Souvenirs (23 page)

He nodded. “Musical comedy. Can you imagine?”

She stopped halfway to the front door, tilting her head again. “I can. Though I’ve never heard you sing.”

“I’m sure Mum has the video queued up for you,” he said as he urged her forward. “She thinks it’s adorable when my voice cracks.”

“Is that her door?” Grace asked.

It was the only house at the end of the path. “Yeah.”

“Then I think I can get there without you pushing me,” she teased.

“Sorry.” He forced himself to stroll rather than rush, to hold her instead of herd her. “I’m worried about the horde catching up to us.”

“Do the photographers know she lives here?”

He nodded. “There’s nothing salacious about Bennett Oliver the doting son, so they leave me alone. But this is different.”

“Different,” she echoed as she quickened her pace. “I get it.”

“It
is
.” He stopped her on the top step, anxious to make his point. “I don’t bring people here.”

“Women,” she teased.

“Fine, yes.” He rolled his eyes. “Women. I don’t bring women here.”

“Even Hillary?”

Ben leaned closer, taking advantage of having Grace at eye level. “Only you, doll.”

The sweet, slow kiss narrowed London to the two of them in his mother’s garden. Grace’s touch was gentle, but under the softness was a current of strength. Her fingers flexed against his shoulders, keeping him still as her lips clung to his. He pulled her closer, enjoying her warm softness, and she reciprocated, sliding her hands to his waist and tugging. They became partners in the heady temptation.

The door swung open, and he pulled free.

“Oops,” his mother laughed. “Sorry. I got tired of looking out the window and waiting on you to come through.”

Ben groaned in embarrassment as he dropped his head to Grace’s opposite shoulder, hiding his face even as they both shook with laughter.

She unwound from his embrace and turned. “How are you, Camille?”

His mother’s eyes sparkled, and she winked at him when Grace wouldn’t see. “I’m so glad you two have arrived. Come in the house. The coffee just finished.”

Ben followed them in and walked into his mother’s open arms. “Hullo, Mum.”

“Welcome home, dear. I’ve missed you.”

He glanced over her shoulder. Instead of eavesdropping, Grace had crossed to the far wall so she could review their family’s photographic history.

“I’ve missed you too,” he whispered. “Glad to be home.”

His mother pulled away, brightening her smile even as she wiped her eyes.

“Coffee, Grace?” she called as she walked into the kitchen. “There’s cream in the refrigerator, and the sugar is on the table. Please make yourself at home. I’ve made sticky buns. It’s Ben’s grandmother’s recipe.”

“Can I help?” Grace offered.

“No, but you can visit with me while I finish scrambling the eggs. How is Sunny? She sounds fine during our talks, but it’s not the same as seeing her.”

“Well, the last time
I
saw her she was fine, and she must be well because she’s been scheming . . .”

Ben slouched against the doorframe and listened to their conversation and laughter. Despite being told to sit and not help, Grace bustled through the kitchen pulling condiments from the refrigerator.

She held up two jars of marmalade, apricot and lime, with a silent question aimed at him. He pointed at the lime and then grinned at her horrified expression.

He joined them, weaving and dodging to fetch the serving pieces his mother loved to use when entertaining, turning Grace toward the correct drawers for utensils.

“—Bavaria.”

That word caught his attention. “Sorry, Mum. What?”

His mother rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Bennett. I’m not repeating the whole conversation. But the short of it is that the Greers have invited Sunny and me to join their travel group. We’re going to Bavaria this fall.”

Ben looked at Grace, who appeared equally clueless.

“Mum, are you certain that’s wise?”

“It’s not like I’m hiring a taxi or riding a scooter through the Chunnel.”

Grace choked on her coffee.

Nodding decisively, his mother continued. “I thought we’d eat outside. Everyone carry something. Grace, you should take the stickies. If you don’t, Ben will hoard them and you won’t get any.”

“Jesus,” he muttered as he balanced the eggs in one hand, opened the door with the other, and then stood aside. Grace was still laughing as she passed him.

“Just wait,” he whispered. “I’ll take Sunny for drinks, and she’ll tell me everything.”

She looked over her shoulder. “She’d be making it all up.”

