Blake’s expression looked tense. Was he worried about what she would say? Or was he always this way around his parents? “Uneventful,” he said. “Though we got a later start than we’d originally planned.”
His mother made a tsking sound. “You’ve been away too long, and I don’t just mean this morning. What can I tell people?”
“You can tell them you saw me now, mother. And that I’m getting married.” With that, he gifted Erin a brief smile.
Unfortunately Mrs. Morris did not seem impressed with her. “I don’t ask for much from you, Blake. You know that.”
Well, that explained the tension. This had gone from awkward pleasantries to major parental guilt in the first fifteen minutes. She sent up thanks that her mother had only ever given love and support. She hadn’t grown up with a father or a trust fund, but her childhood had been a hell of a lot warmer than this.
Blake sighed. “Mother, not now.”
“When then?” She glanced at Erin, with something almost like a sneer on her face. But that would be ugly, and this woman had never been ugly a day in her life. Erin imagined her waking up just as pretty, just as remote. “If she’s going to be in this family, she should know the truth.”
Erin froze, discomfort a hard knot in her throat. She’d been trying to ignore the truth, trying to pretend there was nothing to be uncovered here. Trying to pretend her mother had never dusted that lamp or swept this floor.
That way she could pretend she hadn’t seen her mother crying, that she didn’t wonder what had really happened in this house. Her gaze snapped to Mr. Morris, whose expression was unreadable. Was he angry? Bored? If nothing else, his poker face was to be admired.
“Erin and I are going upstairs now,” Blake said, his voice and expression even. Had he learned that from his father? But it was clear he was upset. She could feel it in him as if they were connected. “We’ll rest for a few hours and see you at dinner.”
His mother sighed. “I’ll have the maid show you to your rooms.”
Erin was relieved at the prospect of leaving the house, even for a few minutes to get their bags from the car. But Blake followed a middle aged woman in a simple black uniform up the stairs.
She stood for a moment at the base of the wide, curving staircase. Somehow this felt like crossing a threshold when just coming inside hadn’t.
Blake paused, looking back. “You okay?” he asked softly.
“Coming,” she answered, because she didn’t feel okay. She didn’t feel not okay either. She couldn’t have described how she was feeling at all, so it was a relief when she took his hand and felt him squeeze.
They didn’t need words to understand each other, to provide comfort. Didn’t need words to take in the fact that they had been placed into separate bedrooms.
Apparently the word rooms had been plural on purpose.
“It’s just how she is,” Blake said after the housekeeper had gone. “Trying to exert control on what she can. We’ll just move into one.”
Erin surveyed the navy blue bedspread and classic baseball posters on the wall. It seemed impersonal and yet… it wouldn’t be an ordinary guest bedroom. Not with that neat line of trophies on the bookshelf. “Was this your bedroom?”
He coughed. “We can stay in the other one.”
“Oh no,” she said, laughing. “We’re definitely staying in this one.”
His cheeks looked definitely darker. “The other room probably has a queen mattress. Maybe king. We’ll have more room.”
And his only had a double bed, it looked like, but she wouldn’t have left for anything. Instead she wandered in, running her fingers along the smooth walnut desk and line of books. “What were you like as a kid?”
She was fascinated just thinking about it. He was so firmly adult in her mind, so experienced and even wise. This room did little to dispel that image. It was like something out of a catalog. Not lived in. Not his.
He snorted. “Selfish. Stupid. Like most kids in this neighborhood. Wait here and I’ll get the bags from the other room.”
The idea of a selfish Blake was as foreign to her as a young one. All kids were probably self-centered to some extent. Erin had been. That night her mother had come home crying had opened her eyes.
What had opened Blake’s? His time overseas? Or something before that?
Blake returned with half the bags and stacked them by the others near the closet. She briefly wondered if Mrs. Morris would get upset about them messing with her room assignments, but Blake seemed to handle her pretty well.
“What do you want to do?” he asked, closing the door, shutting them in.
She shrugged. “Are you tired? You drove all that way, and I got to nap.”
“A little. I could sleep, but only if you’re with me.”
The idea of sleeping in this bed together, in Blake’s bed where he had been a teenager, where he had turned into a man, gave her a sort of thrill. There was an emotional component for sure, being with him, knowing him this way. As if the fabric, the mattress, had his story printed on them—invisible but just as true.