in one place for very long so couldn’t get rooted for any length of time. Like maybe he was an army brat or his parents were itinerant farmers or something.”
Now Grant’s expression turned to one of surprise. And damned if it didn’t look just like Brent’s would have, too. “He never told you anything about his past? About his family?”
“Neither of us talked about anything like that. There was some unspoken rule where we both recognized that it was off-limits to talk about anything too personal. I knew why I didn’t want to talk about my past. I figured his reasons must have been the same.”
“Because of the foster homes and children’s institutions,” Grant said. “That couldn’t have been a happy experience for you.”
She told herself she shouldn’t be surprised he knew about that, too. Of course his background check would have been thorough. In spite of that, she said, “You really did do your homework.”
He said nothing, only treated her to an unapologetic shrug.
“What else did you find out?” she asked.
He started to say something, then hesitated. But somehow, the look on his face told Clara he knew a lot more than she wanted him to know. And since he had the finances and, doubtless, contacts to uncover everything he could, he’d probably uncovered the one thing she’d never told anyone about herself.
Still keeping her voice low, so that Francesca and Hank couldn’t hear, she asked, “You know where I was born, don’t you? And the circumstances of why I was born in that particular location.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
Which meant he knew she was born in the Bibb County jail to a nineteen-year-old girl who was awaiting trial for her involvement in an armed robbery she had committed with Clara’s father. He might even know—
“Do you know the part about who chose my name?” she asked further, still in the low tone that ensured only Grant would hear her.
He nodded. “One of the guards named you after the warden’s mother because your own mother didn’t name you at all.” Wow. She’d had no idea he would dig that deep. All he’d had to do was make sure she was gainfully employed, reasonably well educated and didn’t have a criminal record herself. He hadn’t needed to bring her— She stopped herself before thinking the word family, since the people who had donated her genetic material might be related to her, but they would never be family. Anyway, he hadn’t needed to learn about them, too. They’d had nothing to do with her life after generating it.
“And I know that after she and your father were convicted,” he continued in a low tone of his own, “there was no one else in the family able to care for you.”
Thankfully, he left out the part about how that was because the rest of her relatives were either addicted, incarcerated or missing. Though she didn’t doubt he knew all that, too. She listened for traces of contempt or revulsion in his voice but heard neither. He was as matter-of-fact about the unpleasant circumstances of her birth and parentage as he would have been were he reading a how-to manual for replacing a carburetor. As matter-of-fact about those things as she was herself, really. She should probably give him kudos for that. It bothered Clara, though—a lot—that he knew so many details about her origins.
Which was something else to add to the That’s Weird list, because she had never really cared about anyone knowing those details before. She would have even told Brent, if he’d asked. She knew it wasn’t her fault that her parents weren’t the cream of society. And she didn’t ask to be born, especially into a situation like that. She’d done her best to not let any of it hold her back, and she thought she’d done a pretty good job.
Evidently, Grant didn’t hold her background against her, either, because when he spoke again, it was in that same even tone. “You spent your childhood mostly in foster care, but in some group homes and state homes, too. When they cut you loose at eighteen, where a lot of kids would have hit the streets and gotten into trouble, you got those three jobs and that college degree. Last year, you bought the bakery where you were working when its owner retired, and you’ve already made it more profitable. Just barely, but profit is an admirable accomplishment. Especially in this economic climate. So bravo, Clara Easton.”
His praise made her feel as if she was suddenly the cream of society. More weirdness. “Thanks,” she said.
He met her gaze longer than was necessary for acknowledgment, and the jumble of feelings inside her got jumbled up even more. “You’re welcome,” he said softly.
Their gazes remained locked for another telling moment—at least, it was telling for Clara, but what it mostly told her was that it had been way too long since she’d been out on a date—then she made herself look back at the scene in the bedroom. By now, Francesca was seated on the floor alongside Hank, holding the base of a freeform creation that he was building out in a new direction—sideways.
“He’ll never be an engineer at this rate,” Clara said. “That structure is in no way sound.”
“What do you think he will be?” Grant asked.
“I have no clue,” she replied. “He’ll be whatever he decides he wants to be.”
When she looked at Grant again, he was still studying her with great interest. But there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Clara had no idea how she knew it, but in that moment, she did: Grant Dunbarton wasn’t a happy guy. Even with all the money, beauty and privilege he had in his life.
She opened her mouth to say something—though, honestly, she wasn’t really sure what—when Hank called out, “Mama! I need you to hold this part that Grammy can’t!”
Francesca smiled. “Hank’s vision is much too magnificent for a mere four hands. My grandson is brilliant, obviously.”
Clara smiled back. Hank was still fine-tuning his small motor skills and probably would be for some time. But she appreciated Francesca’s bias.
She looked at Grant. “C’mon. You should help, too. If I know Hank, this thing is going to get even bigger.”
For the first time since she’d met him, Grant Dunbarton looked rattled. He took a step backward, as if in retreat, even though all she’d done was invite him to join in playtime. She might as well have just asked him to drink hemlock, so clear was his aversion.
“Ah, thanks, but, no,” he stammered. He took another step backward, into the hallway. “I... I have a lot of, uh, work. That I need to do. Important work. For work.”
“Oh,” she said, still surprised by the swiftness with which he lost his composure. Even more surprising was the depth of her disappointment that he was leaving. “Okay. Well. I guess I’ll see you later, then. I mean... Hank and I will see you later.”
He nodded once—or maybe it was a twitch—then took another step that moved him well and truly out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Clara went the other way, taking her seat on the other side of Hank. When she looked back at the door, though, Grant still hadn’t left to do all the important work that he needed to do. Instead, he stood in the hallway gazing at her and Hank and Francesca.
And, somehow, Clara couldn’t help thinking he looked less like a high-powered executive who needed to get back to work than he did a little boy who hadn’t been invited to the party.
