Wrapped with a Beau, page 18
If she closes her eyes and focuses hard enough, Elisha can just about hear Maeve fussing over her, smell her stovetop hot cocoa and popcorn. Before Grandma Lou passed, the two women and Elisha enjoyed weekly after-school Hallmark movie nights. Maeve would have the heavy-bottomed saucepan and a value bag of kernels waiting on the counter while Elisha and Lou clinked their way across the street. By the time the popcorn stopped exploding, Lou had the chocolate liqueur and vodka back in her handbag and two White Russians chilling in Doc Hollins’s old-fashioned glasses.
“You were right,” says Ves, breaking into her nostalgia.
“Huh?” Elisha blinks away the memory. She hastily sets aside the floppy, dog-eared romance novel she’s been holding for the last several minutes. “I mean, obviously. But you’ll have to be more clear regarding what I’m right about.”
“The important documents,” explains Ves. “Between what was lying around the house and the stuff the bank gave me, I have it all. Dad wasn’t sure, but I checked and found out that the house is paid off and Maeve’s covered all the utilities for the next few months. It’s perfect timing.”
She absently flips through a yellowing paperback. “For what?”
“To list the house in March as soon they’re done filming. Don’t worry, Solana told me all about the importance of when to sell in the Piney Peaks housing market.”
Her brow furrows. Probably boring real estate stuff. “Um, okay.”
It is a little weird to hear him so casually mention selling up and leaving town, but she always knew they wouldn’t last. It’s better this way, anyway. Unlike with Bentley, where the breakup stretched out like taffy, knowing their end date brings certainty. And with certainty comes less chance of getting hurt.
“Adding to the Elisha-is-always-right canon,” she says, smirking, “you’ll be happy to know I have found not one, not two, but three treasures that you, Mr. What Could I Possibly Have Missed?, absolutely, unquestionably missed. Eat crow, Ves Hollins. Wait, no.” She smiles evilly. “Eat fruitcake.”
He drops the manila accordion file that presumably holds all the paperwork she set him to find. “You’re kidding,” he says, joining her in her fortress of books on the living room floor.
To her surprise, he crosses his legs under him pretzel-style, his knobby knee bumping hers. He brings with him the scent of crisp, juicy green apples. She inhales greedily, trying not to imagine a hard green Jolly Rancher gliding across her tongue. “Here, look. Two out-of-print Nora Roberts and Madonna’s Sex. You know, I didn’t even know Maeve had these?”
“Between all the medical texts and fiction, I’m sure there’s a thousand books here. How would you?”
“Oh, this used to be like my own personal library growing up. Mom and Dad were busy working, and back then Grandpa Dave still had his wood workshop at the Chocolate Mouse. Grandma Lou had early-onset arthritis and couldn’t help with the baking anymore, so she took care of me after school. We spent a lot of time here.” Elisha’s grin is fond. “She could sure handle the cocktails, though.”
Ves looks startled before he catches himself. “I know Maeve was close friends with you and your grandma, but I didn’t realize that you practically grew up in this house. Do you think we ever met?”
“Ah, you mean were we ever childhood sweethearts?” Elisha gives him a teasing grin.
“Shut up,” he grumbles. His arm wraps around her waist, tucking her into his side.
She scoots closer. “You said you were seven last time you were here, right?” When his face falls, she realizes it was the only time. Quickly, she moves on. “I would have been four. Maybe we had a playdate or something? I’ll have to ask my gramps. Grandma Lou might have mentioned it.”
There’s something a little lost and wistful in Ves’s expression that suddenly makes her wish she hadn’t said anything. He’s studying the neat piles of books she’s meticulously arranged around them, absent-mindedly playing with the tortoiseshell button on his gray cardigan. She watches him nervously, afraid that he’s going to tear it off and it’ll fly somewhere into the mess, unable to be found, and even if they do find it, she has no idea how to sew a button back on. Would he? Yes, probably.
Probably he keeps all his spare buttons in the tiny plastic baggies exactly for this sort of occasion. She thinks about all the hotel bathroom sewing kits she’s saved up over the years that she hasn’t used once. She can thread a needle, but that’s about it. Probably he is a real adult who knows how to sew buttons and even iron shirts and read full-size newspapers instead of just Internet headlines.
