Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(62)

She pats my arm and swallows heavily. "Thank you for accepting the invitation," she says.

I greet Suzy, who hugs me with a smile, and shake hands with my uncle.

"So have you given any thought to moving down here from Yankeeville?" Robert asks as we move to the dining room.



* * *



The dinner soundtrack consists of small talk and discussion about the food, the weather, real estate development in the city, and of course new restaurants. Immediately, this makes me think of Emmy.

No one asks me about my life in New York. It's almost as if I'm a blank slate in this room, and I can't figure out if that's a good thing or a dismissal of everything I built and accomplished outside of their control.

By the main course, my collar, despite no tie, feels tight. I reach for my wine and take a large sip. It doesn't matter what Emmy said about family, I'm not used to this. I wish I could pretend they were simply business associates at a business dinner, but my compartmentalizing skill has deserted me.

"So what did you think of the properties we've seen so far?" Robert asks me, and everyone turns to look at me.

"Honestly," I say, "it's been great to see they are all stable and solid investments. But I'm in the middle of selling my own company, so I have a lot on my mind. As soon as I return to New York and concluded that sale, I'll be better able to focus on the project down here." I don't mean to sound dismissive, but I'm feeling out of sorts. I feel raw.

I stand abruptly. "Please excuse me," I say and head to the hall where I saw a bathroom and absently scroll through the messages on Emmy's phone again. Django. A nightclub? She still hasn't told me she's back. I decide to be direct. Let her lie or outright ignore me. I need to know.



* * *



Are you back in Charleston?



* * *



When I see the dots that she's responding, I lean my forearm against the wallpapered bathroom wall and rest my head.



* * *



Emmy: Yes. But your phone was dead and I couldn't tell you. Sorry.



* * *



I'm not sure I believe that's the reason she's been distant today, but I decide to play it cool. I feel uncomfortable enough as it is being here. I don't need Emmy brushing me off too.



* * *



So tomorrow we'll meet up and trade phones. Oh by the way, you should know I'm following your advice tonight.



* * *



Emmy: What about?



* * *



Getting to know my family.



* * *



Emmy: Good luck. No matter how much they've upset you, family is precious.



* * *



I snort. But then grin as I see her next text.



* * *



Emmy: But also, take no shit. Gotta go.



* * *



Feeling better that we've at least communicated, I take a leak, then wash my hands and splash water on my face. Taking a deep breath I pull myself together and open the door.

"Trystan," Isabel says as I exit the bathroom. I start in surprise at her presence. "Let's you and I go and have a chat." She turns.

I follow her stiff back down the hall.

She enters a small office off a large kitchen. It's a lighter room, all the furnishings done in pale greens and pinks and pale wood. Seeing me look around, she rolls her eyes. "Suzy insisted on decorating this."

"I like it," I say.

"Me too." She gestures to two small club chairs.

We both sit down—me playing at relaxed with an ankle propped over a knee and Isabel perched on the edge of her seat with her hands clasped.

"Trystan," she begins, her voice cracking. Then her face creases.

Oh shit. My eyes search wildly around the room, thankfully finding a box of tissues. The box is upholstered in fabric matching the throw pillows. Suzy may have gone a little far.

"Thank you." Isabel sniffs as she takes a tissue. "Apologies. It's still so raw. And seeing you . . ."

I sit quietly, waiting.

Then she stands abruptly and goes to a small writing desk. Opening a drawer, she pulls out a stack of letters.

"I wrote to her." She looks at me and answers my unspoken question. "Savannah."

Hearing my mother's name from her lips is a shock, just like it was from Robert.

"They were all returned." She slaps the letters down on a small table. "I may have made mistakes, but she didn't want me in your lives."

My throat is closed, and I sit utterly still.

"I asked your grandfather to contact you in New York." She looks at me. "He was reticent. I thought he could speak to you on a . . . business level."

Isabel returns to her seat next to me and lowers her thin, bony frame while holding on to the chair arm. "But of course, you reacted as he would have. He was so proud of you."

I can't prevent the sharp jerk of my head.

"Yes," she says. "He was aware of what you were doing. But then . . ."

I lean forward, my forearms on my knees.

"Well, then he got sick. His heart was weak. We planned—he planned—well . . . it doesn't matter now, does it?" Her voice is brittle.