Page 90 of Mr. Fixer Upper
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
There really was a nonni, and she lived in a sweet little two-story home tucked away on a tree-lined street three blocks over from Gannon’s apartment. Short and soft around the middle, she had snowy white hair that framed her lined face like a cloud. Her eyes, a tawny brown, held a sharpness that didn’t miss much.
“It’s about time,” she said, frowning fiercely at Gannon as she looked up from the sauce that clouded the room with the mouthwatering scents of garlic and basil. “The canapés have been ready for hours.”
Gannon was unaffected by her bluster. “I left you fifty minutes ago,” he said, dropping a kiss on her papery cheek and sneaking a crispy piece of bruschetta off of the silver tray.
She slapped at his hand in mock anger. “Where my daughter went wrong with this one, I’ll never know,” she sighed, feigning disbelief.
Gannon grinned down at her with affection. Paige caught the teasing wink Nonni sent him before she reached for Paige.
“Since my grandson has never had any manners, I am Francesca Bianchi, Gannon’s mama’s mama.” She drew Paige into a fierce hug and released her just as quickly.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bianchi.”
“Francesca, please, or Nonni,” she tut-tutted. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour. You both will take the wine and canapés outside and get out of my way.”
Gannon took the decanter of cabernet that Francesca left breathing on the counter and poured a healthy portion into a glass for his grandmother before scooping up the other two glasses. He nudged the tray of bruschetta at Paige and led the way out the back door onto a covered porch overlooking a garden-like oasis of a backyard.
“I love your grandmother’s house,” Paige confessed as Gannon set the glasses down on a pine table between two cushioned chairs. It looked like what every grandmother’s house should. Lived in for decades, the house had aged well, every room looking comfortable with the kind of dated furniture and rugs that had held more memories than style. “When did you redo her kitchen?”
Unlike the rest of the home, the kitchen gleamed in its modernity. A six-burner gas stove dominated one wall under a copper hood and pot filler. The countertops, acres of them, were creamy, speckled granite. A mixture of glass-fronted and traditional cabinetry in warm cherry offered huge amounts of storage.
It had Gannon’s fingerprints all over it.
“Last year. She’d had a rough two years with Grandpa passing and the trouble with the business. As soon as we had a commitment for a second season, Cat and I conned her with a ten-day cruise with my parents and my aunt and uncle.”
“The network would have loved that as a special,” Paige said, lifting the glass and tasting the very nice wine.
“Which is exactly why we didn’t tell them about it,” Gannon said. “She cried when she saw it. We all did.”
She could see it. The gratitude, the pride, the overwhelming love. And wished she’d been there to witness it.
“That must have been a memorable reveal.”
“Speaking of,” Gannon leaned against the railing, his back to the riot of foliage spilling from raised beds and containers. “Let’s talk about your new opportunity.”
Back to business,she thought. It was probably wise. Being around him like this stirred up feelings, ones she didn’t have an interest in feeling anymore.
“Okay, let’s talk.”
“How would you feel about directing a special?”
“Directing?” Paige gripped her wine glass. “I wouldn’t be a field producer or an assistant director.”
Gannon shook his head. “Nope. Director. About three or four months of shooting.”
“Where? For who?”
“Here in the city for Welcome Home. But you’d be calling the shots,” he said when he saw her face fall. “They wouldn’t be able to mess with you on this one.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s my show.”
She was already shaking her head.
“Don’t say no yet. Just listen.”
