Under Contract (The GEG Series) (16 page)

Gram beckons Charlotte to sit in the chair next to her wheelchair and shoos me away. Reluctantly I comply, but first I lean down near Charlotte’s ear. “Don’t let her freak you out, baby. I’ll make us some lunch.” I kiss her ear.

“A light one, Mitch,” she says. I nod.

I head to the kitchen, silently swearing to myself. Not the most brilliant idea to leave her with Gram. At ninety years old, Gram has not lost her psychic abilities, but her filter for delivery has been permanently removed.

Maggie walks in and smiles. “I’ll fix you two something, honey.”

“Maggie! You left her alone with Gram?!” The panic sets in at full capacity.

“Honey child ... you don’t pay me enough to try to keep up with them two! Their hands is flying so fast, I got dizzy just watchin’ ‘em!” She shakes her head and grins as she heads over to the fridge.

Maggie’s originally from the South, and though she’s been in New England for over thirty years, she hasn’t lost her Southern charm or the Southern pace in life. It’s calming, though, to watch someone take their time with everything.

She’s been with my family since before my mom died. Gram and Pop kept her on to help with the house and me. Her children are like brothers and sisters to me. We did everything together, mainly because Maggie’s husband abandoned them. Well, that, and we all adored them.

Maggie has always been good to our family and worked hard. My grandparents lost a lot of friendships over her because they refused to see her color or pay her accordingly. As a matter of fact, they paid her more than the going rate for white help. That was unheard of then. People didn’t like it. I remember questioning Pop about it when I was eleven.

“Pop, doesn’t it bother you that your friends aren’t your friends anymore because of Maggie?”

“Let me tell you something, Pally—”
(I miss hearing him call me that)
“—those ‘friends’ were not real friends in the first place. If it weren’t for Maggie just being Maggie, I would’ve never known. As you grow older, Mitch, you’ll find that you have an inner circle of friends and an outer circle of friends. The inner circle is the most important, so you have to be very careful about who you allow in. They need to be loyal, supportive, and dependable. They’re like family, and family takes care of each other. Maggie is family—she’s in our inner circle, Mitch. Damn it—she’s president of it, and if no one else in our inner circle appreciates or accepts her, then they don’t belong there! It’s that simple. Do you understand what I mean?” I could see his passion and irritation all mixed together on his face.

“Yes, Pop.”
I was pretty certain I did.

“While we’re on the subject, Mitch, I know I don’t have to worry about it, but I need to say it.” He tapped the top of his desk in the study.

“Yeah, Pop?”

“Never judge someone by how they look—skin tone, ethnic background, et cetera. You judge them by their heart and their intentions. If they have a good heart, chances are their intentions will match.”

I took what Pop said to heart and follow this advice, along with all the other guidance he ever gave me, because he was the man I hoped to someday become. He was my role model, while other kids worshipped superheroes, athletes, astronauts, and rock stars. My role model never changed as I got older. It was always Pop, and ‘til my dying day, it will always be Pop.

“Mitch, honey ... you all right?” I focus back on Maggie’s voice and her hand at my head.

“Sorry.” I smile. “I was thinking about Pop. He would’ve loved Charlotte.”
He would’ve ...

“Do you love, Charlotte?” She crooks her head at me.

“So!” I clap my hands. “What are you making us?” I rub them together. She smiles at me, head tilted to the side suspiciously, knowing I’m trying to change the subject.

“I made some of my famous chicken salad earlier. You go fetch me the crackers, baby.” She turns to the fridge and pulls out a bowl.

After a few minutes, I walk back into the living room with a plate of Maggie’s chicken salad on crackers. She wasn’t lying; Gram and Charlotte are signing like they’re trying to win a competition. Oh, Christ—Gram pulled out the fucking albums!

“Must you torture her on her first visit?” I sign and roll my eyes.

“Oh, don’t pick on her!” Charlotte smacks my thigh and takes the tray from me. “You were so cute, baby,” she adds.

