Chapter 3 - The Grandmother Who Knew Too Much And The Man Who Ordered Scotch At Noon
Eleanor Bennett raised her champagne flute in our direction before we had even taken three steps onto the grass.
“Well, it’s about time,” the old woman announced, her voice carrying across the quiet lawn with enough volume to draw the attention of at least a dozen nearby aunts and uncles.
“I was beginning to think you’d eloped with a plumber, Nora, or worse—decided to become a nun.”
A ripple of uncomfortable, polite laughter ran through the nearest cluster of relatives.
Diane’s face tightened into a thin, white line.
“Mother, please,” Diane said, stepping forward with that practiced, strained smile she probably used when managing bridal disasters.
“Nora just arrived. And she brought… a guest.”
“I have eyes, Diane, thank God,” Eleanor snapped back, waving her hand dismissively at her daughter.
“I can see he’s a guest. And a tall one at that. Come here, young man. Don’t make an old woman strain her neck to look at you.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I walked straight across the lawn, towing Nora with me, right up to the velvet-upholstered throne.
Up close, Eleanor Bennett smelled like expensive French perfume, gin, and peppermint.
Her eyes, faded around the edges but still sharp enough to cut glass, raked over my face with the merciless precision of a seasoned predator.
“Evan Cole,” I said before she could interrogate me, offering my hand.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Bennett. Happy birthday.”
Eleanor took my hand, and for a second, I felt the surprising strength in her grip.
She squeezed my fingers hard, testing me.
I didn't flinch; I just met her gaze and held it, letting a slight, amused challenge flicker in my eyes.
The old woman let out a dry, rattling cackle of delight.
“Well, well, well,” she murmured, dropping my hand and leaning back into her cushions.
“Diane thought you were going to bring home that insufferable Harper boy with his slicked-back hair and his endless talk about commercial real estate portfolios. Instead, you bring a man who looks like he knows how to bury a body and negotiate a hostile takeover before breakfast.”
Nora let out a sharp gasp beside me.
“Grandmother!” she hissed, her face instantly turning the color of a bruised plum.
“What? I’m seventy-five, child! I earned the right to say whatever pops into my head two decades ago!” Eleanor barked, waving a hand dismissively.
“Tell me, Evan. What do you do for a living? And don’t give me that polite corporate nonsense Diane feeds her country club bridge partners.”
I paused, feeling Nora’s fingers dig warningly into my ribs.
I let my gaze drift slowly over the assembled family members, who had all gone completely silent, pretending not to listen while eavesdropping with every fiber of their being.
“I move things from one place to another, Mrs. Bennett,” I said smoothly, my voice dropping an octave into that flat, dangerous register.
“Sometimes by truck, sometimes by ship, and occasionally by force when people forget to pay what they owe.”
Eleanor’s eyebrows shot up toward her hairline.
Then she threw her head back and laughed—a rich, booming sound that echoed off the white pillars of Magnolia House.
“Oh, I like him,” she declared, pointing a finger at me.
“Nora, you finally did something right. Where on earth did you dig him up?”
“We met at a coffee shop three months ago, Grandmother,” Nora recited smoothly, stepping into the breach with the desperate energy of someone trying to defuse a tactical bomb with a pair of kitchen scissors.
“He was sitting at my usual table. We started talking about roast beans, and… well, one thing led to another.”
“Coffee shops,” Eleanor muttered, rolling her eyes.
“When I was your age, we met men at debutante balls or church socials, where you could at least check their tax returns before you let them buy you a gin and tonic.”
She turned her sharp gaze back to me.
“Well, Evan. Are you going to stand there looking decorative, or are you going to get an old woman a glass of scotch? The champagne they’re serving out here tastes like carbonated vinegar.”
“Grandmother, it’s twelve-thirty in the afternoon,” Nora protested.
“And I’m seventy-five, Nora! My liver has earned an early retirement!” Eleanor snapped.
“I’ll get it,” I said quietly, offering a polite nod.
“Single malt, twelve-year-old or older?”
“Eighteen-year-old Macallan, if these fools bought anything worth drinking,” she replied with a wicked grin.
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“If they didn’t, bring me whatever is hidden in Diane’s private cabinet behind the silver tea service.”
I gave a single, low nod and turned away, leaving Nora standing before the firing squad of her family while I went in search of the hard liquor.
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