“She would always brag about how talented you were,” I say. “Even back then. She always said you were her favorite granddaughter.”
Vivien’s smile is sad. “I was her only granddaughter. Well, except for Audrey.”
“Did Audrey ever meet her?”
“Only briefly. She wasn’t technically related to any of us. She married my grandpa when my mom was already grown and out of the house. Then he died a few years later.” She picks up one of the photos, her thumb brushing over Beverly’s face. “She was there when I was born. But we rarely came back here. My mom hated coming here. Still does. Says it’s too small. Her interpretation of a big, beautiful life is quite different from Beverly’s. More literal.”
For a moment, we sit there, surrounded by the quiet hum of the room and the faint scent of dust and salted popcorn that’s been absorbed into the walls.
She clears her throat. “So, I bought some stuff to make for dinner, if you’re hungry? Have you eaten dinner?”
“I haven’t.” I was too busy stewing in worry. “You want to cook for me?”
“Yes. If that’s okay. You’ve been giving me a place to stay and everything, and I told you I would feed you in return, and I haven’t. And anyway, it’s not really ‘cooking,’ I picked up one of those precooked rotisserie chickens and a bagged salad. It’s in the fridge here. It will be quick and easy, considering the time.” She shrugs, not meeting my eyes.
Is she nervous?
“That sounds good to me. You’re sure?”
“Of course. You take care of so many people in this town, including me, but who takes care of you?”
The question catches me off guard. Maybe because it’s coming out of someone’s mouth other than Carter’s.
My parents took care of me when I was younger, but for so long, it was me taking care of them. It was like once they were gone, the caring was still there, needing to come out of me and I had to direct it somewhere.
The thought of dinner is nice though. Surprising. Confusing. Maybe slightly terrifying.
I push myself to my feet and hold out a hand. “Dinner sounds great.”
After a second, she takes it and beams at me, her smile bright enough to illuminate the entire theater.
Something in my chest twinges at the visible proof of her happiness.
I should tell her thanks, but no thanks. My mind calculates the evening’s potential ramifications.
Thirty minutes, minimum, to reheat the chicken in the oven. Then there’s the actual eating and conversing, maybe there will be dessert or walking her to the door. Too much time around each other is a bad idea. Terrible idea.
What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter Twelve
Spencer
* * *
“So, did Beverly ever try to set you up with anyone?”
The bite of salad I just shoved in my mouth gets lodged in my throat. I cough before replying. “Oh, yes.”
She wipes her mouth with a napkin and then settles it back in her lap. “That’s surprising.”
“Why surprising?”
She shrugs. “You’re still single. She was pretty good at it.”
I stall, taking a sip of water. Absolutely no alcohol tonight. And no engaging in intimate conversations in front of a cozy fire. Instead, we’re in the dining room, keeping it formal and businesslike with a giant stack of boxes on the table next to us. Very unromantic.
The conversation has been light and casual, and I’ve been avoiding delving into anything too personal. I can’t get involved. We can’t get involved.
