Page 17 of That Reilly Boy
“Did you know my great-great-grandfather and your great-great-grandmother were in love?” I ask after we’ve both savored a few bites of the rich, creamy cheesecake.
“What? You’re kidding. My family refuses to talk about all that, which makes no sense to me.”
I shake my head. “Not kidding. Isaiah Reilly and Jonas Gamble worked at the mill together, but Isaiah was also doing every odd job he could scrape up, trying to earn enough to buy Esther Fitzwilliam a ring. He probably took longer than he should have, but her family had a lot of money so he felt some pressure to buy her something prettier than he could afford. And while he was shoveling manure for a few extra coins after a full shift at work, Jonas Gamble figured out if Isaiah—his best friend—married Esther Fitzwilliam, he’d be the mill owner’s son-in-law. Eventually, since there were no Fitzwilliam sons, the mill owner himself.”
“Our great-great-grandfathers were best friends? Really?”
“They were, until the night Jonas got Esther to drink a little too much and managed to get her into an indelicate situation in a place they were sure to be caught. There was a shotgun wedding, and Jonas Gamble inherited the mill and built that big house on the hill, and Isaiah Reilly tried to drown his broken heart with bootleg liquor—it being Prohibition and all. Then he started running that liquor and probably made more money than Fitzwilliam himself had. But eventually Isaiah got caught and sent to prison, and so the reputation of Reilly boys was set.”
“That had to be almost a hundred years ago.” She doesn’t actually roll her eyes, but I can hear the reaction in her tone. “And that’s the Reilly version of the story.”
“The fact I actually know the story and your family refuses to talk about it speaks for itself.”
She laughs, and points at me. “Good point. So you want to…what? Buy the house and burn it to the ground to avenge your great-great-grandfather’s broken heart?”
“It would be a crime to burn that house. And I don’t mean legally—although it would definitely be illegal—but because it’s beautiful and I want to restore it.”
It’s not exactly a lie. I do want to restore it to its former glory. But I don’t tell her the part where I want to restore it so a Reilly saved something the Gambles let go to shit.
After savoring another bite of cheesecake, she points her spoon at me. “I can understand a generation or two holding a grudge, but still?”
“I think as long as the mill was in operation, my family having to work for your family kept it fresh. And it seems to have taken on a life of its own with each generation—like your grandmother tampering with my grandmother’s pickles to steal the blue ribbon at the fair.”
She gasps and then laughs, clearly shocked by the accusation. “That blue ribbon has hung in a glass shadowbox frame on our kitchen wall since before I was born.”
“It would be hanging on our kitchen wall if not for the sabotage.”
Her eyes narrow, but a smile is tugging at her lips. “And did your grandmother have any proof that my grandmother tampered with her pickles?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe your grandmother’s pickles just sucked.”
“Gram’s pickles did not suck.”
She grins, sending a sizzle of heat through my veins. “You can say that because you never had my gram’s pickles.”
We laughed about the pickles for a while—which is ironic because neither of us really care for them—but the inevitable moment when the server brings me the check and Cara her boxed leftover chicken parm arrives. I’m thankful she doesn’t leave right away, but waits for me to settle the bill so we can walk out together.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” I say once we’re outside. Anything I can do to prolong this time with Cara.
She points to an older vehicle sitting only four spots down the sidewalk. “I think I’ll make it there safely.”
Of course she wins the parking spot lottery tonight, of all nights. “So what’s next?”
“As I said before, keep a low profile. Give me some time—a few days, at least—to work on her without it feeling like pressure. It won’t be easy to convince her to look past your last name, assuming I can even make her let go of the promise she made my dad not to sell. I’m not hopeful, but I have to try.”
The weary resignation in her voice tugs at my soul, strengthening my conviction to win this real estate battle. Not only will I own the house I wasn’t good enough to step foot in, but maybe freeing Cara from Gin’s grasp can be my way of trying to make up for what I did to her in the past.
“Let’s have dinner again next week to touch base and assess how it’s going,” I say, already desperate to spend time with her again.
I watch feelings filter through her eyes—she wants to, but she’s talking herself out of it—and then disappointment makes me sigh when she shakes her head. “I’ll text you. Thank you for dinner. And the dessert. It was delicious.”
“It was my pleasure.” That’s an understatement. She’s starting to turn away from me, but there’s nothing left to say and no reason to keep her here on the sidewalk with me. “Goodnight, Cara.”
“Goodnight, Hayden.”
I wait until she’s in her car and it’s running before I head for my own car. It means turning my back, but I hear her car back out onto the street and then drive away. Staring after her would have been weird, but I can’t help turning back once, just in time to see her taillights as she turns onto the main street.
