I don’t enjoy lying to people, but there are situations when a lie is kinder than the truth and bringing Harlow’s gram happiness in her last days is more important than keeping my conscience one hundred percent clean.
And from the look on her parents’ faces, they’re pretty happy about the news, too.
“Oh my God,” Gina says, her eyes shining as she slaps her husband’s arm. “Say yes! Oh my God, say yes, before he tries to take that gorgeous ring off her finger.”
“It’s a little late for permission,” Donald booms as he rises from his chair. “But not too late for forgiveness. Or a celebration.” He motions for the waiter and adds, “Champagne. Three bottles. We have an engagement to toast.”
And then, he’s around the table, moving faster than a man that tall and hefty should be able to move, pulling Harlow and me both in for a big bear hug and shouting, “Congratulations, baby. And you’d better treat her like a princess, Derrick, or I’ll cut your fucking hands off.”
“Dad,” Harlow chides, but Donald only laughs.
“I’m kidding, sweetheart,” he says, pulling back to catch my eye and mouth, “No, I’m not,” with a shit-eating grin.
I nod. “Like a princess. I promise.”
“I don’t want to be treated like a princess.” Harlow hugs her mother and accepts congratulations from around the table before settling into one of the empty chairs and patting the seat beside her. “I just want a glass of that champagne and an obscene amount of cheese.” She turns to an older woman in a wheelchair, pulled up to the table beside her. “What about you, Gram? Should we order two cheese plates and refuse to share with anyone?”
“Yes, we should,” she says, cupping Harlow’s face in her hands with such a joyful expression I vow not to feel guilty for this deception, even when we eventually have to find a way to let her parents down easy.
I’ve never seen a woman so simultaneously relieved and hopeful and blissfully happy for another human being. And then Gram shifts her joyful, sparkling gaze my way and a wave of emotion tightens my throat. “So wonderful to meet you, Derrick,” she says. “Thank you for making my baby girl so happy.”
“My pleasure,” I assure her. “Truly. And so nice to meet you. Harlow’s told me wonderful things. You’re so important to her.”
“And she’s important to me,” Gram says, patting Harlow’s back before leaning in to squint at her granddaughter’s menu. “Oh dear. That sounds small. Maybe we should order three cheese trays. You know I don’t like to share my Manchego.”
The conversation turns from engagements to what everyone wants for an appetizer and whether we should shift up the seating arrangement so that the fondue enthusiasts can be closer together and the churning in my chest subsides.
We did it. We leapt the biggest hurdle with flying colors. Barring some kind of disaster, it should be relatively smooth sailing from here on out.
Fool that I am, those are the exact thoughts skipping through my head when Harlow gets up to hit the ladies’ room and Gram leans over to tap the back of my hand with her bony finger.
“Okay, hot stuff,” she whispers too softly for the rest of her family to hear. “You look good, I’ll give you that, but it’s going to take more than a pretty face to keep my granddaughter happy. You have to know her, Mr. Olsen. Really know her.”
I fight the urge to reach for my glass of champagne and take a bracing swig. Looks like I’m not quite out of the woods, after all. “I understand. And I agree. Harlow needs more than a superficial connection to be happy long term.”
“Exactly,” Gram says, her eyes narrowing as she adds, “So tell me something good. Something about my granddaughter the average joe off the street wouldn’t know. Prove you’re invested, mister, and I’ll continue to support this spur-of-the-moment-marriage insanity.”
Swallowing past the anxious fingers wrapping around my throat, I nod, silently thanking my past self for being a nosy bastard earlier this evening. “I like her stories about Bad Beatrice, her imaginary friend from when she was little. The time she and her friends tried to dig a pool and flooded the backyard and she blamed it on Beatrice being part troll always makes me smile.”
“She has a big imagination. Bigger than most people give her credit for.” The old woman’s lips curve, but the grin doesn’t reach her eyes. “How about her favorite color?”
My brows lift as my thoughts race. “Color?”
What color does Harlow wear all the time? Brown? She does own a lot of brown, but is brown anyone’s favorite color?
“Yeah,” Gram pushes on. “What’s her favorite color? Or her favorite food? And what does she love to do on Christmas Eve every year since she was a little girl? These are things you should know at the drop of a hat, Mr. Hot Stuff. In case you’re curious, your hesitation isn’t reassuring.”