“So you can sell these online if you want. They’re pretty rare and valuable,” says Elisha. Her voice comes out aggressively loud and she wishes she wasn’t vigorously brandishing said books under his nose. “Or I know a couple of used bookstores in town that pay good money for collectibles like these.”
“Maybe you should hold on to them. Maeve would probably approve.”
“No, I—” There’s a tight knot in her chest. “It’s yours. Your inheritance.”
For a moment they just stare at each other, until she places all three books in his lap. Her hand lands much higher up his thigh than she’d anticipated. He jolts, his knee knocking hers again. He makes a frazzled sound that sounds like a mashup of oomph, fuck, and sorry all at once.
His hands curl around the books’ edges, both thumbs running over the pristine covers. “I hate being responsible for this,” he says finally. “It shouldn’t be me.”
“Yeah, I can imagine this is kind of a lot for people our age. Are you sure you don’t want to ask your parents to come help? I mean”—she suddenly realizes how it sounds—“not that I mind helping, obviously. It’s just . . . they might be a better support for you?”
She gets that they’re not close, but if your son has a whole house thrust upon him, how can neither parent care enough to show up and make sure he’s okay?
“Parents. Help. Support. Pick the one that does not belong,” Ves says dryly.
“Fuck. I’m sorry.” She leans her head against his shoulder, her hand finding his. Her thumb works slow, soothing circles against his knuckles. When he grunts, the taste of his breath—minty toothpaste and chocolatey coffee—ghosts over her mouth. “Can I ask . . . why Maeve’s family wasn’t close with her, either? She was the loveliest person. It just doesn’t seem, well, fair.”
“Doc Hollins was my dad’s grandfather. Everyone always knew that she was the old man’s favorite. Kept her at his beck and call, according to my father. Daughter, receptionist, general dogsbody.” Ves’s lips form a scowl. “Her life was on hold until he died, so in my mind, she earned every penny. But by then, it was hardly a secret she would inherit everything. And the family hated her for it, though god knows none of them needed the money. Still, her older brother, my own grandfather, used to send my dad, Karl, here year after year to worm his way into the will.”
The look of disgust on his face reveals all she needs to know about what he thinks of his family. “That’s awful. And that’s why he isn’t here? He’s pissed the inheritance skipped a generation?”
“Not pissed at me. But entitled? Very much so. Dad’s never been good at . . . being there. He’s better with my sister, Hanna. But then, I guess he’s had all these years to learn.” Ves visibly hesitates, scraping his front teeth over his bottom lip. “Karl cheated on my mom, Adeline. A lot. They sent me to stay here with Maeve during their divorce because their lawyers thought I shouldn’t be pulled into the fighting. It was upsetting at the time, and say what you want about divorce lawyers, but at least theirs had my best interest at heart.”
Her heart shrivels. No, crushes. Like the crispy shell of a meringue demolished in a clenched fist. He spoke more fondly of literal strangers than his own parents. No wonder Maeve left it all to him; she must have wanted him to know that he would always have a home here.
“Are you close with your sister?” she asks, now that she has an opening to be nosy. “I bet every only child says this, but I’ve always wanted a sibling.”
“We text. Sometimes whole conversations in GIFs.” Ves laughs under his breath. “I go to all the stuff she invites me to and I take her out to Chinatown every couple of months for this fish-shaped waffle soft serve with red bean paste in the tail that she loves. Hanna calls herself my official beta reader. But it’s hard,” he admits. “I was already an adult when she was born. I’m old enough to be her dad. It makes it hard to be a brother, sometimes. But we’re not nothing.”
“She sounds sweet,” says Elisha. “I know I don’t get a vote, but I’m glad this house is yours and not anybody else’s. Maeve knew seven-year-old you would have to go back home, but she also knew you would always want to come back.”
If there’s a way a smile can be both hopeful and sad at the same time, Ves wears it on his face now. “Can you tell me something she shared with you?” he asks. “About me, I mean.”
