“The night is still young,” he responds, his tone flirty, one eyebrow curved upward. “Plenty of time to find me out.”
A sudden heat wave creeps up my skirt, leaving me desperate to shift away from the physical tension between us. “So, Pearl,” I say, my voice coming out shrill, “how are you feeling about moving to Savannah?”
She looks to Eli before answering. “I’m a little nervous,” she admits. “I’ve never been on my own before.” She shrugs, sinking into her chair. “New place. New people. I’m excited, but also, a little terrified?”
Eli reaches for her, placing his hand on her back reassuringly.
“You’re only a few hours away,” he says. “You call and I’m there.”
Pearl nods appreciatively, and it strikes me that she has no doubt that Eli will show up if she calls him, that she can count on him. I can barely contain the swell of emotion inside my chest.
I clear my throat before sharing, “When I moved here from Puerto Rico, I didn’t know anyone, either.” I set down my silverware, giving her my full attention. “Can I give you some unsolicited advice?”
“Yeah,” she says, her loaded fork suspended over the plate. “I’ll take all the advice.”
“Find a place that you can claim for yourself,” I say, resting the back of my forearms on the table. “A cafe table or a park bench. Somewhere you can go and dream.”
“Is that what you did?” Eli asks, pouring more water into my glass.
“I’d walk to this used bookstore down the street,” I recall. The store was part bookstore, part hoarding project. But the memory of the dusty shelves, cluttered aisles, and chaotic classifications only brings a smile to my face. “I’d spend hours in that place, sitting in front of the shelves, pulling down whatever called to me, reading the first page.”
“Just the first page?” Pearl asks, her face open with curiosity.
“First pages are full of promise,” I say, remembering the girl I used to be. “And my world felt pretty small back then.”
Eli reaches for me under the table, gently pressing the top of my thigh with his thumb. His touch puts me at ease, connecting me to the present moment.
Over dinner and cake, I learn about their grandmother Mamaw Tillie, the strong Southern woman who practically raised them, and the house they inherited from her, and which they have turned into a refuge. Pearl delights in sharing Eli’s most excruciating guardianship moments—that time he baked cookies for the PTA’s Spring Fling and forgot to add sugar; or the meeting with a young teacher, who repeatedly hit on him. Through the laughter, and the memories, one thing is abundantly clear: Eli has stepped in to give Pearl the kind of stable home he didn’t have growing up.
I’m angry at myself for not seeing him for the man he is, from the very beginning. For failing to recognize the good, devoted, loving man sitting beside me. I watch him tease Pearl, making her laugh, knowing that he’s done everything in his power to secure her future. My feelings for him, for the man that he’s proven to be, are more than my heart can contain. They fill me with warmth and longing.
And also fear.
What will happen if our plan goes south? If Eli gets caughtand—heaven forbid—thrown in jail? What will become of Pearl without her brother to take care of her? I add up the repercussions in my head, a mixture of guilt and regret churning in my stomach.
It won’t come to that, I assure myself. We are three nimble, think-on-your-feet people—that’s what it’s taken for Holly, Eli, and me to survive. We know how to adapt. Eli will go to the ball, get the information, and get out. We will drive back to Westlake, and in a few weeks, he will drop off Pearl at her art school in Savannah. Maybe I can join them. Maybe we can spend a few days on Tybee Island. I smile at the idea, at the possibility of a fresh start for both of us.
After dinner, we crowd into the small kitchen, where Pearl and Eli work to put away leftovers and load the dishwasher. I’m wandering about, curiously exploring every nook and cranny, when I notice a series of intriguing photographs on the wall beside the cabinets. They’re a ghostly, almost fantastical image of abandoned vintage cars in an old forest.
“Where were these taken?” I ask, gesturing toward the frames.
Pearl moves beside me, studying the images over my shoulder.
“That’s Eli’s favorite junkyard,” she says. “Old Car City in White, Georgia.”
I chuckle. “You have a favorite junkyard?” I ask, turning to Eli, who is scrubbing a pot in the sink.
“Don’t you?” he asks, deadpan.
“That’s where Mabel came from,” Pearl exclaims.
“Mabel?” I ask, my expression drawing a blank. “Who’s Mabel?”
The dirty dishes are abandoned as a very eager Pearl leads me to the garage and introduces me to Mabel—a 1966 Ford Bronco that Eli has been painstakingly restoring.
Mabel is jaw-droppingly beautiful. The pastel-mint body exudes retro beach vibes. The creamy leather interiors and shiny chrome details add a touch of classic elegance. She’s a perfectly calibrated blend of charm and ruggedness.
“She was rusting under this big magnolia tree,” Pearl explains, pointing to a series of Polaroids pinned to the wall of the garage. “Eli rescued her.”
