While he was somewhat flattered to be his grandfather's choice, he really didn’t know how he was going to keep Olivia Bennett and his grandmother apart. They both seemed intensely interested in speaking to each other.
"You may have to be subtle or use your wits to come up with a reason why they can't meet," Patrick continued.
"How am I going to do that?"
"Just spend time with your grandmother. If she wants to come here to the center, find a way to persuade her to go somewhere else. If the writer wants to come over to the house, tell Eleanor that you want to spend time with her alone. She hates to disappoint her grandchildren."
"I guess I could try," he said half-heartedly.
"I'm not looking for an attempt; I'm looking for success," Patrick said forcefully. "Can I count on you or not?"
Since his grandfather so rarely counted on him for anything, Colton could hardly say no. "Yes. When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow morning around eleven. Lynda will be arriving at the house just before noon. Their current plan is to come back here to the center for lunch and Bridge. I'd like you to head them off, get them to change their plans. I'll expect to see you at the house before I leave."
"I'll be there." Getting to the house was the easy part. He had no idea how he would be able to accomplish the rest of what his grandfather wanted.
Relief flashed in his grandfather's eyes. "All right, good." Patrick patted him on the shoulder.
"Hey there," Emma said, interrupting their conversation as she came through the front door with a plate of brownies in her hand. "I know I'm late, but I brought Grandma's favorite brownies, so hopefully she'll forgive me."
"I'll take them in," Patrick said, grabbing the plate from her hand.
"Okay, thanks." She gave Colton a curious look as Patrick headed back into the party. "What were you and Grandpa talking about?"
"He wants me to babysit Grandma while he's in Chicago taking care of his sister-in-law's estate."
"Mom is going to do that."
"Yeah, but what Grandpa really wants me to do is make sure Grandma doesn't talk to that writer who wants to write a book about her."
"I told you that Grandma has a secret, and I'm not at all surprised that Grandpa wants to keep her from telling that secret. Every time she says something cryptic to me or someone else, he whisks her away."
"But you've been alone with her, Emma. If she really wanted to tell you something, she would have."
"No, it's more complicated than that. I don't think Grandma
wants
to tell the secret; I think it's bubbling up inside of her, and it's only her disease that is threatening to let it out. What are you going to do?"
"Hell if I know."
She smiled. "And you thought you were going to be bored with nothing to do until your hand healed."
"This is not what I want to be doing."
"If you really want to put a stop to this interview, you need to go straight to the source. Maybe the writer will be here today."
"Actually, she just left. I ran into her a few minutes ago. She had a box of Molly Harper's journals and photographs."
"Interesting. I have a feeling those journals are only going to whet her appetite."
He frowned. "You don't even know her."
"I know what it's like to have a job that consists of putting puzzle pieces together. Once you get into it, you can't stop until you're finished. You have to see the full picture. Only then can you walk away."
* * *
Olivia loved journals. They were a window into someone's past life, a place, a moment captured in time forever. Setting down the box Molly had left for her on the queen-sized bed in her hotel room, she pulled out one of the leather-bound books and ran her fingers across the cover. She felt like she was about to open a treasure chest. Who knew what information was in these books? She couldn't wait to find out.
But first she was going to get comfortable. She walked over to the closet, kicked off her wedge heels and unzipped her dress, letting it pool around her feet as she stepped out of it. She threw on leggings and a long-sleeved t-shirt, then walked over to the small kitchenette to make herself a cup of coffee.
She was still fighting off jet lag from her trip back from London, and she needed a little caffeine to get her started.
As she waited for the coffee to brew, she glanced out the window. She had a fourth-floor room at the Union Street Inn, a boutique hotel on one of San Francisco's most popular shopping streets. Outside her room she could see a busy restaurant across the street as well as an art gallery and a trendy clothing store. A few blocks away, she could see the Golden Gate Bridge and the sailboats bobbing gently in their slips at the marina.
If she wasn't so eager to get into Molly's diaries, she might have taken a walk, but since her time in San Francisco was limited, she didn't want to waste the afternoon. Not that it wasn't tempting to take a little time off; she'd been working a ton of hours the past several months—make that years—and she was a little burned out. She'd put everything else in her life on hold for a long time: family, friends, boyfriends…
At some point she needed to have a
whole
life, not just a work life.
But that wasn't going to happen today.
She turned away from the window, grabbed her coffee and then curled up in the middle of the bed.
The books were dated, and she had never been one to go out of order. Her mind was too analytical for that. She would start at the beginning, and then she wouldn't have to wonder if she'd missed anything.
Molly's name was scrawled inside the first book, the childish handwriting not at all surprising given the date. Molly had apparently received the diary on her ninth birthday.
Olivia settled back against the pillows and began to read. Three months in, she yawned. Molly's writings were mainly a boring recitation of her daily chores, homework assignments, and a cat named Franco who liked to sleep with Molly at night.
One thing that resonated with Olivia was the fact that Molly was an only child. When Molly complained of being lonely and wishing she had a brother or sister to play with, Olivia felt like she was reading the pages from her own journal. While she'd enjoyed being the center of her parents' world, she'd also been jealous of her friends who had siblings.
As she thought about family, her mind flashed back to the recent party at the senior center and the arrival of the massive Callaway clan. The room had filled with love and laughter as so many of Eleanor's family had come together to wish her a happy birthday. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to be a part of such a large family.
Thinking about the Callaways also took her mind back to Colton. She'd been deliberately trying not to think about him, because he'd left her feeling a little rattled and off balance. She hadn’t had such a gut-clenching reaction to a man in a long time. And it had to happen with a fireman. Well, why not? He was good-looking, fit, sexy…the kind of man who didn't run away from danger but rather ran straight into it.
