Page 10 of Take This Heart
I refrain from rolling my eyes. “We met at the Walker gala the other night, Dad.”
“Excellent!” Dad says.
Milo and I continue to stare at each other.
Noah clears his throat. “I’ve, uh, been hearing about Milo for weeks,” he says, looking at me with a puzzled expression. “Architect. Apparently, he’s a genius.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Milo says smoothly. There’s a trace of a smile, and confidence oozes out of him.
Dad claps him on the back. “Don’t be modest. This guy designed that new library in Duluth. Beautiful work.”
“Thank you,” he says simply. And then he turns toward the window, as if something more important caught his attention.
Cocky much?
“Such a handsome fella too,” Grandma Donna says, looking him over and then winking at me.
I try to give her the zip-it stare, but of course, she keeps going, ensuring that Milo’s ego explodes.
“Oh fer crying out loud, you know it’s true,” she whispers. Too loudly.
“The stature on you. Good gravy.” Grandma Nancy shakes her head and gives Milo a wide smile. “I’ve always thought a tall man was like a tree—sturdy and strong…and able to look out for whatever’s ahead. Good for climbing. Isn’t that right, Marigold?” She laughs and bumps my elbow.
I’m not sure if the art of subtlety is gone when you get older or if you just don’t mind throwing your granddaughter under the bus for the sake of gaining a man. Whatever the case, I’m ready to send these two Betty Whites back to St. Paul until Milo leaves.
Milo chuckles, his eyes flitting over me. “Yes, would you agree, Marigold?”
“It’s Goldie to you,” I say between clenched teeth.
Grandma Nancy moves closer to Milo and his nose twitches. When he sneezes, I have to bite back my laugh.
“I know it’s late, but your grandmothers and I went ahead and prepared dinner, just in case any of you didn’t eat enough on the way here,” Dad says. “And I know you’re not eating enough these days, buttercup, working nonstop.” Dad levels me with a look.
“I’m starving!” I lean into him and he grins happily.
We pile around the long table in the dining room. Grayson is perched on Noah’s lap. Everyone passes around plates of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and salad. Conversation flows easily. It’s more common for everyone to be talking at once than for it to be quiet, and Milo sits at the far end of thetable, listening and watching us. I wonder what he’s thinking. His eyes give very little away.
“So, you’ve known Dad for a while?” I ask, finally giving in to my curiosity.
He blinks. “We met a few months ago.”
“And how did you meet?”
Dad answers for him. “He worked on the Lake Minnetonka project. I needed the best that there is for that one.” He smiles at Milo, and Milo’s smile back is the warmest I’ve seen him doling out. “A friend introduced us, thought we’d get along.”
After dinner, we drift into the living room. Noah and Grayson build a Jenga tower on the floor, while Dylan, Camden, and Tully discuss the cold front supposedly coming through tonight. It’s April, so the weather is still finicky. I curl into one of the armchairs and pull the throw over my legs, feeling the day catch up with me. Milo sits near the window, staring out at the moon over the water.
Dad clears his throat. “Hey, guys. I’d like to say something to all of you. Thank you for coming. I know taking a break from your busy schedules wasn’t easy, but I’m so glad to see you.”
We all chime in with how glad we are to see him, and when he clears his throat, we all stop to listen again.
“I don’t want you giving up your responsibilities. You’ve all got busy lives and successful careers. But I’m not gonna complain about a weekend visit here and there,” Dad says, grinning.
My eyes meet Milo’s. I wonder why he’s here. Why my dad trusts him so much.
“Anyway, I’ve got news,” Dad says, holding out his hands and grinning. “The Windy Harbor Lodge and cabins…all that land I’ve coveted for as long as I can remember—guess who put in a bid for that property?” He points at himself and then all of us. “We did!”
We all stare at him in shock. That property must span almost a thousand acres.
