Why isn’t Grams’s up there, too?” he asked, putting his hands in his pocket.

“She’s not coming home for Thanksgiving,” Izzie said, her arm suddenly feeling heavy. She dropped her hand to her side, the turkey stuck to her fingers by glue. “This will be the first time we aren’t together on Thanksgiving since I was born.” Izzie hesitated. “She’s having a lot of health issues lately, and her nurse doesn’t feel she should leave the center this weekend.”

Aunt Maureen had spoken to Grams’s nurse about bringing her to the Monroes’ on Thanksgiving, and the nurse had advised against it. She could handle Izzie’s visits, but Grams had started to get paranoid and confused lately, especially about her surroundings. She was also taking two new medications, and her diabetes was making things more difficult. To keep Grams comfortable, the nurse felt it was best if Grams stayed in the same place, stuck to her routine, and didn’t have visitors this holiday. Izzie wasn’t happy about it, but at least she knew Grams wasn’t coming home before visiting that afternoon. She had practically done the whole craft for her grandmother herself; tracing her hand, gluing the feathers, dotting the turkey’s eyes, and drawing a waddle. She figured if she and Grams couldn’t be together that Thanksgiving, at least she could take a piece of Grams with her.

“I’m sorry,” Brayden said, taking Izzie’s messenger bag from her and placing it on his shoulder. “I guess it’s a good thing I picked today, then.”

Izzie reached over him and carefully placed the turkey in her bag, praying it didn’t get stuck to her English lit paper. “For what?”

Brayden had a mischievous look on his face. “For your surprise.” She stared at him curiously as he took her hand. It felt nice to hold hands in public, even if they were standing in front of a nursing home. “No questions. You’ll know soon enough.”

That seemed fair. She watched their hands sway as they walked to the bus stop.

It was probably better that Brayden didn’t tell her. If he had, she would have lied and said she had to finish her report on
Pygmalion
(Eliza Doolittle’s rags-to-riches makeover hit close to home). Being in the Townsends’ massive foyer, which led to rooms in every direction, was making her sweat. Just the walk up the driveway was a workout. The Monroes’ house was big, but the Townsends’ house was massive. Like the kind she read about in Mira’s
Us Weekly
when celebs like Angelina and Brad rented out a house for $45,000 because they were shooting somewhere far from a Four Seasons.

“Are you going to come in or hang out with the coatrack?” Brayden asked her.

Izzie felt like an invisible force field was keeping her from going any farther than the foyer. She looked up at the biggest chandelier she had ever seen, which Brayden had just told her was made from crystals from Tiffany’s.

You don’t belong here.

The voice was back. She was beginning to wonder if Savannah had planted a chip in her brain that said that phrase whenever she felt out of place, which was often.

“No one’s home, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Brayden said, leaning against a doorway that had thick decorative white molding around it. “My parents are at a charity event and won’t be back till after eight.”

“Why would I be worried?” Izzie lied, even as her stomach relaxed. No Mrs. Townsend pursing her thin, pale lips. Yes! She stepped forward.

Suddenly, there was high-pitched yapping and the sound of tiny paws scurrying across the floor. A tiny tan fluff appeared at her feet, growling and barking.

“I take back the no one being home part,” Brayden said, scooping up the tiny Chihuahua. “Blackbeard is here to protect us, right, buddy?”

“I still can’t believe you named a Chihuahua something ferocious like Blackbeard.” Izzie put her palm out for the dog
to sniff. He jumped at first, then started to lick her hand. At least she’d won him over.

“What can I say?” Brayden held the long-haired dog out in front of him. “I wanted a big bulldog named Blackbeard, my mom wanted something small and dignified that wouldn’t poop all over the house. She won, as usual.” Blackbeard licked Brayden’s nose, and he laughed. “Not that I would trade this guy in. No, I wouldn’t,” he said, slipping into baby talk. Izzie smirked as Brayden’s cheeks turned pink. “Enough embarrassing myself for one day.” He put Blackbeard down, and he scurried off. “Why don’t I give you the grand tour?”

Izzie stepped forward again. Remarkably the force field didn’t throw her back.

“It should only take an hour,” he added. She stopped short and Brayden laughed. “I’m kidding. I can show you the tennis courts and the stables another day.”

The last part didn’t sound like a joke.

The tour did not take an hour, but it felt like it at times. One expansive room blurred into the next, as did Brayden’s chatting. She was too busy taking everything in to hear half of what he said. Mira had told her that the Townsends were practically a founding family of Emerald Cove and the history displayed proudly throughout the house made that point loud and clear. Original, fraying, yellowed maps of the town were framed in the study. A hunk of unpolished
emerald was in a display case. The sitting room had several pictures of Brayden’s great-great-grandparents standing in front of this same house over a hundred and fifty years ago. The home had been expanded and updated and barely looked like the old one, but some of the original floorboards had been salvaged to use in the kitchen, which was practically the size of Corky’s. By the time they made it to the dining room, Izzie wasn’t sure she could look at another piece of Waterford or sterling.

“Iz? You okay there?”

She hadn’t realized how hard she was gripping one of Brayden’s great-grandmother’s antique dining room chairs. She let go, her palms pink. “Yep. All good!”

“Well, then come right in, madam. You’ll find I’m a much better teacher than Ms. Norberry.” He pulled out the chair in front of her and motioned for her to sit. “Give me fifteen minutes and you’ll know the placement of every piece of silver on this table.”

“Wait, what?” She sat down and felt him push her closer to the table. Candlesticks burned brightly next to a roast turkey, mashed potatoes, honey-glazed carrots and cornbread. Were they having dinner? Brayden noticed the confused look on her face. “I really wanted to make things up to you after I behaved like such a jerk at the welcome tea,” he said. “Mira mentioned you were having a tough time with table settings
in etiquette class, so I thought I’d give you a one-on-one lesson.”