“Um, well, I remember this one Christmas . . . It was freshman year of college, and my first visit back home. It was the first one after Grandma Lou died, so I visited Maeve as soon as I got here. I was expecting her to be sad. And she was, of course, but you know the first thing she did? She told me all about her Thanksgiving trip to New York City. She saw her great-niece for the first time but what she was most excited by was her great-nephew taking her to see a Broadway show and eating at a restaurant with a Michelin star. She could see the Brooklyn Bridge from his fancy-schmancy loft.”
Ves laughs. “It’s far less impressive if you knew the caveat that that was actually my mom’s apartment, her settlement in the divorce, and she let me live there all through college. She also told me to show Maeve a good time and charge everything to my dad’s credit card. But before you think I was too spoiled, I’ll have you know I worked part-time at McNally Jackson for my sake bomb and sushi money.”
The tense moment is broken. Elisha can’t hold back her giggles. “Oh my god, you were a hipster.”
“Hey.” His knee bumps her, this time on purpose. “You take that back.”
“Never,” she vows. Another bump, also on purpose. Now they’re just grinning at each other like fools and she’s once again struck so fucking hard: Ves should smile like this more often. Not that smirky thing he does when he’s being all aloof, or the neutral school-picture-day smile when he’s uncomfortable.
Ves holds her gaze. “If it makes you feel any better, when I graduated the next year, I moved in with Arun. We both needed a roommate and I wanted to stick it to my parents that I didn’t need their money anymore.” He grins. “We had a prime view of the dumpsters and unless we closed the windows, the place reeked of greasy takeout. Sadly, in summer we had to leave the windows open because the air conditioner was always broken and our shady landlord only got off his ass for female renters.”
“Wait, Maeve told me about this trip, too!” Elisha nearly bounces in place. “She said you gave her your room and slept on the couch. I remember thinking how sweet that was.”
It’s like some magical moment is suspended over them, sequestering them from the rest of the world, far away from shitty ex-fiancés and greedy families and cluttered houses. It’s just him and her, staring at each other in a way that isn’t weird in the slightest. He’s all cheekbones and beautifully square jawline, barely-there stubble a few shades lighter than his dark brows. His blue eyes don’t look quite as glacial and his lips aren’t in their usual grim line.
Their hands are still connected and letting go is the last thing she wants to do. She swallows, heat scorching up her neck and prickling over her collarbone. In fact, now that she’s up close and personal, she’s stunned to discover that his wide upper lip has a perfect candy pout. Well, then.
Trying to hold on to the moment, she says, “Why didn’t you ever come back to Piney Peaks?”
His eyes shutter, and that’s when she knows. That this answer is the irreversible flick of the first domino that will send all the others tumbling down. “You ask a lot of questions.”
She senses that she’s overstepped. “Too personal?”
He hesitates.
“. . . or too painful?” Elisha guesses.
“In this case, they’re the same thing,” says Ves.
Her voice is small as she murmurs an “I’m sorry” that she feels all the way down to her signature alpine-white toenails. She’s been blabbering on about the sweet childhood memories she hugs close to her heart, thinking she’s giving him a little piece of Maeve, when all she’s doing is alienating him further.
Ves cocks his head to the side. “For what it’s worth, I do wish I’d come back. When I was a kid, she was the only one who ever really cared about me. My parents didn’t exactly love that, so they never sent me here again. It’s ridiculous they cared enough to be jealous over her relationship with me, but not enough to actually do anything to fix theirs. And yeah, I was too little to have any choice about where I went, but as an adult? There’s no excuse. I guess I just . . . I wanted her to be my family so badly. Wanted to live with her instead of my mom and dad. And that’s embarrassing, to want what you know is so impossible. So I pretended that Christmas here in Piney Peaks never happened. So you see, Elisha, you’re not the one who should be sorry.”
Her heart wrenches. “I am, though. Not about being nosy. Well, not just about that, anyway. I meant . . . I don’t think I ever told you how sorry I was. That you lost Maeve, too. Yes, she meant a lot to us here. But she was your family. Your actual family. And I’ve been sharing all the memories that you never got to have.”
