CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“IT’S NOT MY stuff that’s cluttering up the house. It’s his.” Goggy folded her arms and glared.
Grandparenticide. It held more and more appeal these days. Honor sighed. Theoretically, she had better things to do on a Saturday morning than try to declutter her grandparents’ house. She could get another Pap smear, for example. It would be more fun than this. “Goggy, the two of you are this close to being hoarders.”
“Oh, we are not. You kids. I have laundry to fold.”
“I’ll fold it! Goggy, you can’t be going up and down the stairs so much. They’re a death trap.”
“How else will I get my exercise? Jeremy told me I should exercise. So I exercise.” She gave Honor a triumphant look.
“Speaking of that, there’s a gorgeous pool at Rushing Creek.”
“Where people drown,” Goggy said.
“No one has ever drowned there.”
“It’s just a matter of time.” Goggy turned her back and clumped up the narrow, dark, terrifying stairs of the Old House, one hand on the railing, one hand on the wall.
Faith had tried to help the cause last weekend, managing to sneak one of Goggy’s more hideous cardigans out of the house, which, considering that Goggy could give Pharaoh a run for his money in the stubborn department, was pretty good. Prudence had been less successful; she’d pointed out that they really didn’t need four rusty flour sifters, which had led to Goggy calling Williams-Sonoma, ordering two more and still refusing to part with the other four.
Maybe her grandfather would be more agreeable. He’d been sitting at the kitchen table, ignoring both females in favor of doing the crossword puzzle. “Okay, Pops, let’s take a look and see what we can get rid of, okay?” She tugged on a kitchen drawer, which was stuffed full of crap. Pointless crap, she thought, groping around inside to clear the logjam. Took care not to catch her ring.
And what a ring it was.
Funny, how she thought she loved the stark simplicity of Dana’s ring, that unadorned diamond flashing for all to see. The ring Tom had chosen was an Art Deco style (original, she thought). A square diamond surrounded by two triangular diamonds, encased in engraved platinum...ornate and unusual and utterly, hypnotically beautiful.
The drawer jerked open with a clatter. “Good God.”
“I need those,” Pops said, not looking up from the paper.
“Pops. Come on. How many corkscrews do you need?”
“I’m a winemaker! I need a lot!”
“There are...what...two dozen corkscrews in here? Come on.” She paused for a second, counting. “You don’t need twenty-seven corkscrews.”
“I know how many there are.” The old man scowled at her.
“And you really need every single one?”
“Yes.”
She squeezed the bridge of her nose. “Pops, wouldn’t it be nice to live in a clean, sunny, organized place where you had more than one outlet per floor? Where you could use all the doors because you didn’t have to nail one shut to cut down on drafts? Where you didn’t have to worry about falling down the stairs and breaking your neck?”
“Your grandmother’s the one who runs up and down those stairs fifty times a day. I never go up there.”
“What if Goggy fell and broke her hip? How’d you feel then? Oh, stop. You’d be devastated.” Surreptitiously, she slipped a corkscrew out of the drawer. If she couldn’t get Pops to agree to purge, she’d just steal all his crap and bring it to Goodwill. Not that there was a booming market for used corkscrews. “Seriously, Pops. You can’t be up on the ladder cleaning out gutters anymore. It’s not safe, and it’s not smart.”
He groaned. “When you’re my age, you won’t want anyone telling you what to do, either, sweetheart. If I can’t clean the gutters, what’s next? I can’t dress myself? I can’t feed myself? This is my home. These are my things. Don’t make me a helpless old man who sits around in diapers.”
She felt a tug of sympathy. “No, Pops, that’s not the point. But you have to be realistic. Your balance isn’t great anymore, and it’s way too easy to trip in here. Let alone fall off the ladder like you did last year.”
“You might have a point. Probably not, but maybe. Now put that corkscrew back. That’s my favorite one.”
A knock came on the kitchen door, and Honor looked up.
It was Tom. And Charlie.
“Hallo,” her fiancé said. “Thought we’d lend a hand.”
“Oh! That’s...that’s really nice of you.” She’d mentioned where she was going this morning over breakfast. Hadn’t expected him to turn up.
“Mr. Holland,” Tom said to Pops. “You remember my stepson, don’t you?” The boy sighed with gusto and rolled his eyes, apparently unable to summon the energy to correct Tom on the title. “Charlie, say hello.”