Her cheeks felt hot. “She shouldn’t have said that. I’m doing fine.” She wasn’t. Ms. Norberry even looked frustrated when Izzie put her red wineglass where her white wineglass should be (why did they have to know about wineglasses when Ms. Norberry kept stressing they shouldn’t drink?). But those problems were for Izzie to know. Not the boy she liked who grew up in a world far different from the one she was raised in. Dinners with Grams were served on disposable plates or cheap Corelle, not hundred-year-old china.

Brayden sat next to her instead of at the other head of the table, which was fourteen seats away. Izzie didn’t know dining tables this long existed. “Get ready to know the difference between your shrimp fork and your dessert fork.” He smiled and pointed to his head. “I’ve got all the tricks you need to know up here.”

Izzie tried to push her chair back, but those stupid old chairs were heavy! “This is really nice,” she said, struggling to get up. She was embarrassed that he needed to give her a table-manners tutorial, but she didn’t want him to know that. “But I told you. I don’t need any help. I’m going to go. I have a paper due in the morning.”

“Hey.” Brayden grabbed her hand. “Did I do something wrong?” He looked upset, which made her feel worse. “I’m
really doing all this for me,” he said suddenly. “I need to brush up. Last night at dinner I poured soup into my teacup.”

She smiled. “Teacups and saucers aren’t placed on the table till dessert. Even I know that.”
Thanks, Ms. Norberry.

“See? You know more than I do,” he told her. “You can teach me.”

Izzie looked down at the gold rim on the bone-white china plate in front of her. Why did she have such a hard time accepting help? Kylie teased her about that all the time. She was used to doing things for herself. What Brayden was doing touched her, but something was still bothering her. “We can do this, but under one condition.” She stared into his blue-green eyes. “I want you to promise me you won’t feel sorry for me.
Ever.
”

“I don’t,” Brayden said simply, and she knew he meant it. “So let me do this without getting a huge lecture from Ms. Independent, Isabelle Scott. Okay?”

She started to smile. “Okay.”

Satisfied, Brayden removed the pale green dinner napkin that was shaped like a swan from his plate. “First trick is something Ms. Norberry probably hasn’t taught you.” He unwrapped the napkin and placed it in his lap.

Izzie gave him a tart look. “I know that. I wasn’t raised in a barn.”

“Okay, but do you know
when
to put your napkin on your lap?” he asked, and she bit her lip. “Aha! Something the
mighty Iz doesn’t know. Here’s the rule: Never put your napkin on your lap till your host does so first. Once they do, you do, and the meal begins. That napkin sticks like glue till the host removes his or hers at the end of the meal. Then you do this.” He placed it on the left side of his plate, but didn’t fold it. “Not this.” He wadded the napkin into a small ball and threw it across the room.

She laughed. “I bet it would be fun to see the look of surprise on the host’s face.”

Brayden raised his eyebrow. “I’ve done that once or twice with my mother. It doesn’t go over well.” He took another napkin and placed it on his lap. She copied him. “Next: how to figure out which glass is yours and which is your dinner companion’s.”

“Please explain that one to me because I keep messing up.” Izzie placed her elbows on the table, knowing it was a big no-no.

Brayden held out both his hands and made circles with his thumbs and index fingers. The rest of his fingers stayed straight. He held his hands up. “Do you see the
D
and the
B
? That stands for ‘drink’ and ‘bread.’ ”

Izzie did the same and stared at her hands in awe. “How did you know that?”

“Our housekeeper taught me when I was five,” Brayden admitted sheepishly. “I still use this trick all the time.”

Izzie shook her head. “Why can’t Ms. Norberry break it down this way?”

Brayden winked. “I told you. She’s not as good a teacher. You can use this one every time. My only advice is that you do it under the table. Otherwise, the other guests might look at you strangely.”

She grinned. “What else do you got?”

They went through the whole course that way, going through every piece of silver, every heirloom dish, every glass. Then they broke with protocol and cleared the table themselves.

“One last question: Did you cook this turkey?” Izzie scraped the rest of the food from her plate into the garbage disposal in the copper sink.

Brayden looked guilty. “It’s takeout.”

“Good.” She placed the china carefully in the dishwasher, wondering if it could go in there. “It’s nice to know you don’t know how to do everything.”

“I can do
almost
everything,” he bragged, and then took her soapy hands from the sink and matched them up with his. “Including how to dance.”

Izzie groaned as they started to sway back and forth, soapsuds from her hands dripping onto the wooden floor. “Don’t tell me we’re having a dance lesson, too.” Even as she said it, she knew she didn’t mind. The early dinner, the dinner-ettiquette tutorial—it was all incredibly sweet. Why did she have to give him such grief earlier?

“Hey, I’m an escort, and if you’re going to dance with me,
I can’t have you stepping on my toes.” He looked at her seriously, and she stopped swaying.

“I thought you were Savannah’s escort.”

“Maybe at the tea because my mom made me, but when it comes to cotillion, the escorts are the ones who pick their date.” He looked at her expectantly.

Was this his way of asking her? Izzie’s heart started to beat wildly, but she didn’t want to give herself away. After what he had put her through at the welcome tea, she wanted to make Brayden work for it. Even if she was totally going to say yes in the end. “I don’t know.” She scratched her chin. “What if another guy wants to ask me, and I say yes to you?” She thought for a moment. “The one I danced with the other day was hot.”

“That guy with the greasy hair and the fluorescent-green plaid shirt?” Brayden looked insulted.

“I’ll have you know he was really romantic. He said my eyes reminded him of the color of the Thing in
Fantastic Four
,” she said solemnly. Brayden started to tickle her.