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A few minutes passed until Marc returned with a huge bottle of water in his hand.
He handed it over to Charlotte, who accepted it with a weak smile. “Thank you. You really didn’t have to get me a water. I feel a lot better now.”
He squinted at her. “You sure abou
t that? I’d feel pretty guilty if you got into a wreck on your way back to Tybee Island.”
“I’ve never had an accident in my life,” Charlotte said in a light tone. “Seriously, I’m fine. I just didn’t feel well for a few minutes there. Thankfully it passed. Thanks for agreeing to talk to me. I can’t wait to tell the girls you’ve agreed to work with us.”
“Thanks again for eating a slice of humble pie and coming to make peace with me. I know it couldn’t have been easy. Sometimes the past can be a barrier to the future.”
“If I hadn’t made amends with you, my name would have been mud at Savannah House. I can’t have my five best friends in the world angry at me.” Charlotte sent Marc a weak smile. She was trying desperately to appear as it everything was all right. In her mind all she could think of were ways to avoid heading towards a certain area of town.
Marc chuckled. “Safe travels,” he said with a wave.
“Bye,” she said, noticing how very handsome Marc was—way more attractive than she’d ever noticed.
As Charlotte drove off, she took a look in her rearview mirror. Marc was still standing in the exact spot where she’d left him. Charlotte couldn’t explain why she felt the need to drag her gaze away from the sight of him. It was uncanny how in a short period of time she’d gone from despising Marc to admitting he wasn’t quite the monster of her nightmares. Sometimes in life you blamed a person for all the ills of the world. And then suddenly it hit you that you’d been completely and utterly wrong.
She reached for the water bottle and took a swig from it. The gesture from Marc had been thoughtful. And kind.
Thank the Lord for small blessings.
She was now free to return to Savannah House with her head held up high. As she made the drive back to Tybee Island, thoughts of Marc continued to float in and out of her mind. It was a little bit annoying that he’d taken up residence in her thoughts.
Charlotte wished Marc would disappear from her mind. It unsettled her. It was baffling. And she couldn’t seem to shake him. His handsome face kept flashing before her eyes.
Most of all, it worried her. Because Charlotte knew that Marc was off-limits. He couldn’t be a friend. Not really. And he certainly couldn’t be a romantic possibility—not that he was interested in her in that way. Men like Marc flocked to women who looked like Fancy. And Charlotte knew she couldn’t hold a candle to Fancy’s alluring beauty.
Marc’s role in her life would be limited to a client of Savannah House, one who could hopefully show that Grayson Holloway was nothing more than a fraud.
“I believe in forgiveness. It’s a healing balm that allows us to move forward in our lives. Without it, I don’t know where I’d be in this world.”
Fancy Tolliver
Chapter Three
It had been three days since Charlotte had come to Marc’s office full of contrition and apologies. Since that time Marc had busied himself trying to find out anything he could about Grayson Holloway. Although Marc liked a challenge, he wasn’t certain that he’d been prepared for this particular one. Grayson Holloway was a very hard person to pin down. His public image was mysterious. So far, all Marc had been able to determine was his profession. Cartoonist and illustrator. His place of residence was all over the map. Paris. Oslo. Washington. Atlanta. Martha’s Vineyard.
But so far he was hitting a wall regarding any other details of his life. Marc’s gut told him Grayson had carefully constructed this wall of privacy around his image. Why then would he place himself in the eye of a possible media storm by making a claim for Savannah House? He shook his head. It made no sense to him at all.
Marc rid himself of thoughts pertaining to business. He needed to quickly shift his brain away from the investigation and focus on his father. He had just arrived at the family home. He let himself in to the modest ranch-style home, knowing his parents never locked their front door. He shook his head. No matter how many times he warned them about the foolishness of doing so, they continued to have an open-door policy. He could almost hear his mother’s voice now saying, “We’ve lived in this neighborhood for thirty-five years. If we can’t trust our neighbors, who can we trust?”
Marc stood in the entryway of the living room, watching his father from a distance. Marc didn’t have any illusions about his father’s illness. He was fading fast. He could almost feel it hanging in the air like a deflating balloon. A fierce burst of love for the man who’d raised him flared through him. It was so strong Marc felt as if he might crack wide open.
“Hey, Pop. How are you making out?” It was the same question Marc asked whenever he visited his father. His physical condition spoke volumes, but Marc had decided that he would ask the question anyway. Lucien Cabron was an incredibly proud man. Of Cuban and French ancestry, Lucien had arrived in the United States as a young man with a brand new wife by his side, searching for new opportunities. He was Marc’s hero. When he discussed his humble origins growing up in Cuba, Marc always felt proud of his father’s pluck and grit. He had persevered despite daunting odds stacked against him.
“I can’t complain,” Lucien said in a raspy voice. He began to chuckle. “But then again who’d listen if I did?”
“I’d listen, Pops. We all wound,” he said, feeling a burst of nostalgia hit him squarely in the chest. How many more moments would he share like this with his father? It killed him to know that he’d squandered so much time in the last two years. There was nothing more impactful than a medical crisis. It hit you over the head with a huge dose of reality. He’d learned that lesson years ago with Gretchen. When faced with the possibility of losing a loved one, everything came into sharp focus.
Marc’s father reached out and gripped his hand. It felt good to be in such close contact with his father, although the major changes in his physical condition continued to alarm Marc. His grip wasn’t very firm as he clutched his son’s hand. His weight had seemed to plummet even further even in the space of a few days. Hollow indentations were imprinted on his cheeks. The thick black head of hair was now almost completely gone, ravaged by cancer and chemo treatments. Little by little, Marc knew he was slipping away from him.
“You’re a good son. The best,” Lucien said. His brown eyes twinkled. Marc blinked back tears. He wasn’t sure he deserved any accolades. He’d been MIA for way too long.
“I wish I’d come back sooner.” Marc pushed the words out of his mouth. It was a way of apologizing to his father for being absent.
Lucien waved a hand at him. “No use wishing for things that we can’t change. You came back as soon as you knew I was sick. For a few days I kicked myself for not going to the doctor sooner, but I quickly realized it’s a waste of time to fill my mind with those regrets.”