“Hi,” Charlie said, shaking her grandfather’s hand.
“Hello, young man!” Pops said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Maybe you can be on my side and keep these marauding invaders out of my things.”
Charlie’s lips tugged, and Honor glanced at Tom.
His face was full of...yearning, like a dog at the pound who’s been passed over too many times but can’t help pricking up his ears at the sound of footsteps just the same.
Then he saw her looking, and gave her a quick smile that covered up any hint of loneliness.
He was a tough one, Tom Barlow. She felt like she knew him less now instead of more.
“When are you two getting married, anyway?” Pops said.
“Um, soon,” Honor said.
“We should take care of that, shouldn’t we?” Tom murmured.
They should. Once they filed for a marriage license, they had sixty days to get married, or Tom would be deported. Which was exactly why she hadn’t filed yet. What had seemed like a good plan now seemed as thin as March ice, and as sharply dangerous.
“Pops,” she said, “Let’s go down to the cellar. I know there’s stuff we should throw out down there.”
“I have to check the vines,” Pops said.
“Don’t run off, you coward. You said you’d tell me what I could throw away.”
“Nothing. There. I made it easy for you.”
Goggy reappeared in the kitchen, wearing a different dress and a little scarf, indicating that she was going out. “Hello, boys! Give me a kiss! I never know when I’ll get to kiss a handsome man, and here I have two!”
Tom obliged. Charlie did, too, and Goggy patted his cheek. Sweet, how she didn’t berate him for his black eyeliner and earrings. If he was a Holland, he’d never hear the end of it.
“I have a church meeting,” Goggy said. “There’s a huge debate over whether or not to replace the altar cloth. That Cathy Kennedy gets downright vicious sometimes! See you later, dears! Don’t touch anything upstairs, but by all means, get rid of some of your grandfather’s junk.”
“It’s not junk, old woman,” Pops retorted. She ignored him and left in a cloud of Jean Naté.
“I’m here,” came a weary voice. “As ordered. Like I don’t have better things to do on a Saturday.” Abby came in the back door. “Hi, guys,” she said. “Oh, hey, Charlie. I didn’t know you’d be here. Another slave for my aunt to boss around?”
Charlie’s face flamed. “I guess,” he mumbled. Ah, adolescence. Honor had been just as awkward around Brogan, come to think of it. Sigh.
“Let’s get to work,” Honor said. “Rubber gloves are under the sink, and I have plenty of trash bags, and stop glaring at me, Pops.”
“This would be a great place to hide a body,” Abby announced as they went down the warped cellar stairs. “Charlie, this place was built in—what, Pops?—1781?”
“That’s right, sweetheart,” he said. “The first Holland got this land as a reward for fighting against your people, Tom.”
“Is that right?” Tom said. “Seems more of a punishment with this weather we’ve been having.”
He had a point. The temperature had dropped to twenty last night.
“Okay,” Honor said. “We can definitely get rid of some of this stuff.” She reached for a likely candidate.
“Put that down,” her grandfather said. “I need that.”
“Pops, it’s a moldy piece of cushion foam. And it’s torn.”
“So? I can wash it and use it for something.”
“Like what? When would you need moldy torn cushion foam?”
“It’s gross, Pops,” Abby said.
“I’m not going to stand here and watch you make fun of my things,” Pops said. “I have vines to check. Nice to see you, young man,” he said to Charlie. “And you,” he added to Tom. “Marry my granddaughter and make an honest woman out of her.”
“Yes, sir.” Tom shook his hand, and Pops clumped up the old wooden steps.
“He’s gone. Maybe we can just burn the place down,” Abby said.
For the next hour, they stuffed bags with Pops’s precious belongings, which included a bent golf club, a broken mirror and newspapers from the 1960s. Abby talked almost nonstop, bless her, and Charlie answered, shyly at first, then with more confidence as their talk turned to music.
“And what have we here?” Tom asked from the far end of the basement, bending down to examine something. “Hallo. These might be worth something.” He looked up at Honor and grinned.
It was a pile of magazines. Men’s magazines, to be specific.
Tom opened one up. “Miss September, 1972. Not bad.” He straightened up. “Think we should check eBay and see what these are going for?”
“Oh, ick.”
“Nothing ick about her. She’s lovely.”
“Shush. Just toss them.” Man! There were dozens.
