Page 57 of The Last Night in London
“That’s really not necessary... ,” I began, but he’d already started to unload the grocery bags onto the counter, organizing the food by type.
Satisfied, Anna smiled and said good-bye, then left. I turned to see Colin holding up a bucket of Cool Whip. “I’m almost afraid to ask what this is.”
I yanked it from his hands and placed it on the white stone counter. “Be careful with that—it’s not easily found in London. But oh, the uses of Cool Whip are legendary. Most involve food in the kitchen.”
“Most?”
I faced him and felt blood rush to my cheeks, suddenly remembering the picture of me on his desk, and how since I’d seen it I hadn’t been able to relegate Colin to the shadowy corner of my memory where he’d existed since I’d left Oxford.
I grabbed a grocery bag and began to empty its contents so I’d have something else to look at. “Yes, well, it’s basically processed whipped cream but sweeter. I’ve read somewhere that it has uses outside the kitchen.”
“Um-hm,” he said, carefully folding up one bag before turning to another. “I’m assuming you’ll need the Wi-Fi password so you can contact your aunt Lucinda to help you with the dinner preparation?”
I nearly dropped a can of crushed pineapple. “What do you mean?”
He leaned against the counter and casually folded his arms across his chest. “You hate to cook. You had to go online to find out how to boil eggs when we were at Oxford. And you used to Skype with your great-aunt quite a lot as I recall. But please, forgive me if I’m being presumptuous.”
Without another word, I pulled my laptop from my backpack and opened up the settings. “Go ahead,” I said primly.
He managed to give me the password without a single smirk. “Do you need me to stay? Not that you’ve ever asked, but I do know my way around a kitchen.”
The accusation stung, but I busied myself by focusing on opening up the Skype app. “No, but thank you. I’ll let you know if I need any help.”
I felt him watching me and forced myself to lift my gaze to meet his.
“Are you ever going to ask me why your photograph was on my desk?” Colin said softly.
I was too stunned by his bluntness to think of an answer.
“I kept it because it was the only thing you left behind. Not even a good-bye. I thought—stupidly, it turns out—that you might come back for it.”
I nodded, the only response I could muster.
And then I remembered the other photo, the one of him in a stroller with his parents at the Atlanta airport. I wanted to let him know that I’d noticed, that he wasn’t invisible to me no matter how much I wished he were. “You were a really cute little boy,” I said, wondering if my words sounded as stupid to him as they did to me.
He tilted his head in question.
“The other frame on your desk—the one of you with your parents. It looks like you’re at the Atlanta airport. You were so adorable in your little socks and shorts.” My smile fell quickly at his pinched expression.
“That wasn’t me,” he said. He pulled himself away from the counter. “I’ll ask Anna to bring you tea.”
I started to tell him not to bother, but he’d already gone.
CHAPTER 17
Despite the sunshine gilding the house and landscape in a buttery sheen, the afternoon had turned cool, forcing us to eat in the banquet-sized dining room instead of outside. Not that there was anything wrong with eating fried chicken with mashed potatoes, black-eyed peas, and corn bread in a room where Queen Elizabeth would have felt at home, but still... If I’d been the gambling type, I would have wagered that it was the first time in the dining room’s history when gravy was poured over biscuits and a Jell-O salad was served as a side.
I wore the only dress I’d packed, a simple navy sheath dress made of a material that wouldn’t wrinkle in a suitcase. Precious had insisted on lending me a silk scarf—Hermès, I was sure—to dress it up, and had tied it in an elegant bow on the side of my neck. I’d earned appreciative comments from everyone except Colin, whose gaze only glanced off me before he turned to the food on the table.
Precious and I sat across from him and Arabella, making me grateful that I had someone to look at besides Colin. Anna moved behind us, serving from the large platter of fried chicken. She paused behind Precious, serving fork in hand. “White meat or dark meat, Miss Dubose?”
I refrained from smacking my lips, something we’d done as children when fried chicken was served, no matter how many times Mama told us to stop. “Not to unduly influence you, but I personally love the drumsticks.”
“Me, too. I’d like a drumstick, please.”
Anna hesitated, unsure. When Precious didn’t clarify, I said, “A leg. Because they look like drumsticks.”
“Yes, of course,” the young woman said, placing one on Precious’s plate. “And here’s a thigh since the legs don’t have a lot of meat.”
