He smiles as if to soften his message that is clearly directed at my sister. The pieces of the puzzle click together in that instant, confirming everything I suspected.
My father wants to marry my sister off.
This is the first step in the process. I’m sure Bruce Waterman will go home tonight, make a few phone calls, put out some feelers, and report back to my father with a prospective husband willing to take on an eighteen year old “spirited” girl.
Disgusting.
“I’m not feeling well.” Waverly presses her hand against her forehead. “I need to go lie down.”
“Waverly.” Dad tilts his head, jutting his lips out. “You’ll be fine.”
Our mothers are quiet, watching from their perches on the sofa across the room as the children play quietly.
“Excuse me.” Waverly pushes past Dad and Bruce and runs upstairs. No one’s going to stop her because no one will dare cause a scene in front of Bruce.
“Young women,” my dad says with a chuckle. He’s clearly humiliated. She’s going to receive his wrath tonight.
Dad leads Bruce into his study, presumably to show off his collection of heirloom Bibles and several antique copies of the Book of Mormon. I take it as a sign that I’m off the hook, and I head into the kitchen to clean up.
My moms follow.
None of us say much beyond, “Can you pass me a dish rag?” or “Can you reach that for me?”
An hour or so later, I catch a glimpse of my father walking Bruce to the door. They step outside for a moment and as soon as my father returns, headlights from Bruce’s car light our driveway as he pulls out.
Dad doesn’t say much. He marches straight upstairs. When I head up a little while later, I spot my father leaving her room. I’m sure he laid into her for embarrassing him, and judging by the fact that he completely ignores me as we pass in the hall he’s still seeing red.
I knock on Waverly’s door. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
“You all right?” I slip into her room and shut the door.
“Of course.”
Her eyes are misty, and I don’t believe her for one second.
“Obviously you’re not,” I say, perching on the edge of her bed. “That Bruce guy was a creep.”
She nods. “He was. Do you think Dad wants him to marry one of us?”
Something like that.
“I hope not. Dad always said we could pick our own husbands,” I say, not wanting to terrify her just yet. I have to ease into this with her.
“Dad also said I could go to college if I got a scholarship, and he changed his mind about that.”
“Seriously? Are you sure?” I pretend not to know.
“That’s what he said tonight.”
So he finally told her.
I draw my legs up on the bed, wrapping my arms around them. “Dad’s changed lately. But so have you.”
Right now I need for her to see the big picture.
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. Ever since Jensen came around, there’s been a change in you. If I’ve seen it, you can guarantee Dad’s seen it too.”
“What does Jensen have to do with anything? He’s our brother, Bellamy.”
“Kind of.” I examine my nails. “Not really…”
“You’re imagining things.”
Yeah, like the shutting of doors in the middle of the night and the pad of footsteps between their rooms when the rest of the house is asleep…
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. No one said anything was going on between you two.” I tread carefully, not wanting to put her on the defensive as this is clearly a sensitive subject matter for her. I know I sure as hell wouldn’t admit to having a thing for my stepbrother. “I’m just saying, you’re different now. It worries Dad, so he’s looking into ways to…deal…with that.”
By marrying you off…
“Different how?”
I rattle off several examples. The way she looks at him. The way she spends extra time readying herself in the morning. The stolen glances. I’ve noticed it all, even with my nose buried in my phone half the time.
“So you think that’s why he invited Mr. Waterman over?”
“That’s my fear. Just be careful, sis. Tone it down a notch. Maybe keep your distance from Jensen for a bit?”
She sits cross-legged at the head of her bed, cupping her chin in her hands.
Life just got real for my little sister, but on a positive note, the seed has been planted.
THIRTY-ONE
DANE
If I were a romantic man, I might appreciate the fact that I’m boarding a private jet with the most beautiful woman in tow. She’s wrapped in a cashmere pashmina the color of lambs’ wool, hidden behind oversized sunglasses, and her lips are kissed in red.
She’s the epitome of elegance and grace, and she’s trembling like teacup Chihuahua.
I take her hand, leading her into two leather chairs. I typically take the window seat, but the view of the clouds might help soothe her nerves until we reach our cruising altitude, and the champagne begins to flow.
To the flight attendants buzzing about, I’m sure we look like a contented couple headed for a honeymoon getaway.
“You’re going to be fine, Bellamy.”
She slides her bag under her seat, dragging her hand along her soft wrap. A push of air passes her bright lips, and she nods. “It’s exciting. I think that’s it. I’m more excited than nervous.”
I reach for her hand and bring it to my lips, depositing a reassuring kiss as the jet staff handle last minute preparations. She watches it all, taking it in like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.
I tug on my sleeve to reveal my timepiece. “We should touch down in about three hours. Did you get the itinerary Marlene sent?”
Bellamy nods. “Yep. We land at four. We’ll check into the hotel. Dinner at eight. The conference will be Saturday. All day. Then we fly back Sunday morning.”
The captain’s voice comes over the intercom. Within seconds, we begin to taxi to the runway. When the plane comes to a complete stop and the jets fire up, Bellamy reaches for my forearm, digging her nails into my flesh.
The plane pushes forward, faster and faster, the momentum shoving us back against our seats. Thirty seconds later we’re in the air, climbing higher until we rise above wispy clouds and the acres of trees and land below us look like earthen quilt squares.
When the captain announces we’ve reached forty-one-thousand feet, a flight attendant makes her way toward us with a tray of champagne flutes. I take them both, handing one off to Bellamy.
“Should we toast?” Her excitement is almost contagious, and her ruby-stained mouth is spread wide.
“Sure.” I tilt my glass to her. “To Bellamy’s initial plane ride. May it be the first of many.”
We clink and sip, and she turns to gaze out the little oval window. When she tucks her hair behind her ears, I notice she’s wearing the champagne earrings, which is good. I need a reminder of the nature of our partnership because every time I’ve looked at her this morning, a warm fullness spreads across my chest.
“What’s this restaurant you’re taking me to tonight?” she asks. “I packed that coral dress you like. The strapless one.”
Her eyes dance into mine the way they always do when she seeks my approval. The woman loves to dress for me.
“A friend of mine owns a place in downtown Nashville. We’re getting the private tour and a seat right in the kitchen.”
Bellamy’s face lights. “That’ll make for a fun date.”
Her fingers lift to her mouth and her gaze falls to her lap.
“It’s not a date,” she says. “I didn’t mean to call it that. I’m sorry.”
“You can call it a date,” I say. “But it doesn’t mean we’re dating. It just means I’m treating you. Rewarding you for coming with me.”
She reaches for her bag and pulls out a book she’d purchased on our drive to the airport, hastily flipping to the first page like she’s in desperate need of a distraction.