This visit clearly had him tied up in knots for reasons I couldn’t even begin to guess. In fact, I’d stopped trying to figure out my husband. He was an enigma that it wasn’t mine to figure out.
We drove to the airport in silence. I turned on the radio when I couldn’t stand it anymore. There was a local station that played some Sinatra, so I switched it to that and was instantly rewarded with “That’s Life”. I hummed under my breath, thinking of aunts with a wisp of nostalgia.
Miles switched it off.
I’d assumed we were flying commercial, but Miles pulled into a small, private airstrip just outside of town where a small jet was waiting just off the runway. He came around and took my hand to help me out of the car, his fingers intertwining with mine as though they owned that space. And, perhaps, they did. He often held my hand when we were out together. I kind of assumed it was to keep me at his side. And it worked. I was always so nervous that it gave me a certain amount of courage to feel his strong hand wrapped around my own. Maybe it worked that way for him, too, though I couldn’t imagine he would need courage, especially not from the likes of me.
We walked to the plane, and a young man greeted Miles by name.
“Jonathon,” Miles said in return, shaking the man’s hand with his free one. “How are you?”
“I’m good, sir. Glad to see you again.”
“Yes, well, if only it was under better circumstances.”
The man looked down at the ground for a second, and then he was looking at me, naked curiosity in his eyes as they moved over my face.
“May I introduce my wife,” Miles said. “Riley, this is Jonathon Calla, my father’s private steward. Jonathon, this is my wife, Riley Thorn.”
I rarely heard my name attached to Miles’, so it was always kind of jarring. I managed to control my reaction this time, however, forcing a smile that felt too heavy on my facial muscles as I accepted Jonathan’s light handshake.
“Welcome to the family, Mrs. Thorn,” Jonathon said, as he gestured toward the plane. “Everything is set up for you. Please, make yourselves at home.”
Miles led the way to the steps, letting go of my hand and pressing his against the small of my back. Even after all these months, I was still unused to him touching me. Not that he did it often. But it was still odd—and a little thrilling—to feel the heat of his hand against my back, even with the thin linen of my dress between us.
The plane was like so many I’d seen on television and in the movies. It sported a half-dozen, leather-clad chairs, thick carpet, and expensive accents. I caught myself running my fingers over the fine-grain wood that was the arm rests of each chair. Miles stayed close to me, directing me to a chair toward the center of the cabin. I sat next to the window, and he sat beside me, quickly fastening his seatbelt and gesturing for me to do the same.
I’ve flown twice in my entire life—to Florida and back to Texas. This was definitely a new experience for me. Jonathon brought Miles a whiskey without being asked, and a glass of red wine for me. When I tasted it, I realized it was a similar vintage to the one Miles and I had shared over dinner the night he proposed his crazy scheme for us to marry. I glanced at him, but he was staring at his cellphone, occupied with a text message displayed on the screen.
I stared out the window, as the crew prepared the plane for takeoff. The longer we sat there, the more nervous I became until I grabbed Miles’ hand as the engines rumbled beneath us and the plane began to move.
“You’re perfectly safe,” he said, leaning close to me so that only I could hear his words. “It’s much more dangerous to drive across town than it is to fly in an airplane.”
“Yes, well, I’d rather be behind the wheel at the moment, thank you.”
“You can’t always be in control.”
“I don’t want to always be in control. Just right now.”
He chuckled softly near my ear. “You are stubborn.”
I would have argued, but the plane chose that moment to leave the ground. I don’t know what it was about being in such a small plane that made this moment so much worse than the overcrowded commercial jet we’d flown in earlier, but it did. I turned to him and buried my face in the side of his shoulder, a small groan slipping from my lips. He turned into me, my head sliding closer to his throat as he pressed his free hand against the side of my head.
It would have been a nice moment if I hadn’t been so frightened—and if he hadn’t been laughing.
Chapter 7
Miles’ parents lived in Wellesley, Massachusetts, less than forty minutes from downtown Boston. Their house…my God…it took my breath away when I first saw it. This was the kind of colonial house I imagined when I thought of mansions. Only it was probably three times larger than I had imagined, with a sprawling lawn that could have been an entire park in the neighborhood where I grew up.
“It’s okay,” Miles said as the SUV we were riding in pulled up to the house, “you can stare. Most people do.”
“It’s impressive.”
“It’s the definition of opulence.”
I glanced at him, a little amused he would use that word to define his own childhood home. He had his arms crossed over his chest and was sitting so far back in his seat that he looked like a child about to have a temper tantrum. I wanted to reach over and reassure him somehow, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t understand his reluctance to see his parents, but I suppose I don’t often understand those sorts of things. I had no personal experience to draw from.
“They won’t be there when we arrive,” he said. “They’ll be out for the evening. We probably won’t see them until morning.”
“Your parents?”
“Yes.”
“They know we’re coming, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then why wouldn’t they be there?”
“They have a busy social life, Riley. And they wouldn’t let something as common as my arrival change up their schedule.”
There was no anger in his voice, no resentment. Just a kind of acceptance that broke my heart. The fact that he was correct in his assumptions only made it worse. We walked into the house, and the only person there to greet us was an elderly butler. He politely—but curtly—told us which room would be ours for the duration of our stay and bowed his way out of the room.
Now I knew where Miles got some of his manners.
“Come on,” Miles said, leading the way up the grand staircase that bisected the impressive, large entry hall. It was big enough to fit my entire bedroom inside of it and then some. And it was all marble—the walls, the floor, the ceilings—an impressive display that belonged in a museum. I was still staring at it as we walked up the stairs, turning at the landing to look back. It was even more impressive from such a height.
Miles grabbed my hand and pulled me down a long, wide corridor that led to another corridor that led to another. I knew I would get lost if I tried to navigate all of this on my own, but Miles seemed to know exactly where he was going. With another turn, we stood in front of a set of double doors that opened onto a room that was…green. Green everywhere. The draperies, the carpet, the small loveseat and recliner set into a corner, the comforter on the bed. Even the linens in the bathroom—which I could see through another set of double doors—were green. And not just one shade of green, but dozens. Kelly green. Emerald green. Pale green. The green of shamrocks and ivy. It was overwhelming.
“Does your mother like green?”
“All the rooms have a color scheme like this. She usually puts me in the blue room, but I guess Lila and her husband are expected this weekend, too.”
I walked over to the bed and picked up a pillow, pulling it against my chest as I sat down. Miles stood in the doorway, watching me, until the butler showed up with our suitcases. He immediately turned and moved out of the way, watching the man with a pained expression. I wondered for a second why he didn’t help the poor man who seemed overburdened with the weight, but then I could see that he wanted to. I knew that sometimes it was better to preserve a person’s pride than it was to offer them help. I was slowly learning that with my aunts. They kept firing the nurses I hired to stay with them during the day, insisting they didn’t need help. It took me a while, but I finally called Lisa’s mom and asked her to peek in on them a couple of times a day instead. Maybe they needed their freedom more than I’d always thought they did.