Ben saw the book waiting on the table and groaned. “Mum, you can’t mean to show her those.”

“Oh yes I can,” his mother retorted. “I’ve been waiting years to show someone your baby pictures.”

With every laugh, every story, and every sigh, Ben’s embarrassment increased even as his heart expanded. While they ate, Grace let his mother fuss over her and delighted when she doted on him. When his mother opened the album, Grace scooted closer.

“You had a mullet,” she teased.

“It was the style,” he countered. “Mullets were cool.”

She turned another page and paused, her eyes widening. “Are those combat boots?”

“Goodness yes,” his mother answered. “They made such an awful noise I finally tossed them in the bin when he wasn’t watching.”

“
Oi
. I wondered what happened to those.”

Grace turned a page and stopped with a frown. “Is this Ben?”

“That’s Douglas. His father.”

Ben moved his chair so he could see. His father, at almost his age, holding a squirming boy in one hand and a patient collie in the other. They were surrounded by sheep.

“Bennett followed Douglas everywhere.” His mother looked across at him. “Do you remember? You’d wake up and rush into the kitchen with one boot on, carrying your pillow and dragging your coat behind you. And he’d help you dress and carry you with him. He knew you’d sleep until well into his morning, and you’d be hungry most of the day. He always made me pack extra snacks for you.”

“I remember sitting on the stone wall at the top of the hill. Under our oak tree.” He took his mother’s hand as she nodded. “I’d munch on scones and apples and drink all his water while he worked. Then I spent the rest of the morning trying to distract Jilly.” He looked at Grace. “The dog.”

“He was a farmer?” she asked.

“Through and through,” Ben said, still lost in memories of cold mornings, fresh air, the smell of dirt and animals, and his father’s whistling melody. “He loved being out with the sheep, or in the vegetable garden, or cutting hay.”

He looked around them. “Speaking of which, your garden’s a little overgrown, Mum. When was Andy here last?”

“Ben,” Grace scolded.

“It’s okay, love. He’s only being a landlord. Andy worked two weeks ago, Bennett. It rained last week. He should be here tomorrow, unless in rains today. But you know I hate for him to work in my flowers. He never does it correctly.”

“You own your mother’s home?” Grace asked, arching her eyebrow.

He nodded, and his mother filled in the blanks. “Once he’d settled in London, he wanted me close.”

“I worried about you being alone in Yorkshire. At least here, Fe and Noah can help when I’m not around. And speaking of,” he looked at his watch, “they’ll be wondering where we are. We should go.”

Once back in the kitchen, they cleaned the dishes while discussing the filming schedule.

“You won’t be on location every day, will you?” his mother asked, turning to Grace. “Sunny would never forgive me if you did nothing but work.”

“There should be a few days I can work from town.”

“Ring me when you’re at loose ends and we’ll go to Harrods.”

At the sink, Ben glanced over his shoulder at the two women. His mother was lost in descriptions of her favorite shops and restaurants, already planning an itinerary. She had Grace’s full attention. He hated to say anything now and stifle their fun, but they couldn’t shop together. The paps would hound them. Worse, Mother didn’t need photographers camped in her garden and hanging from her trees waiting on photo ops.

But they both looked so happy. He’d talk to Mum later.

After he’d found Grace a cap to wear, they left the sanctuary, retracing their steps until they were swallowed by the crowd. Tugging his cap lower and pushing his sunglasses against the bridge of his nose, Ben clasped Grace’s hand to keep her close. He didn’t relax until they reached a quieter side street.

Grace slowed, dragging him to a stop. “I saw your face when she mentioned Harrods. Why don’t you want me shopping with your mother?”

“It’s not that,” he explained. “She doesn’t understand the pandemonium it will produce.”

“I see.”

He didn’t think she did. “Grace, she’s not quick enough on her feet. She’ll put both of you in danger.” Ben wrapped his arm around her waist, encouraging her to continue their walk.

“You worry too much,” she said.

“Just let the new wear off a bit. Please?”

When she stayed silent for a few blocks, uneasiness crept into Ben’s brain and slithered down his spine. It worsened when she slipped from his grasp and took his hand.