“Were?” I ask, pouting. She giggles, and her glee hits her eyes.

“I am a little disappointed in these pictures, though.” She sighs. “Not one picture of you in a bow tie—what kind of a nerd are you, anyway?”

“Apparently,” I say, leaning down to her ear, “a sexy one.” I nip at her lobe. Gram smacks me. I stand back up and she reminds me that she’s deaf and I don’t need to whisper to Charlotte.

“Gram, sometimes I forget because you’re so damn loud!” I tease her. Her hands wave nonsense at me.

Charlotte gets up and pecks my lips. “Have a seat with your Gram. I’m gonna grab the backpack for Brooky’s sippy cup,” she says before walking down the hall.

I settle in the seat.

“So, what do you think?” I eagerly ask Gram. She clasps her hands together and shakes them while looking up to God. She brings her gaze back to me and a few tears fall down her cheeks. “Gram?” I grab her hand.

“Mitch, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen this look in your eyes. She was worth the wait. I love her already ... just like you.” She pats my hand.

“Gram, don’t start!” I sign quickly. “Don’t rush me into feelings I’m not sure I’m having. We’ve only just met!”

“You don’t want to leave tonight. The idea of being away from her is killing you inside.” She gives me a sympathetic look.

“Gram, knock it off. You don’t know what you are talking about!” I roll my eyes and shake my head before grabbing a cracker.

“Don’t I?” She arches an eyebrow in the “I know my shit” way. “You can trust her, Mitch ... she’s inner-circle material.”

I hold my palm out and bring my hand down hard in a karate chop to make her stop.

Charlotte laughs. “You teasing him again, Gram?”

“Don’t call her that.” I shoot Charlotte a look.

“Sorry ... she told me to. What should I call her, Mitch?” She treads lightly. Christ, she can read me already. She knows I’m about to explode.

“Sorry.” I rub my face, trying to snap out of it.

Charlotte goes about setting a place for Brooklynn at the coffee table with her lunch. “Can you scooch?” She taps my arm, making me stop. I give her a half smile, nod, and move over to the left of the armchair. She squeezes into the small space and, crossing one leg over the other, leans back into my arms.
A perfect fit.

Charlotte giggles as I begin my usual ritual of closing my eyes while running my nose up and down her neck, smelling her skin.
Jesus, I’m going to miss this smell.

“I’m delaying my flight until tomorrow,” I say out of nowhere. Charlotte’s breath hitches in surprise. I can’t say I blame her—I’m a little surprised myself.
Damn that grandmother of mine.

“Why?” Charlotte turns her head a little as I continue to breathe her in.

“I can’t fly tonight,” I say.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but—why?”

“I’m too intoxicated, I won’t be able to see shit.” I smile against her neck.

Charlotte laughs. “I wasn’t aware that you were actually the one who was going to fly the plane.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, you haven’t had anything to drink, so what do you need to see on the plane?” She’s asking in her flirty tone—she knows I’m up to something.

“Well, I’m intoxicated by your smell. It’s making me want to watch you get undressed tonight. If I get on that plane, I won’t be able to see shit!” I profess, then laugh with her. I glance at Gram to find that arched-eyebrow look again.

“Charlotte, do me a favor,” I whisper in her ear. She nods. “Tell Gram I have a sign for her, but I don’t dare do it because she’ll crack me over the head with something.”

Charlotte laughs and tells her.

Gram sits there looking thoughtful for a moment, then her hands fly up as she asks, “Is this the sign, Mitch?” She then proceeds to flip me off and stick her tongue out at me. Ugh! I love my Gram! And I love that these two have hit it off.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” I ask.

“No,” Charlotte says quickly. A little too quickly for my taste.

“Wrong answer!” I do nothing to mask my anger.

“Then maybe you should just stick to the original flight plan,” she says back.

“This is good, Charlotte. I was worried that we wouldn’t have another argument today. Third one and it’s only two-thirty—we really know how to pace ourselves, baby!” I snap facetiously.