“Hopefully we don’t read about a priceless collection of Playboys found at the dump later this week.” He glanced across the cellar at Charlie. “You’re right, though. Best get rid of these before the lad sees them. Hard enough being a pubescent boy without this kind of stimulation.”
They shoveled the magazines into a black trash bag, and amid the smell of stone and old paper, Honor caught a hint of Tom’s soap.
It felt like years since they’d slept together.
When the Playboys were bagged, Tom stood up and pulled off his gloves. “Honor, do you still want to get married?” he asked, his voice quiet.
She jerked her gaze to his. “Sure. Yes.”
“Because if you don’t, I need to make another plan.”
“No. I do.” She took a deep breath. “Do you?”
“Yes.” His face was solemn.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Seeing naked women has only lit a fire to get it done.” He grinned, and Honor’s knees practically buckled. On the one hand, it’d be awfully nice to have a serious conversation with him for more than one or two seconds; on the other, that smile went straight to Down Under.
“Guys! Look what we found!” Abby said, and the two teenagers came over.
Tom looked away. “Is it alive?” he asked.
“Yeah!” Charlie said, holding up his find.
It was a snake.
“Snake!” Honor shrieked, leaping behind Tom. “Snake! Snake!”
Charlie jerked back, and, oh, fungus, he dropped it, the snake was on the floor, wriggling and black and evil. Then it was gone in a hideous, lithe movement, and Honor was climbing onto the garbage bag full of Playboys and crawling onto Tom, clutching his head and awkwardly heaving herself onto him.
“Bit of a phobia, darling?” he asked gamely, boosting her a bit.
“Where is it? Where is it?” she said, already sticky with sweat. If that thing went over her foot—or in her pants—oh, God! The idea of its hideous, cold, twisting body against her skin made her dry-heave in terror.
“I forgot you were scared of snakes,” Abby said.
“Well, it’s gone now,” Charlie muttered, squatting down.
Tom hoisted her so she was basically piggyback on him. “Settle down, love, you’ve scared it.”
“I’ve scared it? Who in their right mind picks up a snake and holds it! What if it’s poisonous?”
“It was a garter snake,” Charlie said.
“What if was a poisonous garter snake?”
“No such thing, darling.” Tom shifted.
“Don’t put me down! Please! Get me out of here.” She tightened her grip around his throat, earning a choking sound. Couldn’t be helped.
“Here it is,” Charlie said.
“No! Stop it, Charlie! Please!” She gripped Tom with her legs so hard he wheezed.
He loosened her chokehold around his neck. “Charlie, get rid of it, mate.”
“Do you want to hold it, Honor?” Charlie asked sweetly.
Honor burst into tears.
“Oh, man, I’m sorry!” the boy said, looking stricken.
“No, no, she’s got a phobia. Obviously,” Abby said, putting her hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Let’s get it out of here, okay?”
“I’m sorry,” Charlie said, and already resentment was darkening his face.
“Me, too. Sorry,” Honor said, tears still streaking down her face. “I’m afraid of snakes.”
“Yeah. I got that.”
Oh, God, this was so embarrassing. She was wrapped awkwardly around Tom and shaking with revulsion, but she wasn’t about to set foot on the floor, either. Not when the place was riddled with nests of vipers, no sir.
Tom started to put her down.
“No!” she barked, making him flinch, as her mouth was right next to his ear. “What if there are more? Don’t put me down! Don’t move! Don’t drop me!”
“All right, settle down. But here, slide around so I can see you,” he said, and he pulled at her, Honor still gripping him like a jockey, her arms locked around his neck. “Christ, you’re not making this easy, are you?”
“I can’t! I’m afraid, okay? Sue me.”
His shoulders shook. He may have been laughing, the wretch. A few more tries, and he tugged her so that she was facing him. Well, she would be facing him if she could bring herself to, um, face him. Instead, she buried her face in his shoulder, shuddering.
“There, there, sweetheart,” he whispered. “It’s gone.”
He smelled so good. An hour of working in a damp and filthy cellar, and he smelled like soap and rain, and he was warm, and solid, and safe.
After a minute or two, her breathing returned to normal, and the involuntary tears stopped leaking out of her eyes.
“Can I put you down now?” he asked.
She couldn’t stay like this forever. And it was rather, ah, intimate, her legs wrapped around his waist.