She sighed. She might not choose to hook up with a guy like that, but she was a woman, and she wasn't blind or immune to a charming smile and a hot body. Not that Colton had given her much of a smile, especially not after she banged up his already injured hand and told him she was there to write his grandmother's story. He hadn't liked that idea at all.
Frowning, she couldn't help wondering what the Callaway men were so afraid of.
The fact that they didn't want her to talk to Eleanor or hear her story only made her want to hear it that much more. She'd always been that way. When someone told her she couldn’t do something, she wanted to prove them wrong. The Callaways had tried to warn her off, but they didn’t realize that warning her away was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.
She smiled at the thought and then gave herself a mental scolding for daydreaming. She was supposed to be reading Molly's journal, but somewhere in between a litany of what Molly had had for dinner and what her best friend was wearing tomorrow, Olivia had allowed herself to get distracted.
She reached for her coffee mug, but it was empty. Then she glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was only four; too early for dinner and way too early to go to sleep. If she took a nap now, she'd be completely messed up. She just needed to gut out the next few hours so she could get rid of her jet lag and return to her normal schedule.
She forced herself to focus on Molly's writings. She skimmed through the rest of book one and moved onto the second book and finally the third. She was halfway through the third journal, which took Molly from seventh grade to ninth grade, when Molly's world abruptly changed. On the way home from a second honeymoon, Molly's parents were killed in a plane crash.
Today, my parents died
.
Olivia stared at the words Molly had written. The ink was smeared, probably from tears.
Olivia flipped the page. The next one was blank, and so was the one after that. She went all the way to the end, thirty blank pages.
No wonder. Molly's world had shattered. And she would have had no words to explain the horror of it all.
Olivia set the journal down, knowing that Molly eventually started talking again, because there were two more journals in the stack, but she wasn't ready to move on yet. She was thinking again of how similar her own life had been to Molly's. She hadn't lost both parents, but she had lost her father, and in the same abrupt manner.
She didn't want to think about that day, but the memories tugged at her brain. The last time she'd seen her dad had been the day of his murder. He was supposed to give her a ride to school, but she hadn't wanted to go with him. She'd wanted to go with her friends, with the boy she was interested in. So she'd said she'd see him later.
And that was that. Later never came.
Moisture filled her eyes, and she drew in a deep breath. It had been nine years, but it felt like yesterday.
The hotel phone rang next to her bed, startling her with the unexpected sound. The only person who knew she was in this hotel was her mother, and her mom would call her cell phone.
She picked up the receiver, thinking it had to be the front desk or housekeeping. "Hello?"
"Miss Bennett?" a male voice asked.
She sat up a little straighter. "Yes?"
"It's Colton Callaway. We met at the Sunset Senior Center, the guy with the broken fingers, remember?"
Her hand tightened around the phone. She couldn't believe the man she'd just been thinking about was calling her. "I remember. How did you know where to find me?"
"You left your information with the director of the senior center. I told her I needed to talk to you, and she passed it along."
"What do you want to talk to me about?" she asked warily.
"My grandmother."
She sighed. "Look, your grandmother is a grown woman. She gets to make her own decisions, and that includes who she wants to talk to."
"She's sick, Miss Bennett. She can't make her own decisions. Can I come up and talk to you?"
She tensed. "What do you mean—can you come up? Where are you?"
"I'm in the lobby. They wouldn’t give me your room number. If I can't come up, will you come down?"
She hesitated, debating her options for a long minute. Colton Callaway didn't seem like the kind of man to be put off by the lack of a room number or her reluctance to speak to him. If she didn't talk to him now, he'd probably be hounding her steps all week.
In the end, her curiosity won out. She wanted to know what he had to say. "I'll be down in a few minutes."
"I'll be waiting."
Chapter Five
As she hung up the phone, Olivia felt a shiver run down her spine along with a tingle of anticipation. She jumped off the bed and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She made a face at her appearance, noting the tangles in her hair and the dark shadows under her eyes. She quickly put on a little blush and some lip gloss, ran a brush through her hair and swapped her leggings for a pair of skinny jeans. Slipping on her sandals, she grabbed her handbag and walked out the door.
The hotel had a lobby bar that was warm and inviting, much like being in a living room. Colton sat at a table by the window drinking a beer. Aside from the man tending to the small bar, there was no one else in the room.
She walked across the room and sat down next to him. "Hello."
"Thanks for coming. Can I buy you a drink?"
"I don't know. Will I be here long enough to drink it?"
He suddenly smiled, and it changed his whole face. He went from angry and annoyed to sexy and charming. She had a feeling this side of him was going to be even more difficult to deal with.
"I'm not in a rush. What can I get you?"
"I'll have a glass of merlot, whatever they have."
"You got it." He stood and walked over to the bar to get her drink.
As he did so, she couldn't help but let her gaze follow him across the room. He moved with confidence. He had the kind of walk that said he was a man who knew what he wanted and where he intended to go. She'd always liked a strong sense of purpose in a man, but it scared her a little, too. She liked to be in control and to have the ability to follow her own path, which usually meant she took that path alone.
This wasn't a date, she reminded herself, wondering why she felt so nervous and fidgety. She settled back in her seat as he returned to the table.
He set down her glass of wine, then took a seat. "So, this is kind of strange," he began.
"I'm glad you think so, too," she said, sipping her wine.
"I don't usually do this."
"Do what? Buy women drinks?"
He smiled. "That I do. What I don't do is try to tell people how to do their jobs."
"Then why start with me?"
"Because my grandfather cornered me at the party earlier and asked me for a favor, and he never asks me for a favor."
"I assume that favor has to do with me."
"Specifically you. My grandfather would like you to leave my grandmother out of the book you're writing."