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“I see.” I stood and joined her in front of the open refrigerator. “You’re roundaboutly saying I only consume that which is freshly prepared?”
“No, but…”
“I’d like to suggest you consider that, in this instance, it’s you who’s being the snob, Samantha.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it.
“No pithy comeback?”
“You did have Grayson deliver food to you twice in the last few hours.”
I put my arms around her waist. “You make a good point. However, most of what I ordered was for you. Well, and for others.”
She pulled the box from a shelf and held it open. When I reached in, she snapped it closed on my hand, then we both laughed uproariously.
“I do love you so,” I said when we stopped.
She scooted under my arm, retrieved a plate from the cupboard, then froze without placing it on the counter.
“What?” I asked, rushing over to her. I followed her line of sight to the photo taped on the inside of the door. “Who is that?” I asked.
Sam gently pulled it off and turned it over. When her knees gave out, I wrapped my arm around her waist and held her upright.
“What is it?” I asked.
She handed me the photo. On the back was written, “Manley Jr. and Pilar, 1974.” The couple were in a driveway that looked much like that of the Lilacs, and they were holding hands.
I led Sam over to the table and pulled out a chair for her before turning it and the one beside it so we were facing each other when I took a seat.
“Talk to me,” I whispered.
“My mother was born in 1975.”
27
SAM
Beau put his hands on my shoulders. “This is fantastic news, Samantha. Bit of shock, but wonderful, nonetheless.”
I stared into his eyes. Was it? “Does it prove anything beyond my grandmother and Cena’s son knew each other?”
The front door opened, and Decker stuck his head inside. “Should I come back later?”
Beau turned to me. “I think we should tell him.”
I nodded.
Decker walked over and sat on the opposite side of the table. “What do you want to tell me?”
I handed him the photo. “I found this taped inside the cupboard door.”
He looked at both sides. “Pilar is your grandmother.”
“Yes,” I responded, even though he hadn’t phrased it as a question. “I’m not sure what a single photo proves, though.”
“When was your mother born?” he asked.
“The year after what’s shown on the photo.”
