“I really like Scarlett,” she says. “For the record, I think she’s a great girl in a tough spot, and I’m going to do everything I can to help her grow confident with her place in this world.”
“Appreciate that.”
“If you wouldn’t mind sometime, maybe you could fill me in a little more on what she’s been through?” She lifts a shoulder to her ear. “I think maybe it’d help me to understand her better?”
“Sometime, yes.”
“And I’m so sorry about your brother,” she adds. “I know you said he passed when she was a baby, but that had to have been so devastating. And then to look at her every day and see a part of him . . . that’s got to be tough for you.”
I know where this is going.
“It was. And it is.” I rise from the table and head to the doorway, tension burning into my shoulders. She can question me about my failed engagement until she’s blue in the face, but I’m not in the mood to play twenty questions about my dead brother. “Thank you for joining me for dinner, Elle. If you don’t mind, I’m heading upstairs for the evening. Please show yourself out.”
I leave before she has a chance to protest.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ELLE
“Sweetheart, you never did send me your flight itinerary,” my mother drawls into the phone Saturday morning as I’m en route to West’s to pick up Scarlett.
“Shoot. I’m so sorry. It’s been a crazy couple of days . . .”
Quit my job . . .
Gave one of the most influential men in the world what for . . .
Volunteered to mentor his teenage niece despite not having a clue what I’m doing . . .
Had cocktails and dinner in his private residence on a Friday night and then proceeded to grill him on his personal life . . .
“That’s fine, Elle. I know you have a lot going on, but I’d appreciate it if you could prioritize that one little action item for me.” She speaks like a true planner. “Would really mean the world to me.” And in true Mona Napier fashion, she sprinkles a little sugar on top too. “Will only take a second.”
“I’ll do it as soon as we hang up,” I promise, fighting a yawn. As soon as I got home last night, I spent way too much time browsing Nebraska obituaries in search of West’s brother’s, only to find a three-sentence tribute and a name—William Michael Maxwell. Given how private West is, I’m not surprised he had it scrubbed from the internet just like everything else.
“You know,” Mom says, her voice inching up a mischievous octave, “I was at the Winn-Dixie yesterday, and you’ll never believe who I ran into.”
“Oh yeah?” I weave between a dog walker and a slow walker. “Who’d you see?”
“Elijah. You remember Elijah, right? Your high school boyfriend.”
Wish I didn’t . . .
“Yeah,” I say. “What’s he up to?”
“Oh, he was in town visiting his family. You know he’s a dentist now. Has a practice up in Saint Louis.”
“I think someone was telling me that not too long ago.” That “someone” being Facebook. I totally internet stalked him after a bottle of wine on a snowed-in Wednesday night last year. “Good for him.”
“Yeah,” she continues. “And Elle, I’m telling you, the man looks cuter than ever. He’s got all these muscles. And this pearly-white smile. Well, he always had that perfect smile. But he just . . . well, you know some people don’t age well. Not Elijah.”
“Good for him,” I repeat because there’s nothing else to say.
“Oh, and guess what?”
“What?”
“He’s single. Never been married. Can you believe that?” she asks.
Yes. Yes, I can believe that, because his lying, cheating ways would be an impediment to that sort of lifestyle . . .
“He asked about you.” My mother chuckles, speaking with breathless words as if the excitement of this admission is getting the best of her. “Says he can’t wait to catch up with you at the wedding. Oh, and he asked if you’re bringing a date. I told him no . . . and you should’ve seen the look on his face, Elle. It’s like his eyes just lit from within. Like fireworks. Then he said he’s coming solo too.”
“I hate to disappoint either of you, but there’s not going to be any kind of running-toward-each-other-in-slow-motion reunion happening. I’ll say hi and I’ll be cordial, but the Elijah-and-Elle ship has sailed.”
“Oh, Elle. Don’t be so negative. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe you’ll feel differently when you see him again. It’s been, what, twelve years?”
“Not long enough.”
My mother chuckles, and I picture her waving me off as she paces her giant yellow kitchen while a china cup of hibiscus tea cools on the windowsill above the sink.
I round the corner to West’s apartment, instantly spotting Scarlett perched on the bottom steps, head in her hand. As soon as she notices me, I give her an overenthusiastic wave and ear-to-ear grin—an attempt to start the day off on a positive note to offset the depressing ending to our Friday night together.