Page 44 of Reverie
She smiles. It’s a sad look, given the slight sheen of tears in her eyes.
“Hmm…you’re more than that to him, I suspect,” she says.
I look down, heat rising to my face. “I love him,” I say.
“I can see that.” I glance in her direction, and despite the nerves coursing through me, I smile back.
“Am I safe to assume you know everything about me? You know, given the nature of the company you keep,” I ask as I track Amelia’s movements to sit on one of the luxury barstools.
Assessing the containers on the island counter in front of me, I check the labels for the reheating instructions.
Pasta a la Vodka and Italian Wedding Soup.
“Do you have a preference?” I ask her, even though she hasn’t responded to my earlier question.
Presenting the options, she says, “I’ll have the pasta.” I pre-heat the oven and remove the plastic tops from the heat-safe base.
As I pull out a pot from the third cabinet I open, she decides to speak.
“You’re having my second grandchild.”
I look at her over my shoulder and try to gauge her response to that information. But my eyebrows snap down when I realize I can’t really tell what she’s thinking. And it’s not because of her scars. Her expression is flat, giving nothing away.
I hum in response. “Why don’t you tell me what you know about me,” I say, tension causing my back muscles to tighten.
I turn back to the pot and dump the soup in, then I throw her pasta dish into the oven, even though it’s not quite done pre-heating.
With the burner on low, I face her.
“I know that…” She drops her head into her hands and takes a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Winter.”
There’s so much depth to the emotion in her words that I want to rush over and comfort her. But then she stuns me when she says, “I knew your mother. You look so much like her.”
Pain radiates in my constricted throat, so I raise my hand to my neck. “You knew her?”
Amelia nods. “Such a smart woman. She really wanted to change the world.” She looks down at the countertop, winding her fingers together. “But she was only one person.”
Just when I’m about to say something, anything, to break the tense silence following her declaration, she says, “I’m really sorry for everything you’ve gone through.”
She lifts her gaze to mine, and it’s perplexing how her face cracks and emotion shines through.
She feels deeply, but she puts it all behind a wall.
Did that start before Benjamin Brigham wrecked her life?
“Thank you,” I reply.
We both fall into silence again.
“I’d hoped that you would have gotten my note. Misha and I disagreed vehemently about whether to intervene or not, but….”
My eyebrows crease. “Note?”
She lifts the side of her mouth—her best approximation at a grin. Her eyes are sad, though.
“I’d slipped a note in your mailbox before Christmas. I’d hoped you’d see it and bring it to Hunter. Maybe get more security on you. But then you two broke up and I saw that things were moving forward with him and Blair, and?—”
“Wait,” I cut in, “You…a note?” I think back to that haze of time around the holidays last year. Then, like a beacon in my memory, I recall the envelope that was so out of place when sifting through my mail.