Chapter 3
Diane was cornered by two relatives.
Miles found me near the veranda.
For several seconds, we stood in silence.
Then he said, “You’re not actually dating her, are you?”
I looked at him.
Interesting.
“What makes you think that?”
“I’ve known Nora eight years.”
“Then you should know better than to underestimate her.”
“I don’t.”
He leaned against the railing.
“That’s why I know.”
I watched him.
Miles continued.
“She likes you.”
“That proves your theory wrong.”
“No. That’s the problem.”
I nearly smiled.
“You’re surprisingly relaxed for a man accusing someone of lying to a woman you care about.”
His gaze went toward the garden.
“I’ve spent years wanting Nora to choose me.”
He paused.
“Eventually you have to realize wanting something doesn’t make it right for you.”
There was no bitterness in his voice.
Only fatigue.
“She told you?” I asked.
“That she doesn’t want me?”
He smiled sadly.
“Many times.”
“Then why keep showing up?”
Miles looked toward Diane.
“Because her mother kept asking.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is when you lost your own mother young and another family starts saving you a seat at Christmas.”
That silenced me.
He glanced over.
“Diane means well. Most of the time.”
“Most people do.”
“She’s spent years trying to organize everybody’s happiness like one of her events.”
“And Nora?”
“Nora spends years avoiding arguments until everyone mistakes her silence for agreement.”
That matched what I had already seen.
Miles studied me.
“What happens tonight?”
“What do you mean?”
“When this little performance ends.”
I slipped my hands into my pockets.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He smiled.
“That answer I believe.”
Before I could respond, Eleanor appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Cole.”
Miles straightened.
“I think you’re being summoned.”
“So it seems.”
He walked away.
Eleanor pointed her cane toward a small side garden.
“Walk with me.”
I followed.
For several minutes, she said nothing.
She inspected roses.
Adjusted a fallen leaf from one planter.
Finally, she asked, “How much did she pay you?”
I stopped.
Eleanor kept walking.
I caught up.
“Excuse me?”
“My granddaughter,” she said. “How much?”
I considered lying.
Then decided against it.
“A thousand.”
Eleanor snorted.
“That child negotiates like her father.”
“You knew.”
“I knew the moment she walked in holding your hand like she was trying to remember instructions.”
I laughed despite myself.
“She’s improving.”
“She’s terrible at lying.”
“She told me she was efficient.”
“She believes that too.”
We reached a stone bench.
Eleanor sat.
I remained standing.
Then she looked up at me.
“You know who I am?”
“Eleanor Bennett.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I understood.
She had started Bennett Events forty-three years earlier.
Before Diane expanded it.
Before Charleston society treated the Bennett name like an institution.
But there was something else.
“I know you sold the company to your daughter twelve years ago.”
“Anything else?”
I studied her.
“No.”
She nodded.
“My husband was in commercial construction.”
That made me pause.
“Thomas Bennett.”
I knew the name.
Not personally.
He had died nearly fifteen years ago.
But old contracts still surfaced occasionally.
Small developments.
Warehouses.
Restorations.
Reliable work.
A good reputation.
Eleanor continued.
“Thomas used to say you could tell what kind of man you were dealing with by what he built when nobody was watching.”
I looked at the house.
“What did he build?”
“Trust, mostly.”
She smiled.
“Buildings were secondary.”
I sat beside her.
“You didn’t bring me out here to tell me about your husband.”
“No.”
She turned toward me.
“I brought you out here because I know who owns Twenty-eight Wentworth Street.”
There it was.
I didn’t answer.
Eleanor watched my face.
“You knew when Nora said the address.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell her.”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because five minutes earlier, she had just told her family something she’s been terrified to say for eighteen months.”
“And?”
“And if I told her the man she hired this morning happens to own the building she wants, she wouldn’t know which part of today was real anymore.”
Eleanor’s gaze softened.
“That is a remarkably thoughtful answer from a man whose reputation suggests thoughtfulness is not his most publicized quality.”
I turned toward her.
“What reputation?”
“You know precisely what I mean.”
The warmth disappeared from my chest.
I had been careless.
Not with business.
With Nora.
There were two Evan Coles.
The one on magazine covers, development boards, charity photographs, and newspaper business pages.
And the one people whispered about when freight contracts changed hands or troublesome partnerships vanished overnight.
Most rumors were exaggerated.
Some weren’t.
But none belonged anywhere near Nora Bennett.
Eleanor tapped the stone path with the tip of her cane.
“My husband knew your father.”
That startled me.
“Excuse me?”
“Not well.”
She looked toward the roses.
“But well enough.”
My father had been dead for sixteen years.
People rarely mentioned him to me.
Even more rarely with warmth.
“Thomas respected him,” Eleanor said.
“That makes one of you.”
Her eyes returned to mine.
“You didn’t?”
I said nothing.
She didn’t push.
Instead, she said, “Twenty-eight Wentworth was once one of Thomas’s projects.”
I stared at her.
“I didn’t know that.”
“No reason you would. It was small. He restored the entire row in 1997.”
Something about that bothered me.
Not badly.
Just enough.
Our acquisition file had described the buildings as unrelated commercial properties assembled from multiple owners.
I suddenly wanted to see the original records.
Eleanor rose.
“Nora deserves the chance to fail at something she chooses instead of succeeding forever at something someone else chose for her.”
“I agree.”
“But do not give her the building.”
I looked at her.
“I didn’t say I would.”
“You thought about it.”
Fair.
“She would hate that,” Eleanor said.
“I’m beginning to understand.”
“She doesn’t want rescuing.”
“No.”
“She wants a fair chance.”
I nodded.
“That, I might be able to arrange.”
Eleanor smiled.
“Carefully.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And one more thing.”
“What?”
“She likes you.”
I exhaled.
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
“Do you like her?”
I looked toward the second-floor windows.
Nora stood inside with Claire.
She was laughing at something her sister had said.
Sunlight caught against the glass.
I had known her less than four hours.
Ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
“Yes.”
Eleanor nodded as though I had confirmed something obvious.
“That will make things difficult.”
“You enjoy this, don’t you?”
“Immensely.”
Nora found me ten minutes later.
She looked emotionally exhausted but lighter.
Like someone had finally set down a suitcase she hadn’t realized she had been carrying.
“How bad?” I asked.
“What?”
“The sister interrogation.”
“Claire wants photographs.”
“Of what?”
“Us.”
“Why?”
“She says future evidence.”
“Against whom?”
“No idea.”
We walked toward the front steps.
Most guests were leaving.
Nora glanced around.
“My mother asked if I could come by her house tomorrow.”
“That sounds promising.”
“She said she wants to see my business plan.”
“That sounds very promising.”
“She also said pastry school tuition could have gone toward a master’s degree.”
“There she is.”
Nora laughed.
Then we fell quiet.
Our arrangement ended at sunset.
Technically, she had said until tonight.
The clock in the hall showed five twenty.
I realized with unexpected irritation that I had started measuring how little time remained.
Nora must have been thinking the same thing.
“So,” she said.
“So.”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
“My grandmother hugged you.”
“I may file a complaint.”
“She likes you.”
“She called me too thin.”
“That means she loves you.”
We reached my car.
Nora looked toward the street.
“I suppose this is where we stop pretending.”
I should have agreed.
Instead, I asked, “Are you hungry?”
She turned.
“We just ate.”
“That was hours ago.”
“It was two hours ago.”
“Dessert, then.”
May you like
“We had cake.”
“Coffee.”
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