“You might as well give it up, dearie.” She smiles softly at me as she sets the tray down on the dresser opposite the bed and approaches me. “Either lie back or ask me for help.”
Is she a mind reader?
“Not a mind reader. Just perceptive.”
Oops, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
The woman holds out a strong, wrinkled hand and raises a brow at me like she is challenging me to deny it. With a small, defeated sigh, I take it, letting her help me into a sitting position against the headboard.
I’ll admit, that was much easier than trying to do it on my own.
“I Siobhan, dear, but you can call me Nan,” she introduces herself before turning to retrieve the tray. “Your grandmother.”
Grandmother. I have a grandmother. That is a novel idea. I’ve never had a grandmother. Elias’s parents died before he’d taken me. Rumor was that Dante and Elias’s father had murdered her in a fit of jealous rage, which led to Dante killing him and taking the throne.
That is how he ended up as Don for so long.
Something warm stirs in my chest at her gentle gaze and soft smile. Not even Libby looked at me with such warmth, and this woman barely knows me. The hearty smell of stew fills my nose when she sets the tray on my lap. My stomach grumbles from hunger.
“Thank you,” I mumble between small spoon full of soup. “This is delicious.”
Nan beams at my praise. She goes about fussing over the room while I eat. The stew is heaven on my tongue, and I resist the urge to moan in ecstasy at the bits of steak that melt in my mouth. The bread is thick, crusty, and smells homemade. I dip it into the stew and bring it to my lips.
After weeks of water and barely digestible food, there is nothing better.
The silence between us as she works is comfortable, and I can’t help but sneak a peek at her every now and again as she moves about. She is taller than my five-foot-five frame and willowy. Long legs peek out from under a billowing bohemian skirt, and on her feet are a worn pair of Birkenstocks. She wears a white peasant blouse and several layers of necklaces in all shapes and sizes.
Nan reminds me of my mother. Wild and free.
Her graying red hair hands in a smooth bob just below a strong, angular jaw that makes her look younger than she is.This is a strong, natural woman. The opposite of Kendra’s plastic manufactured beauty. It’s refreshing.
The quiet of the room fractures suddenly as the door swings open harshly, revealing a slender woman with tawny brown hair holding a stack of clothes. She’s aged since the photo I saw of her laughing with my mother, but I recognize her all the same.
Marianne McAlister.
“Ever heard of knocking?” Nan’s brusque tone astounds me. Her radiant eyes narrow at the woman, hands on her hips, a scowl on her lips.
“Why would I knock in my own house, Siobhan?” Marianne sneers at Nan as she thrusts the clothes at her before turning toward me. Her mud brown eyes widen slightly as she takes me in.
“Jesus,” she gasps, a hand flying to her mouth. “She looks like…”
“Remember something, Marianne,” Nan growls. “You may stay here, but this is not your house. It ismine, and you will show me the respect I am due.”
Damn. Nan has some golden balls.
The pair fall quiet, their gazes locked on one another in a silent battle of wills, giving me time to study the woman my mother once called herbest friend. Her posture is stiff as she stares Nan down. There is history there I don’t understand, but one thing is glaringly obvious.
This is the twin’s mother.
My encounter with the duo was short, but I can see pieces of her in them, even if they are subtle. Their fair, flawless skin matches her own almost perfectly. The same for their angular noses and long eyelashes.
The rest is all Kavanaugh.
So, my mother’s best friend married the man she had been in love with. Is that why she didn’t follow up with the police?Because she wanted what she couldn’t have? Or is that just my cynical paranoia showing?
Matthias has been a bad influence on me.
Lost in my thoughts, it takes me a moment to realize Marianne has been talking to me.