He shrugs, seems to be trying his best to sound indifferent. “Secondhand stories are just as good.”
But Elisha knows him better now. Maybe not a lot, but enough. “No, they’re really not,” she says. She stands, steps over a wall of her fortress, and offers him her hand. “Want to change that?”
He lets her haul him up. “What did you have in mind?”
“Magic.” At his unimpressed look, she sighs. “We’re going to seek some. Go grab your coat.”
“Magic,” he repeats. “But it’s almost dinnertime.”
“Don’t worry, I’m buying.”
He scowls with that stern, absolutely not kissable mouth she’s absolutely not ogling, absolutely not at all. “Elisha, that’s not what I—”
“I am offering you an adventure and you’re thinking about dinner? Ves, you’re a human, not a hobbit.”
He looks visibly startled.
She enjoys this victory. “Yeah, that’s right. I know Bilbo Baggins.”
At his deep inhale, she decides that he’s relenting like a stick of butter sitting near a sunny windowsill. He must feel otherwise, because he vehemently shakes his head. “Don’t give me that look.”
“Ves.” Impulsively, she squeezes his hand. The one she hasn’t let go of yet. “Because of you, I was able to get back to the Sleighbells director and say everything was fine. The movie is under way and the town is thrilled. Even better, I got to not look like the sad singleton I am in front of my ex-fiancé, who’s rubbing his happiness in my face every chance he gets. Do you get how much you’ve helped me? Most people just have to deal with seeing their ex on social media. But Bentley is my literal ghost-of-boyfriends-past haunting me here on my own streets. That’s fucked up. And you being here makes it . . . better. So let me give you this. I promise you’ll like it.”
When his face remains frustratingly blank, Elisha tries again. “Or, even if you don’t like it, you’ll probably be polite enough to pretend you do so I don’t feel bad, and that’s fine, too.”
There’s the tiniest crack in his stoic façade. His eyes soften and for a second, perhaps just one, they drop to her mouth. In a voice edged with doubt, he asks, “My accompanying you means that much?”
“It’s not about me. It’s what it’ll mean to you. And like I said, you’re free to hate it.” She gives him the bright and merry smile she’s perfected down to an art form. It’s the one she uses during difficult work situations to infuse optimism and enthusiasm back into the room. “But,” she adds, looking up at him from under dark lashes and aiming every last ounce of her conviction his way, “I really hope you don’t.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Elisha
The movie theater is empty and eerily quiet when Elisha and Ves arrive, thanks to five screenings showing at the same time. She buys Milk Duds, Junior Mints, and Swedish Fish in the lobby, then motions for Ves to follow her into the Sleighbells memorabilia room off the main hallway. They pad over the worn purple carpet into a space painted Hollywood red and filled with glass cases, dreamy black-and-white photographs, and mannequins wearing shearling coats and cloche hats over bell bottoms and bell sleeves.
Jamming a fish gummy in her mouth, Elisha points to a behind-the-scenes picture of the cast sitting on the hood of an old-school Mercedes roadster. In the film, it was cherry red and glossy. Her snowflake-painted nail taps at the glass in front of a beautiful blond woman’s face. “Doesn’t she kind of look like Claudia Schiffer?”
Ves leans in, bending slightly to squint at the face. His lean fingers play with the ends of his scarf, dangling below his waist. “Who?”
“Supermodel. Gorgeous. She did a cameo in Love Actually.” When he shows no sign of recognition, she gasps in mock outrage. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen that movie, either! Sacrilege! Hugh Grant is in it!”
He looks unimpressed. “Don’t tell me that’s another holiday favorite of yours.”
“Of course not.” A beat. “It’s my second favorite. Followed by The Holiday because Jude Law.”
“Because Jude Law what?”
She blinks. “That was the end of my sentence. Does it need any other qualifier?”
He blinks back, like he’s never met anyone like her before, which is silly, of course, but she can’t stop thinking it. Finally, Ves nods at the photograph. “You could have mocked me for my lack of movie and celebrity knowledge at home instead of making me walk all the way into town.”
