I mentally pull myself together and collect Nan from her chair, eager to escape the presence of my beautiful man before he has me wailing all over the kitchen. “Okay?” I ask as she takes slow steps out of the kitchen, up the corridor toward the stairs.
“Never better,” she answers with total sincerity, tugging painfully at my heartstrings. My contentment is soon stolen and replaced with dread because no matter how far down I bury it in my head, there’s one thing that I can’t hide from her forever.
Gracie Taylor.
I’m struggling to come to terms with it myself. Nan would never cope.
“He’ll marry you one day,” she muses to herself, snapping me from my wandering, agonizing thoughts. “You mark my words, Olivia. I’ve never felt love so rich and pure in my eight decades of life.” She takes the stairs gingerly, me following and holding her from behind, my mind in a whirlwind of conflict—indescribable happiness and overshadowing sadness. “Miller Hart loves you to death.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It takes me more than an hour to tend to Nan, and I relish every moment, from helping her bathe to tucking her into bed. I dry and brush her hair, help her slip on her frilly nightie, and plump her pillows before helping her climb in. “I bet you’re loving this,” she muses quietly, patting down the bedding around her. She’s sitting up, her gray curls perfectly swishing around her shoulders as she gets cozy.
“I like looking after you,” I admit, refraining from tagging on the end that I prefer looking after her when she really doesn’t need it. I want her well, back to normal. She may have regained her spunk, but I’m not delusional to think that makes her fully recovered.
“You needn’t think I’ll allow you to slip back into that empty world you chose to hide in before Miller came along,” she tells me, keeping her attention on the sheets. I pause with my fussing and watch as she looks at me from the corner of her eye. “Just so you know.”
“I know,” I appease her, ignoring the dash of doubt nibbling at the corner of my mind. It would be easy to hide again, rather than deal with all of the challenges ahead.
“I’ve told you before, Olivia,” she continues. I don’t like where this conversation is heading. “Falling in love is easy. Holding on to it is special. Don’t think I’m silly enough to believe everything is perfect. I see a besotted man. I see a besotted girl.” She pauses. “And one thing I can see even clearer than that are the demons Miller Hart is harboring.”
I lose my breath.
“I can also see his desperation. He can’t hide from me.” She watches me closely. I’m still holding my breath. “He’s depending on you, my darling girl. Help him.”
A light rapping at Nan’s bedroom door startles me, and I rush across her room to open the door, my mind racing, the need to escape making me panic. I find George looking slightly reluctant as he balances a tray of tea in his hands. “Okay, Olivia?”
“Yes,” I squeak, standing back to give him access.
“Is she up for visitors? I have tea.”
“Take me dancing, George!” Nan yells from behind me, making George grin.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” George slips in, his grin widening when his eyes find her, all neat and tidy in her bed. “You look spectacular, Josephine.”
I’m surprised not to hear a scoff or sarcastic retort. “Thank you, George.” Nan taps the bedside table in a signal for him to set the tray down, which he does promptly and carefully. “Let’s see if his tea is up to scratch.”
“No one makes tea like you, Josephine,” George says happily, popping a sugar into each teacup.
I observe them for a few moments as I hover at the doorway, smiling when I catch Nan smack the back of George’s hand and George laugh delightedly. He’s happy to have her home, and though she’ll never admit it, she’s as equally happy with George back under her roof. The role reversal may bring on more bickering than usual between the two of them.
“I’ll be downstairs,” I say, backing out of the room, but neither acknowledges my announcement, and Nan continues to give George precise instructions as he attempts to make the tea to Nan’s standards. He’s attempting in vain. No one makes tea like Nan.
Leaving them to their comedy act, I take off down the stairs, relieved to be out of Nan’s radar, soon finding myself in the kitchen, where Miller is leaning against the worktop and Gregory is slumped in a chair. Both men look at me as I enter. I’m under close scrutiny, but while I’m uncomfortable, it’s a relief not to find them at each other’s throat. That relief soon fades when I take all of the anxious vibes being thrown my way and conclude why Miller and Gregory look so apprehensive.