When it’s time, Laurie and Dylan join us. Landon says hi to Laurie without mentioning Brett, which she seems grateful for. During lunch, the conversation flows. Landon seems genuinely interested in everyone. Even Dylan, who never has anything to say to people he doesn’t know, soon starts talking with him about school and medicine.
I’m the only one who’s quiet, watching as Landon charms my family. I listen to him discuss Trent & Taylor with my dad and uncle, citing instances from a high street fashion brand he invested in. In the next breath he’s discussing painting with my mom, and speaking Italian with Aunt Jacie, who picked up the language when she was a teenage model in Italy. A desperate voice inside my head is screaming that I shouldn’t let this happen. I shouldn’t have let him come. It’s enough that I’m in love with him, I don’t want my family to fall for him too. They’ll only end up disappointed when Landon and I finally go our separate ways.
That’s really the problem, the knowledge that what we have is only temporary.
After we eat, we go to the backyard, and Dylan, Laurie, and Landon play hoops. Of course, Landon is good at that too.
“He’s very handsome,” Aunt Jacie comments. We’re sitting under a shade with my mom, who’s doodling in a sketchpad.
“He is,” I agree.
“And he seems very nice too.”
“Yes.”
She gives me a look. “You know, the last time you told us some guy was your boyfriend, he turned out not to be worthy of that title. This one seems like he might be. Just my opinion though.”
I put my head on the table. “Aunt Jacie…” I moan, “Some people have only two parents.”
She grins. “Then you should count yourself lucky.”
IT’S LATE in the afternoon by the time we’re ready to leave. Laurie decides to stay, though she’s not sure yet if she’ll go home with her parents, who live only a few minutes away, or stay up all night playing video games with Dylan.
After we say our goodbyes, I follow Landon to his car, the silver jaguar I’ve only seen him drive a couple of times. We’re both quiet as he pulls out of the gravel drive and onto the road, the only sound, that of the car engine purring beneath us like a jungle cat.
“Do you come home often?” he asks.
“About once a month. My mom’s very pushy.”
“Is she?” He seems surprised. “I thought she was sweet, and your aunt too.”
“Ha,” I say, but I’m smiling.
He returns my smile. “Are you eager to get back to the city?”
I give him a teasing look from under my lashes. “Why? Do you have plans for me?”
He nods. “Actually, I do.”
I’m staring at his profile, so when he turns he catches my eye. He gives me a sexy grin before turning back to the road. “My parents had a home in Sand’s Point. We split our childhood between there and the Hotel. I made a call while we were at your parents, so if you want to come see it, it will be ready for us.”
“Yeah, of course.” I’d love to see the home where he grew up.
In thirty minutes, we’re already there, cruising up the long drive to the front entrance of the two-story, Greek revival mansion.
As soon as we step out of the car, the front door opens and an elderly, gray-haired man walks out onto the front porch. Landon takes my hand and leads me up to the porch steps, grinning affectionately as he shakes the older man’s hand. “Good evening Wilson, sorry to disturb you at such short notice.”
“It’s your home, Landon,” the man says, with a smile that’s almost fatherly, “and we’re always happy to see you.”
“This is Rachel.” Landon turns to me. “Rachel this is Wilson Hayes. He used to run the Swanson Court Hotel in New York, and he’s been the caretaker here since my father passed away.”
Wilson smiles at me. “Welcome Miss Foster. It’s great to see a new face at Windbreakers.” He holds open the door and lets us into a large hallway, while I’m still trying to digest the fact that the house has a name. Inside, I pause to admire the perfectly maintained vision of shiny marble floors, elegant curved grand staircase, and a molded ceiling from which a classic crystal chandelier is hanging.
“I took the liberty of ordering dinner from town,” Wilson tells Landon.
Landon nods. “Thanks. We’ll eat upstairs at eight. How’s Betsy?”
“My wife is coping with me as best she can,” Wilson replies, amusement dancing in his eyes.