“I’m going to walk Adair to her car.” I look to Francie for permission, and she beams with pride.
“I wouldn’t expect less. I’ll just be here,” she says.
I grab Adair’s hand and lead her into the hall.
“Your m… she seems nice,” Adair says breathlessly as I rush her out of the dormitory. “Sorry, I don’t know what to call her.”
“Just stick with Francie,” I advise her. “I struggled with what to call her when I first got placed with her. The other foster families I’d been stuck with before had insisted on titles and surnames. All that formality went out the door the second I stepped into Francie’s house. That didn’t mean she wasn’t tough, though. She was easily the strictest foster parent I ever had.”
“She straightened you out, huh?” We step out of the building into the crisp, breezy Tennessee twilight. Adair’s favorite car, a Jaguar Roadster, is parked dangerously close to the no-parking zone. I doubt anyone would have the guts to tow a car belonging to a MacLaine.
I walk her to it and open the driver side door for her.
“What a gentleman,” Adair murmurs.
“Don’t let that fool you,” I warn her, angling my mouth over hers. “I’m thinking very dirty things about you. I might need a second study session.”
“That can be arranged.”
I nip her lower lip. “We should be careful or I’m going to wind up pinning you to the hood of this car.”
“Campus is deserted.”
I groan at the invitation in her voice. “Seriously?”
She laughs, shaking her head and loosening her makeshift bun. “There’s no way you could get these pants off, remember?”
“I am willing to try.” I hook my index finger in her waistband and tug her closer. I kiss her slowly, savoring one final taste of her.
“I’m going to miss you,” she confesses. “I think I’d rather do Thanksgiving at the Eaton than my house, but Daddy would throw a fit.”
“I’m a phone call away,” I promise.
“Will you call me?” she asks. “I’d like to hang out with you and Francie, but I don’t want to intrude.”
“Sure,” I say swiftly, but I don’t know if I’m telling the truth.
She slides into her car and blows me a kiss. I watch as she drives off, feeling like my own heartbeat grows fainter the farther aways she gets.
“Cyrus took off. He told me to tell you that his car is parked in the lot behind Tucker,” Francie says after the walk back to my room. “You were gone a while.”
“Hmmm?” I shake my head. “I mean, what?”
“You have it bad for that girl.” Francie laughs and pins me in a hug. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”
“It’s kinda off again, on again,” I admit.
“I want to know everything,” Francie demands. “But first, what is this about not staying here?”
“Cyrus thought you might be more comfortable if we stayed at his family’s place. They own a hotel in Nashville, but they’re going to be out of town.” I fill her in on the details as we make our way to the parking lot.
Francie packed light. She has to, in order to avoid baggage fees. My stuff fits easily in one duffel bag. There’s only one car left in the lot. Francie stops when we reach the edge of the sidewalk.
“Wait, your friend is letting you drive that?” She stares at the BMW.
“Yeah, he loaned it to me a couple of times.”
Francie raises her eyebrow so far it disappears behind the coil of her bangs. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Usually, I am the designated driver,” I explain, “and I drove Adair to the hospital in it once.”
“I think you better start catching me up.” Francie pauses at the passenger door even after I open it for her.
“It’s okay, really,” I tell her. “Cyrus is an okay guy.”
“He must be.” But she doesn’t sound convinced.
I fill her in on the night I met Adair, leaving out the nastier fights we’d had along the way. Francie isn’t the type to take sides, but I want her to like Adair. More importantly, I’d rather she not know about some of the bad choices I’ve made since coming to Valmont.
“That poor girl,” Francie says quietly when we pull into the circular drive of the Eaton. “Her first Thanksgiving without her mama. You make sure you check in with her.”
“I will.”
A parking valet opens her door. “Welcome to the Eaton, ma’am.”
I follow Cyrus’s instructions, handing off the keys and giving his name. Inside, I head straight for a bank of elevators with golden doors. Even though this was Cy’s idea, I still feel out of place. I want to get up to the room and out of the opulent entrance with its gleaming marble floors and domed, stained glass ceiling. When I reach the elevators, I turn to find Francie standing in the lobby, staring around her.
“Francie,” I hiss as the elevator in front of me dings.
She hurries over. A few others board with us. The suite is on the sixth floor, the very top level of the hotel. Everyone else gets off on other floors. When we reach the suites, I see why. There are only four, apparently numbered randomly between 600 and 614. In small letters under each number is the word ‘penthouse.’ The first one we reach, number 614, is also marked as a private residence.
“It’s the one at the other end. Number 600,” I tell Francie, shouldering our bags.
“People live here?” she says.
“Guess so.” I might have thought that was far-fetched until I met the Valmont elite. Now, nothing surprises me about this town.
“This wasn’t what I was expecting when you said your friend’s family owned a hotel. I thought it would be like that place we stopped outside Roanoke. The one with the mini-fridge and the broken ice machine.” She falls silent when I open the door to the suite.
It’s easily twice