She lowered her feet and stood on his, still afraid to touch the floor. Tom pulled back a little. He cupped her face in his hands and slid his thumbs under her eyes, wiping away the tears. “Better?”
She nodded.
He nodded, too, a small smile flashing.
Then he kissed her forehead. Then her nose. Then her lips.
And this time, it wasn’t for anyone’s benefit. Just the two of them in this damp old cellar, his mouth so perfect against hers. He tilted her head, his arms like a fortress around her, the best feeling in the entire world. His hair was baby-soft. She’d forgotten that. And he tasted, so, so good.
“Guys. Gross.” Honor jumped back at the sound of her niece’s voice. “I mean, sorry you were freaked out, but please. I have to see enough of this at home.”
Tom cleared his throat. “Back to work, shall we?” he asked.
There was no way in hell she was going to stay down here. One snake probably meant a thousand, possibly a million. She shuddered again. “I’ll go upstairs and start on the kitchen,” she said.
And yet, even with the threat of snakes, she wanted to stay.
* * *
BY THE TIME Tom left to take Charlie to the gym and Prudence arrived with her sturdy truck for the dump run, fifteen garbage bags had been filled. Horrifyingly, both cellar and kitchen looked exactly the same. “See you at the wedding dress place?” Pru said.
“Sounds good.” Today, the three Holland girls were going with Mrs. Johnson to pick out a wedding dress. Against Mrs. Johnson’s will, it should be noted.
“We should buy yours while we’re at it,” her sister said.
“Oh, no. This is Mrs. J.’s day.”
“What are we gonna call her now?” Pru asked. “Mom doesn’t seem right. I swear, I didn’t even know she had a first name till a few weeks ago.”
“I have no idea. Listen, I have to run back and shower,” Honor said. “I’ll see you there.”
Four hours later, Honor, Faith and Prudence sat in Happily Ever After’s waiting area as the now disheveled and sweaty Gwen, who owned the store, brought Mrs. Johnson the sixteenth dress to try on. The girls had been shown zero, as Mrs. Johnson kept declaring the dresses foolish, hideous or, for some reason, arrogant. Her requirements were many: nothing that made her look whorish (strapless, in her world view), nothing that made her look cheap (which meant no beading or sparkle) and nothing that made her look doddering (no lace). No ball gowns would be tolerated (pretentious). No sheath dresses (nightgowns). Nothing shorter than floor-length (disrepectful), and nothing with a train (pompous).
“Does anyone have alcohol?” Faith asked. “I could really use a drink right now.”
“Or Valium,” Pru added.
“What are you and Tom planning for your wedding?” Faith asked.
Honor jumped. “Oh, I figured it would just be a city hall thing.”
“What? No! You have to get married at the Barn,” Faith said.
Honor cleared her throat. “It won’t be at the Barn. We, uh, we might just elope.”
“And kill your father, Honor Holland?” came Mrs. Johnson’s voice. The woman had batlike hearing.
“Huh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Faith turned to her. “So. Let’s get to the good stuff. What was it like, your first kiss with Tom?”
“Oh, uh, it was great.” A lame answer. “Um, how was yours with Levi?”
“Amazing. He kissed me after a seizure.”
“Isn’t that against the law?” Pru asked.
“Not in this state. It was the morning after. Actually, our first kiss was in high school. That was hot, too. He’s the best kisser in the history of the earth.”
“I don’t know about that,” Pru said.
Honor didn’t, either. Tom was gifted in the kissing department. The memory of the kiss in the cellar made her feel downright...swoony.
“You’re blushing,” Faith said.
“Hey, you’d blush, too, if you know where Carl and I did it this morning,” Prudence said. “Oh. You were talking to her. Yeah, Tom’s a hottie, that’s for sure. That accent is incredible, even if I can barely understand him.”
“What kind of accent is that, anyway? Cockney?” Faith asked.
“Nope. Manchester. Just a basic blue-collar accent, I guess.” But yes, it had a certain pull to it.
Gwen darted past again, fear on her face and rightfully so, then returned a second later with another dress, brave girl. They could hear some murmuring and a respondent growl from Mrs. J.
Prudence sighed. “I can’t believe we of all people didn’t bring wine to this. Mrs. J., come on! Show us one, for the love of God!”
“Fine, you rude girls,” Mrs. Johnson called. “But I look ridiculous.”
