Her voice trailed off as he looked into her eyes. The reflection of a the Christmas lights shone back at him. It was like she was lit up from the inside, and his heart throbbed when he answered, "I'll eat them any way you make them, Eleanora. I'll just be glad it's you giving them to me."
Her cheeks had reddened then, and they'd finished the rest of their dinner admiring the tree, then lying on their backs beneath it, side by side.
At some point, Tom had taken her hand in his, weaving their fingers together and resting them on his chest, over his heart.
"Eleanora?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you want me to tell you a little bit about tomorrow? About meeting with my grandfather?"
She squeezed his fingers. "Okay."
"Our family estate is called Haverford Park. My grandparents still live there. My father grew up there. So did I. When my parents divorced, my father took an apartment here in Philly, and after college, so did I. But Haverford Park will be mine one day."
"It's a mansion?"
"Yes. There are several acres of land, gardens, and a pool. We have six horses that are housed in the stables, and there's a stocked pond for trout fishing. There's a lawn for cricket and a gatehouse where the gardener lives with his wife. Our chauffeur and house staff live in apartments over the garage."
"Oh," she sighed, sounding out of breath. She tried to pull her hand away, but Tom held it tighter.
"You come from no Christmas tree and cans heated up for dinner. I come from . . . Haverford Park. Two different worlds, but as far as I'm concerned, neither one is better or worse than the other. We can't help where we come from, okay?"
She was silent for a long moment, but he felt her hand gradually relax until it readjusted to clasp his again. "Okay."
He took a deep breath, grateful that she didn't jump up and run away at the prospect of what she was walking into tomorrow.
"My grandfather is expecting us at three. I have to be honest: he wasn't pleased about meeting you. I should warn you, he could be rude about it . . . about us."
"About me," she corrected him.
"About the situation. A whirlwind marriage."
She threaded and rethreaded her fingers through his. "I can handle it."
He heard the tremor in her voice and rushed to reassure her. "I'll be right beside you. I won't . . . I mean, I won't let it get out of control."
"Don't worry," she said, rolling to her side to face him. "But let's not talk about it anymore, okay? Tomorrow will be here soon enough."
He rolled to mirror her, their hands still clasped together between them. Reaching out, he traced the lines of her face with the tips of his fingers.
"Thank you for doing this," he said.
"Don't thank me yet," she joked, but her eyes, heavy with apprehension, betrayed her.
He lowered his voice, his tone serious as he stared into her eyes. "You promised me, remember? No matter what happens with my grandfather, we'll talk about what happens with us after we leave Haverford tomorrow," he said, stroking her cheek, marveling at her heart-wrenching beauty. "Promise me again, Eleanora."
"I promise," she whispered, closing her eyes and leaning forward to tuck her head under his chin. She sighed deeply, and her voice was drowsy when she added, a few minutes later, "Merry Christmas, Tom. Thank you for the tree."
"You're welcome, sunshine," he murmured, pressing his lips to his wife's forehead.
He pulled their picnic blanket around them, then put his arm over her hips, drawing her up against his body. They didn't talk anymore. For now, there was nothing more to say. He held her until she fell asleep under their first Christmas tree, and after praying to God that tomorrow wouldn't be the end for them, Tom surrendered to sleep too.
Chapter 8
Eleanora squeezed Tom's hand as he helped her out of his sleek sports car, trying not to hyperventilate as she looked up at the dozens of windows of Haverford Park, which was roughly the size of the grandest hotel in Vail.
She smoothed her plain, black, ankle-length skirt and straightened the shoulder pads on her lavender silklike blouse. Suddenly her best clothes felt cheap, and she wished that she had something truly classy to wear, like real pearls or an elegant winter coat. She pulled the lapels of her bargain-bin coat closer and squeezed Tom's hand again.
"Don't be nervous," he said, leaning down close to her ear. "His bark is worse than his bite."
Tom reached forward to ring the bell, and a pretty young woman in a maid's outfit answered the door. "Tom!"
"Susannah! Merry Christmas!"
"To you too! And happy birthday!"
Eleanora smiled at the woman, who looked curiously at her.
"Susannah Edwards, this is Eleanora . . . my wife."
Susannah's eyes jerked back to Tom's in shock, but a delighted smile soon followed, and she extended her hand to Eleanora. "Oh, I'm so happy for you! Congratulations!"
"Thank you, Susannah," said Eleanora, feeling just a little bit better and more confident after such a warm greeting. "You're very kind."
"I'm happy for Tom," said Susannah, patting him on the arm before beaming at Eleanora. "And for you."
"Is my grandfather waiting for us?"
"He is," said Susannah, her grin fading as she turned to Tom. Her voice was cool and formal when she added, "Follow me, please."
Eleanora gulped as they walked down an austere hallway decorated with painted portraits and brass sconces. The entire house was like a museum-old and grand. And this is where Tom had grown up.
You come from no Christmas tree and cans heated up for dinner. I come from . . . Haverford Park. Two different worlds, but as far as I'm concerned, neither one is better or worse than the other. We can't help where we come from, okay?
She was determined not to judge him, just as he hadn't judged her. Yes, they were from two different worlds, but the only thing that mattered was how they felt about each other.
"It'll be okay," Tom whispered.
She nodded at him with her bravest smile. "I know it will."
Susannah knocked on a large, dark-wood door, and a gruff voice commanded, "Come!" She pushed open the door and gave Eleanora an encouraging smile, mouthing, "Good luck."
Pulled by Tom into his grandfather's study, Eleanora took a moment to glance around the room. The walls were covered with bookcases from floor to ceiling, and several easy chairs and love seats were placed around the enormous room for reading. In the center, in front of one massive window that looked out over the grounds of Haverford Park, was a large wooden desk. Behind it sat an older man-maybe in his seventies-with white hair and bushy eyebrows, wearing a three-piece suit and a maroon bow tie. He eyed Eleanora shrewdly, and she forced herself not to look away.
"Grandfather," said Tom, approaching the desk. "Merry Christmas."
"Yes, yes."
"You look well."
"Humph. I feel old." He gestured to the two stiff-backed chairs in front of the desk. "Sit."
Tom pulled out the left chair, and Eleanora sat down, folding her hands in her lap and staring at the elder Mr. English. If she looked down, it might convey that she was frightened or that she wasn't committed to Tom, and she didn't want that. She'd promised to help him secure his inheritance, and that's precisely what she intended to do.
"Who's this?" the older man asked gruffly, flicking a glance at Tom before looking back at Eleanora.
"Grandfather, may I present Eleanora Watters English, my bride?"
Mr. English stared at her with narrowed eyes for several long minutes. "She's a looker."
"Yes, sir," said Tom, a hint of pride in his voice.
"Where are you from, Miss Watters?"
"Colorado, sir."
"Whereabouts?"
"Romero."
"Never heard of it."
"That's not surprising. It's very small."
"Does everyone in Romero marry strangers on a whim?"
Eleanora swallowed.
Tom reached for her hand, and his grandfather huffed in disgust. "Save that for when you're alone."
She was relieved when Tom threaded his fingers through hers in defiance, anchoring her to him.
"What do you do for work, gal?"
"I'm a . . ." Her cheeks flushed with shame as she glimpsed a collection of silver trophies on a credenza behind the desk, but she lifted her chin. "I'm a waitress."
"Of course you are," said Mr. English, taking a deep breath and sighing. He shuffled some papers around on his desk without looking up. "Will you excuse us, Miss Watters?"