Chapter 102 (1/2)
”Only two. I head home tomorrow.”
Oh good. ”What are your plans, while you're here?”
”Pick up my belongings from Susi, return to Hamden. Continue painting and learning. Mr. Grey already has a couple of my paintings.”
What? My stomach plunges into the basement once more. What the hell . . . ? Are they hanging in my living room? I bridle at the thought.
”What sort of painting do you do?”
”Abstracts, mainly.”
”I see.” My mind flits through the now-familiar paintings in the great room. Two by Mrs. Leila Williams . . . possibly. Jeez.
”Mrs. Grey, can I speak frankly?” she asks, completely oblivious to my warring emotions.
”By all means,” I mutter, glancing at Prescott, who looks like she's relaxed a little. Leila leans forward as if to impart a long-held secret.
”I loved Geoff, my boyfriend who died earlier this year.” Her voice drops to a sad whisper.
Holy shit, she's getting personal.
”I'm so sorry,” I mutter automatically, but she continues as if she hasn't heard me.
”I loved my husband . . . and one other,” she murmurs.
”My husband.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
”Yes.” She mouths the word.
This is not news to me. When she lifts her hazel eyes to mine, they are wide with conflicting emotions, and the overriding one seems to be apprehension. Apprehension of my reaction, perhaps? But my overwhelming response to this poor young woman is . . . compassion. Mentally I run through all the classical literature I can think of that deals with unrequited love. Swallowing hard, I clutch the moral high ground.
”I know. He's very easy to love,” I whisper.
Her wide eyes widen further in surprise, and she smiles. ”Yes. He is. Was.” She corrects herself quickly and blushes. Then she giggles so sweetly that I can't help myself. I giggle, too. Yes, Christian Grey makes us giggly. My subconscious rolls her eyes at me in despair and goes back to reading her dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. I glance at my watch. Deep down I know Christian will be here soon.
”You'll get your chance to see Christian.”
”I thought I would. I know how protective he can be.” She smiles. So this is her scheme. She's very shrewd. Or manipulative, whispers my subconscious. ”This is why you're here to see me?”
”Yes.”
”I see.” And Christian is playing into her hands. Reluctantly, I have to acknowledge that she knows him well.
”He seemed very happy. With you,” she says.
What? ”How would you know?”
”From when I was in the apartment.” She adds cautiously. Oh hell . . . how could I forget that?