She came out of the dressing room, and all three girls leaned forward. “Oh, Mrs. J.,” Honor breathed. “You’re beautiful.”
The dress was simple—a mermaid-style gown with ruching and the requisite, nonwhorish straps. It hugged Mrs. Johnson’s rather stunning figure. Her dark skin glowed against the white fabric, and her close-cropped hair made her neck look long and lovely.
“Sold,” Prudence said.
“I love it,” Faith murmured.
Mrs. Johnson frowned down at the dress and gave the bodice a tug. “This would look nice on you, Honor. Not me. I’m an old woman.”
“How old are you, anyway?” Pru asked.
“None of your business, you impudent child.”
“Hey,” Faith said. “You’re going to be our stepmother. Be nice.”
“This is my nice.” She gave them a regal scowl.
Honor got up and stood next to Mrs. Johnson. “Dad will love this dress,” she said, bending to kiss Mrs. J.’s cheek. “Come on. Take a look at yourself.”
She slid her arm around Mrs. J., and the two of them looked at the mirror.
“Shall we put on a veil and get the whole idea?” Gwen asked.
“Do I look like the type to wear a veil?” Mrs. Johnson said, though her voice was dreamier now. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off her reflection.
“Get a veil. Here, I’ll come with you,” Pru instructed. “Faith, come with me. I don’t know a thing about this girlie stuff.” Indeed, Pru was still in her farming clothes, not that she got out of them much.
The three other women to the accessory room, and Honor just looked at Mrs. J. “I think this is the dress,” she murmured. “Don’t you?”
“I think you may be right,” Mrs. Johnson said. A smile gentled her face.
“I’m so glad you and Dad found each other,” Honor said.
“I’ve loved him for years,” Mrs. J. said. “Oh, dear, don’t tell anyone I said that. My reputation will suffer greatly.” She gave Honor a squeeze. “But it’s true.”
“You hid it well.”
Mrs. J. gave her a pointed look. “And you’re hiding something, too, aren’t you, Honor?”
Guilt over lying flashed hot and sharp. “Um, no.”
Mrs. Johnson huffed. “Please. You can’t fool me any better than when you were a little girl.”
“I was sixteen when you met me.”
“Exactly. And you’re a terrible liar. Why are you marrying this man you just met?”
“Shh! Mrs. Johnson, come on!” Honor’s face was brick red in the mirror.
“Is it for a green card?”
“Shh! That would be fraud! And I’m not exactly the law-breaking, Jesse James, Tony Soprano kind of person. Am I?”
“No. Which is why I’m so concerned.”
“It’s just...love.”
“Bah.”
“Mrs. Johnson...”
“Honor, my dear,” she said gently, “I won’t tell anyone. But do you think you should be marrying someone you don’t love? Settling for a person because he’s pleasant and needs a favor?”
Honor wiped her hands on her skirt. “Um, no. I shouldn’t. But I—” She took a shaky breath. “You can’t tell Dad,” she whispered.
“I won’t.” The housekeeper’s eyes were kind, even if her face was solemn.
Honor took a deep breath. “Not everyone gets a true love, Mrs. J.,” she whispered. “Some of us make the best with what life offers.”
“And you’ve done that ever since I’ve known you, Honor Grace! Don’t be a martyr!”
“Martyrdom is our family motto,” Honor said. “You should know that by now. And Tom’s nice. He’s a good person. I do have...feelings for him.”
“Does he have feelings for you?”
“Yes. I think so. He could, at any rate. Maybe.”
“Doesn’t that sound heartening.” Mrs. J. gave her a pointed look.
Honor sighed. “Faith and Pru are coming back.”
“If you need someone to talk to, my dear, you can always come to me.”
Her heart softened. “Thank you.”
Pru and Faith approached, a long lacy veil trailing from the hands of the consultant. “Don’t bother,” Mrs. Johnson said. “I’m not wearing it. It looks impudent. The dress, however, I’ll take.”
As they were paying for the dress, Faith leaned over the counter. “Gwen,” she said to the shop’s owner, “so long as we’re here, can we schedule an appointment for my sister?” She flashed a smile at Honor. “Is that okay? You can’t really elope or just go to city hall.”
Honor swallowed. “Sure. Why not?”
Because especially after that kiss in the cellar today, she wanted to marry Tom Barlow. Illegal or not.