He slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “That much we agree on.”
Yes, we would, wouldn’t we?
“Can you talk some sense into her? I’d like to go to dinner at a quiet place, just us, than do anything else.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Now, maybe you can do something for me.” He looks up the stairs this time with a rueful smile. “I know she wants to battle any dragon who comes her way, standing in front of me with a sword and shield. I would rather she not.”
“She does it because she loves you.”
“Now, don’t use my words on me.” But there’s a twinkle in his eye. “And I want to avoid uncomfortable situations whenever possible because I love her. Between you and me, one thing a domestic servant knows is the way people talk. Those who are good at their job know how to fade into the background. Some employers and their friends completely lose track of who occupies a room with them. They say whatever is on their mind about who and whatever is the current topic of interest.” The twinkle fades, and his face falls a little. “They say terrible things. I wouldn’t have them talking about her that way.”
I lean in and kiss his wrinkled cheek. “You’re the one with the sword and shield, and don’t think I don’t know it. I wasn’t kidding all those times I said you were my favorite thing about her. There’s no contest.”
“You’ll explain things to her and look out for her at the ball?”
“I sure will.”
And if anyone there thinks they can get away with gossiping about either of them, they’ll get an earful from me.
CHAPTER THREE
“Sit up straight, dear.”
Grandmother is feeling extra cranky tonight. Awesome. I’m so glad we’re spending time together in her car, stuck in traffic on the way to the ball.
So she can criticize me.
“You should wear your hair down more often,” she admonishes. “Swept over one shoulder in that strapless dress? Now, that would be dramatic. That would be eye-catching.”
I touch a self-conscious hand to the updo I spent an hour on. “I’m sorry I didn’t run my choice of hairstyle past you but last time I got dressed up, you told me to show off my shoulders.”
“Don’t get snippy with me.”
“I wasn’t trying to.” I was. “You’re so grumpy tonight.”
“I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for this event, and I want to be certain it goes well.” She checks out her lipstick in a gold compact before touching up the powder on her nose. “Last year, Whitney chaired. I want to outdo her in every way, if you must know.”
“Obviously. But I’m sure it’ll be great. You always know how to make things perfect.”
She snaps the compact shut with a decisive click. “I wish that were true.”
There’s a touch of sadness in her voice, and immediately, I soften under it.
“Are you thinking about Peter?”
“Who else?” She turns her face to mine, and I hate the strain there. “I wish he were here with me. Not that I mean to offend you, dear.”
“I don’t take offense. I’m sure you would rather have the person who means more to you than anybody right here by your side.”
“I wish he understood better how little I care what they think. What any of them think.”
“I know you don’t care, but he cares about you, and he wants to avoid putting you in a situation where things will be uncomfortable and tense. Considering you’re about to show that Whitney up tonight and teach her how a charity function should be run, no wonder he wanted to take himself out of the equation. He wanted to step aside, so everything would be perfect for you.”
“I didn’t want him to. What’s the good of perfection if you don’t have the person you love with you?”
We’re not generally the touchy-feely type together, but we’ve been more so since her heart attack. She was most definitely raised before that became a thing.
I reach over and pat her hand. “Sometimes, when people love us, they think they know better about what we need than we do. I think that might be the case here. He’s so sure he’s going to hold you back, and that’s the last thing he’d ever want to do.” I lean in, whispering, “And he knows how stubborn you are. Even if your relationship hurt you somehow, he knows you’d insist it doesn’t.”
Her crimson lips come together in a thin line.
“I thought so.” I pat her hand one more time before looking out the window to gauge where we are. “I think we’re getting closer. Should be there any minute.”
“I’m sure they’ve destroyed everything by now,” she frets.
I don’t know who they are, but I feel sorry for them if even one centerpiece is a millimeter out of place.
It isn’t. None of them are. The ballroom is magnificent, like something out of a dream. Candlelight, crystal, dramatic lighting, and so many flowers. The scent of roses and peonies hangs in the air. They drip from the elevated centerpieces and from an elaborate arch set above the doors leading into the room.
I accept a glass of champagne from a silver tray and breathe a sigh of relief. She seems pleased, and I spoke up for Peter, like I’d promised. Now, all that’s left is not embarrassing Grandmother in any way—and, oh yes, finding a cowboy.
No biggie, right?
“Kathryn, dear.” Grandmother grabs me in passing and pulls me in close. “The very tall man wearing a cowboy hat in the middle of a charity ball is Patrick Cleary, CEO of Cleary Oil.”
I can’t miss the man in the cowboy hat. Not only does he tower over almost everybody else in the room, but also, you know, he’s wearing a freaking cowboy hat with a tuxedo.
He’s also at least sixty years old.
My heart sinks. “Does he have sons?”
“From what I remember, yes, he does.” She pats my cheek with a distracted hand, already looking over my shoulder at somebody or something that needs attention. “He might’ve brought them with him, but I don’t know. There were several last-minute additions to the guest list.”
There are maybe three hundred people here at the moment, but Patrick Cleary’s voice booms out over the low roar of conversation and laughter. I circle the group of people he’s standing in the center of and observe him. Black-and-silver hair stick out from under his hat, and he has dark eyes with deep laugh lines at the corners.
Okay, so he seems like a fun guy. The people around him laugh genuinely at the story he’s telling.
Are any of them his sons?
Jeez Louise, I’m no better than a gold digger. Stalking him in case he brought his rich sons along.
“She did a good job with this, I guess.”
My shoulders tense at the comment. Patrick Cleary might as well not exist at the moment since somebody’s talking about my grandmother.
Maybe it’s the Brooklyn in me, or maybe it’s the fact that I have no other family to defend, but the snotty tone in whoever’s voice I just heard has me ready to fight.
I glance around until the owner of that snotty voice reveals herself. Tall and willowy with her hair down and pinned to the side to flow over her shoulder. She’s chatting with a couple of other girls and wearing a snide smirk.