While Marcus jumped up automatically to catch me, his grandmother wasn’t fazed in the slightest—keeping her eyes straight front as she took a regal sip of iced tea.
“So nice to see you again, Rebecca.”
I pulled myself straight and smoothed down my increasingly-silly-seeming blouse as Marcus leapt forward to make the proper introductions. “Yes, Rebecca, this is my grandmother. Augus—”
“Sit down, Marcus.” She cut him off dismissively. “I can introduce myself.” There was a soft creaking as she shifted toward me in her giant chair. “I am Augustina Mariette Taylor.”
Augustina? Of course, her name was Augustina.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said politely, trying desperately not to crumble under her stare.
She was perched in her tall-backed chair like a queen—her sharp, blue eyes missing nothing as they swept over every inch of my body. Her snow-cloud hair was swept up into an old-fashioned pile atop her head, her glittering barrette matching the large sapphire fastened to her throat on a choker. There was an ornate cane with a head of quartz set firmly between her legs, but from the way she carried herself, I doubted there was really a need. In my time working at the hospice center, I’d learned that some people used canes to walk, some people used them to gesticulate and order people around. Judging by the frown—not smile—frown lines around Ms. Augustina’s eyes, I was thinking she was the latter.
“So you’re the little nurse who swept our Marcus off his feet,” she said critically, inclining her head as if to see me more properly.
“Rebecca.” I debated stepping forward to shake but was worried she’d find it too prosaic. “Rebecca White. And I’m a nursing assistant.”
“Oh, yes, dear.” There was that icy stare again, “I know exactly who you are.”
“Taylor?” Marcus interrupted, still stuck on her introduced name. “Is that the last name you’re using now?” He raised his eyebrows skeptically before turning to me to explain. “My grandmother’s been married seven times, so she definitely understands the significance of what we’re about to do.”
I felt like he was taking his life into his own hands by teasing her, and turned fearfully to see her reaction. She didn’t disappoint.
“I’ll have none of your cheek, boy!” But her eyes sparkled indulgently. “And of course, I’m using Taylor. He was your grandfather, after all. And the only one I ever really loved.”
I pictured her like a mantis, slowly devouring all seven of her mates but feeling remorse only for one. The one who gave her children.
“That’s…sweet,” I managed. Both of their eyes turned to me, and I instantly regretted speaking. “So is that why you’re here?” I asked conversationally. “To help plan the wedding?”
“Miss White.” Her voice was like little shards, digging into my face and the bare skin on my arms. “Do I look like I have any interest in planning your wedding?”
Marcus’ eyes dropped momentarily to the table, and his shoulders wilted with an inaudible sigh. This clearly wasn’t going how he’d envisioned. That same protective instinct welled up in me, and I turned to her with a smile.
“Well, I’m guessing it wasn’t just to see our little sex show.”
Marcus spat a mouthful of tea back into his glass, but Augustina turned to me with something bordering on respect.
“I’m here, dear one, for Thanksgiving.” Marcus and I shared a blank look as she
took a dignified bite of canapé. “Not that I was invited.”
Thanksgiving? That was today? I’d completely forgotten. It wasn’t on our social calendar, after all. But now that I thought about it, the staff had been busier than usual prepping the house and decking it out in autumn finery.
My eyes flickered to Marcus, but he looked as bewildered as I felt. “Of course,” he recovered quickly. “Happy Thanksgiving. Grandma, I’m sorry, I—”
“You forgot,” she said.
I suspected it was a family tradition.
She crossed her arms. “You forgot. That’s what I thought. Although I did hope now that you had a woman in your life, she’d make you more aware of these things.”
I flushed but held my ground—going for the honest route. “Actually, I’ve never been especially fond of the holidays. There’s no avoiding Christmas, but this one completely slipped my mind. It doesn’t help that I don’t cook,” I added quietly, digging myself an even bigger hole.
But again, she regarded me with a bit of a smile. “Nor do I. It’s household work, I’ve always said. And I don’t like to partake in anything used to bind women to the hearth.”
I smiled tentatively, forging an uncertain bond of friendship. “Exactly, it’s just what—”
“Besides, it’s servant’s work.”