“So you bought your mother a house?”

Releasing a pent-up breath, he nodded. “The oldest cliché in the world. I bought it after my first large role. I lived next door until the paps became a problem.”

“So it’s not only her house?”

“It began as two, but then grew to all the surrounding ones. Noah and I own them. They’re rentals so I can make sure she has good neighbors.”

As he talked, he tugged her into an adjoining alley and then halfway down to a loading dock where he helped her up the steep stairs. “Sorry about this. When I left, the lobby was being renovated. I’m not sure it’s finished.”

They stepped through the door and trekked down a narrow hall before emerging into the cavernous lobby decorated with baroque details, columns, detailed moldings, and muted colors. Music from a string quartet filtered through the air, at times overwhelmed by the thumps and whirrs from hand tools or muffled conversation and laughter. The smells of wet paint mixed with the musty odors of wet clay and sawdust. This final stop meant he was well and truly home. The last of his stress dissolved.

“Look who’s back from the land of cultural zombies.” A woman strode toward them with a bandana over her hair and wearing a paint splattered smock.

“Hullo, Cheryl. Back safe and sound. None the worse for wear.” He saw the scaffolding in the corner and followed it to the ceiling and the half-finished mural. “I see you’re coming along.”

“I am. I’d hug you but I’m covered in wet paint,” Cheryl said as she glanced pointedly over his shoulder.

“Cheryl Malcolm. E.G. Donnelley. Grace.”

“Great to meet you. You should stop in and meet Amelia on the second floor. She writes too, but mostly non-fiction.”

Grace was still staring at the ceiling. “Cheryl, that is beautiful.”

“Ta. I’m having fun channeling Michelangelo. I should get on the job before the paint dries.” She turned as she walked away. “Fe’s more frantic than normal, Ben.”

He guided Grace toward the stairs, but he kept the pace slow to give her a chance to take it all in.

“It was an opera house that had been vacant for years,” he explained. “Cheryl got the idea to turn it into artist space. There’s a kiln and a dark room in the basement, the painters and photographers share the studios with the best light, musicians have spaces to practice and give lessons. There are jewelers’ benches and carpentry spaces. Fe stumbled on it a few years back. Noah and I didn’t want a stuffy corporate office. And I can use the stage to rehearse.”

“This is . . .” her words trailed off as they walked up the grand staircase. “Wow.”

“We bought our suite. Several of the more successful artists did. It gives Cheryl the latitude to charge lower rent to the less prominent tenants. We split the utilities pro-rata, more or less.”

He finished the explanation as they reached the top floor. Putting his finger to his lips, he tiptoed to the door labeled ‘Ashe and Oliver.’ On the other side, it sounded like they were being invaded.

“Chivvy on, Noah. They’ll be along any minute.”

“Fiona, you can’t be planning to ambush them. They’re probably knackered. And you know how Ben feels about—”

“Feels about what?” Ben asked as he threw the door open.

He’d have sworn Fe jumped and spun in mid-air. “Nobby, one of these days I’m going to faint when you do that. You’ll have to buy me flowers for a fortnight. And even then . . .”

The rest of her sentence was lost as he hugged her. “Hullo, Fe. Miss me?”

“Not a bit, you horror.”

Noah clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome home, mate.”

Fe pulled the third member of their party forward. “Emily, join in. He’s only a terror to me, don’t worry.” Fe looked over his shoulder. “Your turn, Ben.”

He turned, relieved to see Grace’s smile. She took the hand he offered, and he squeezed her shaking fingers in encouragement. She’d faced a room full of questions, dealt with book signings and agitated crewmembers, but she was nervous about meeting his friends.

“Grace, this is Fe.”

“We’ve met her already,” Fe chided. “At least I have.” His agent brushed him aside, linking her arm with Grace’s. “He’s going to drag this out to create a dramatic moment just to make me cry. It’s an awful habit he developed to spite me when I made him give up smoking.”

“Fe,” Ben grumbled.

She crossed her eyes. “We’ve heard all about her, and she’s heard all about us. Let’s agree to be friends already.” Proving her point, she dragged Noah to her other side. “This is Noah. You remember him, don’t you?”