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She nodded but didn’t utter a single syllable. He returned shortly after with her uncle and helped him take his seat. Mason opted to sit beside Mr. Abrams and across from Harley. The older man seemed a little better off; his nap must have done wonders. Mr. Abrams’ focus danced across the table, his countenance brightening. “You made this?” There was some wonder in his voice as he shot a look in Harley’s direction. “I didn’t even know we had the ingredients for it. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had macaroni and cheese?”
Mason watched Harley as a smile stole across her face and she looked down at her lap. “I think it’d be a good idea if I went to the store tomorrow. You have stuff for sandwiches and canned chili, but there isn’t much more.”
Mr. Abrams stabbed his fork into a piece of pasta and sausage. “There’s a lot of meat in the deep freezer in the garage. I have roast and steak, chicken, and pork chops. I’m sure you could make something great with any of that.”
Harley shook her head. “I’m actually not a very good cook. I… Mom usually used hired help for that.”
Mason watched the exchange between uncle and niece with veiled interest. Something familiar passed between them—an understanding perhaps. But just as quickly, it passed. He took a small bite, surprised at just how good it was.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Mr. Abrams murmured. “It takes me back.” He pointed his fork at Harley. “Did you know that I used to make this for your mother and me when we were younger? We’d sneak the ingredients out to the pool house when I was a teenager, and I’d cook it for her. Granted, I was fifteen years older than her, so she was around five years old when I moved out.”
Harley’s surprise flashed across her face. “Really?”
Mr. Abrams nodded. “Really. She must have picked it up. Did she teach you?”
Harley shook her head vehemently. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother lift a finger to cook.”
“Well, if she didn’t teach you how to do this, then she told the cook how to. I can tell. It’s just like what I used to make, and I certainly didn’t teach you.”
Harley blinked a few times and stared at her plate. “We did have a cook once teach me how to make it.” Her voice was quiet, thoughtful. Then she lifted her gaze. It was as if she’d forgotten that Mason was even there. “I thought you were scared of my mother.”
Her uncle chuckled. “Oh, I’m terrified of Blaire. But it didn’t always used to be that way. It happened slow, you know? I could see her changing whenever I’d come home to visit. But it wasn’t until your grandmother passed away that I saw the full effects of that loss.”
Mason fidgeted in his seat. This conversation didn’t seem like the one to be sharing with the hired help. He kept his gaze trained on his plate so he didn’t draw any attention.
Apparently, wealthy families had just as many struggles as poor families. And rebels could come from either home.
They finished their meal, shifting to other topics. Occasionally, he’d catch Harley looking at him, studying him as if that was all she had to do to figure him out. That’s when he’d turn his attention to her uncle and they’d discuss what needed to happen for the next week.
Either it was the macaroni or the pain meds, but Mr. Abrams didn’t seem nearly as cross. Mason even caught him smiling. He helped his now employer to his room, first helping him get ready for bed and then finding him a book to read. As soon as he was assured that Mr. Abrams didn’t need any more assistance, he slipped out.
Today had been one surprise after another. None of his brothers would believe him if they heard him go over the day’s events. It was probably best just to keep quiet. Elijah would be the first to notice when Mason wasn’t around the house as often, and that was when Mason would have to break the news to everyone.
A lot of changes were coming. The paperwork he’d signed was only a preliminary agreement. The original plan had been to get the farm, property and all, along with a lump sum as a jumping-off point.
After today, Abrams had insisted he needed to discuss something more. Mason wasn’t sure what “more” would entail. All he knew was that Abrams wanted to talk to his lawyer first.
Combining this new information with Harley’s offer would have the Keagans finally getting a step up—that is if Harley followed through with her promise. Based on how he’d treated her, he wasn’t sure she’d agree to any of it. None of that mattered anyway. The farm, the property, and any money that he could squirrel away would be more than enough. Abrams was actually a decent man.
And Harley was turning out to be more than he bargained for, but this time in a positive way.
Mason headed down the hall toward the kitchen. He could still hear the clattering sound of dishes, and when he arrived at the doorway, he was surprised to find Harley washing everything by hand.
Slowly, he crossed the floor and pulled one of the dishes from the rinsing side of the sink. He grabbed the hand towel that had been left on the counter and started drying the plate. “You realize that your uncle has a decent dishwasher, right? You don’t even know what I would have given to have one of those when I was younger.”
Harley smoothed her shocked expression, handing him another plate. Using his same tone, she said, “You realize that the dishwasher does more damage to nice dishes than anything else, right?”
“It does?”
She nodded. “Anything of value needs to be hand-washed. You can’t just put the good stuff in there. If it doesn’t get broken, it will get water spots.” Harley gave him the last plate, her fingers brushing against his.
Her touch was soft, and unexpected. He stared at his own fingers where they had been touched just a little too long, interrupted only when she chuckled.
“These aren’t that nice. You should see the ones my mom has.”
14
Harley
