Page 112 of Built to Fall
“We made it!” Grant smiles, getting out of the car and rounding the side to help me out. “Welcome to the Vineyard.”
“Martha’sVineyard?” I stare at him, stunned. “We’re in Martha’s Vineyard?”
“Yeah,” he says as he grabs our bags from the back. “This was my mom’s favorite place in the world. After she died, my dad kept the house.”
This is the most Grant has ever told me about his mom, and just by looking at this house, I want to know everything about her.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, looking up at the ivy-covered stone and snow-dusted windows.
Grant pushes open the heavy front door, revealing a warm foyer lit by a fire burning in the living room. The ceilings stretch high, and a staircase curves elegantly upward. It’s cozy but grand. Like stepping into a Monet painting.
“Is this place seriously called The Atlantis?”I’d believe it.
“That’s what we call it. My mom used to say the Vineyard felt like its own hidden world. Quiet, magical, like Atlantis.”
I glance up the staircase, then back at him. “This place is incredible.”
He smirks, looking around with the same admiration, as if flashes of his mother are scattered throughout the place. “If I remember right, bedrooms are upstairs.”
“You’re so smug,” I mutter as I climb after him.
“Not the time to be hating me when you’re staying in my family’s Christmas house, pretty girl.”
“Wait—this is yourfamily’s?”
“Itold you that,” he reminds me. “It’s mine now. My dad barely uses it. We used to come every year—those are the memories that stuck. Most of the time everyone comes up for the anniversary of her death, but it’s usually a last-minute decision.”
He leads me down the hallway. I was expecting to find some type of fancy paintings that cost way too much to be littering the house, but it’s quite the opposite. Family pictures put into gorgeous golden frames make it feel like a home instead of a hotel. I stop in front of one in particular.
A lot of the pictures had Grant’s mother in them, but this one looked older. His mother looked young, but by the looks of the other pictures, she still managed to look gorgeously young for the rest of her life.
The only sign that this picture wasn’t taken soon before her death was the little boy sitting on her lap. Grant. The two of them sat on the dock of what I would assume to be this lake house. She was in a beautiful yellow sundress, and Grant was shirtless withswim trunks and wet hair. He was looking admiringly up at her, and she was smiling brightly down at him.
I don’t even realize how long I’ve been stopped at the wall, staring at the picture, until I feel Grant appear behind me, making me jump.
“She always loved the lake house,” he says, looking at the photo I’m holding.
“She’s beautiful,” I say, tracing the frame.
“Yeah,” he replies quickly. “Yeah, she really was.”
“You look like her.”
“So I’ve been told.” It seems like he tries to smile, but it looks painful. He grabs my wrist momentarily. “C’mon, pretty girl.”
I break my gaze away from the frame, backing up so I can follow Grant down the hallway.
“This is your room.” He opens the door at the very end of the hall before pointing toward another door across from the bed. “And that’s a bathroom.”
Bowing sarcastically, I say, “Thank you, kind sir.”
He laughs. “I don’t think the princess is typically the one who bows.”
“You’re right.” I wave him on. “Go ahead, then.”
He doesn’t respond—just grabs my bag and keeps walking.
But I don’t miss the way his smile lingers.
