Page 49 of Holiday Hopefuls
“Man, I’m glad we wiped off all the powdered sugar before we left,” my fake girlfriend mutters to me.
Her shrewd mother cringes in disgust. “You went somewhere covered in food? Calloway Rutherford, you were taught better than that.” Lillian shifts a tight smile in my direction as she closes the door behind us. “I promise, doctor, her father and I really did try to teach her some manners.”
A timid maid appears out of nowhere, meek and trembling, holding out frail arms waiting for our coats.
Mrs. Rutherford aims to look apologetic for her daughter, landing in the realm of utterly miffed.
Swallowing my thorough annoyance with this woman, I put on a mask typically reserved for difficult patients. “Please, call me Oliver, Mrs. Rutherford.”
The woman who’s practically taken a bath in Chanel blushes, stammering, “Well-well, then a handsome man such as yourself is more than welcome to call me Lillian.”
Callie rolls her eyes as loudly as possible, making quick work of handing off her white peacoat before holding out a hand for mine.
Rolling my lips in, I suppress a smile at the role reversal from my own family’s home.
Shooting a knowing grin my way, Callie’s cheeks heat while her mother turns on a heel and takes off deeper into the house.
“This way, Oliver,” Lillian calls over her shoulder. “The rest of the family will be very interested to meet you.”
Taking Callie’s hand in mine, I press one more kiss to her cheek. Just on the off chance someone’s watching us. Moving my lips to her ear, I whisper, “Showtime.”
10
Oliver
Callie wasn’t kidding about Imogene seeming standoffish. Other than the initial shock of seeing me in her childhood home, the woman has practically avoided me. Every time we’re in the same vicinity, she looks at Prescott for behavioral guidance.
“Imogene,” I say from my spot on the couch, “Callie tells me you work in aerospace engineering. That sounds exciting.” I think Callie’s right—Imogene has the potential to be a decent human toward my girlfriend, if she can quit worrying about what Prescott and Lilllian think. She and Connie should certainly be the easiest to convince.
Beside me, Callie cuts me a cautious look.
All the Rutherfords sit on the extensive seating that likely costs more than my entire post-graduate education, and are dressed in designer outfits that cost more than my car. While the home is decorated in warm colors, dark woods and bulky furniture that screams aristocracy, it’s easy to see why Calliewasn’t eager to return. The furniture, though exquisite and finely made, is hard and uncomfortable. Art pieces hanging on the wall evoke anger instead of peace. The air is too still, like the house hasn’t been aired out for spring cleaning in nearly thirty years. The large fireplace along the far wall looks like something that could be mistaken for a portal to hell if Ira Rutherford became irate.
It’s truly astounding to think this is where my Callie grew up.
Across the living room, Callie’s oldest sister nods. “I suppose.” I know Blythe and I have strong genetics, but this woman could be Lillian Rutherford’s clone. The two share everything from their willowy frame and expressive brown eyes, to their naturally mocha chocolate hair.
Callie’s oldest brother also strongly favors their mother’s dark features, while his daughter—who is currently perched halfway on Callie’s lap and occasionally looks my way with a giggle—is clearly of mixed descent.
The twins and Callie all resemble their father in hair color and complexion. But where Callie and Chris have dark eyes like their mother, Connie has the same vibrant green eyes of Ira.
“Have you worked on anything I might’ve heard of?” I try again.
Nervous eyes flit toward her brother before finding mine again. “I work on parts for the International Space Station pretty regularly. Nothing major or lifechanging, by any means.”
“I dunno,” I say, “I’d imagine so much as a single screw failing would be life changing to anyone up there. You shouldn’t discount yourself.”
A timid smile graces her heart-shaped face.
“I work with a man whose daughter loves space and has been looking at a program this summer up in Honeyville for her. She’ll be jealous I got to meet you.”
“Cici?” Callie guesses, grinning from her seat next to mine.
Beaming back at my girlfriend, all I can think of is how in sync we seem to be.
Imogene’s eyes light up. “Cosmic Kids,” she nods. “I actually help with that camp.”
Chris, who sits by Connie on a loveseat, leans forward. “Where did you say you two met?” he interrupts. Ah, yes. Middle child.