Gram starts waving her arms in front of us to tell us to cut it out. Charlotte leans forward, grabs a cracker, and pops it into her mouth angrily.

“If you two don’t stop, I’m gonna put you both over my knee and spank the shit out of you!” Gram’s hands unload her words at us like a machine gun.

“Apparently spanking the shit out of me is the ‘in’ thing to do,” Charlotte says, then takes a swig of her drink.

“Well, Gram and I do have a lot in common,” I say in a very thoughtful, yet serious, manner. Charlotte jerks forward, her body shaking. Her hands come up as if to catch any liquid that may come out. Her beverage must have gone down the wrong pipe, causing her to choke. “Sorry ... you okay?” I chuckle and rub her back. She nods.

“Gram,” I say, looking back to her, “we have to leave in a few for Charlotte’s boys.”

“Sorry, Gram,” Charlotte adds.

“I’m glad you two stopped by. Listen to me.” She gets a very serious look on her face. “Be patient with each other. You both have been hurt, and it’s easier to put your walls up than to face what you are feeling for each other. Try to remember, though, that everything you went through—all the pain—helped you on the path to finding one another. Trust in your feelings—they won’t steer you wrong.”

“You ought to write a column in my friend’s paper. ‘Dear Gram,’” Charlotte teases her. Gram made her nervous.

“Okay, Gram, stop scaring her away.”

“Oh, you’ll do that all by yourself if you keep acting like a waspish asshole!” she signs.

“Ooh, damn!” Charlotte laughs.

“Funny, huh?” I tickle her.

“Little bit.” She winces and almost pinches her index finger and thumb together.

“Well,” I say, “I have been showing you too much of that side of me.”

“Yeah ... ya think?” She widens her eyes.

“Stop,” I mouth to her, then lean in for a kiss—the soft, sweet, short-but-reluctant kind I’ve noticed she’s fond of. “I’m staying with you tonight, baby.” I don’t ask this time. She nods slightly.

We pack up Brooky, say our goodbyes and head out.

It’s nine p.m. I plop onto Charlotte’s bed and stretch my legs out in front of me, getting comfortable. She’s doing last-minute evening things: checking on the kids, ironing clothes, preparing lunches, and doing a final once-over in the kitchen. I take this time to study her bedroom. I could’ve picked this bedroom out in a lineup. It’s soft and warm with creamy purple, green, and ivory tones. It screams Charlotte. It smells as it looks—just like her. I’ve made a firm decision. Charlotte is my favorite smell—it’s soft and clean, like a combination of whatever lotion she uses and fabric softener.

I glance around, taking note of various framed pictures. None with Josh—good! Then again, why would there be? CiCi told me Charlotte had redone this entire room when he left in an attempt to purge her memories of him. In fact, she told me a lot of shit in the span of several minutes when Charlotte went to check on the baby. Christ, at one point, I had a flashback of the Matchbox commercials with that guy who talked crazy fast! Then I found myself trying to remember if those commercials were from the 80s or 90s. This must happen to CiCi a lot, people blanking out on her, because she whacked my arm to refocus me.

Knowing that this is not the bed Josh “yessed” Charlotte to death in brings me a strange comfort I’m not sure I want to fully accept yet. My fingers play a beat in my lap as I wait (or die of boredom) for her. Just as I reach for the book on her nightstand, her phone pings and the screen lights up. I fight the urge for a second, but decide it’s a sign. I grab her phone to see who’s texting her. This is not something I would normally do, but I’m bored and haven’t been completely myself since meeting her.

“Madelyn St. Claire,” I say aloud.

Maddie:
Holy shit! This mother-flippin’ day wouldn’t end!

He was here again!

Him, with his shoulder-length blond hair and chiseled face!

Him with his body of the Gods!

And he did it again!

Good Lord—he did it again!

Ugh—Christ! This one is as bad as Charlotte! What is it with these women and their epic, dramatic texting?

Me:
What? What did he do?

Maddie:
The same thing he’s done 3 weeks in a row!

Ugh!

Me:
What?