Page 17 of Bewitched By the Siren (The Bewitching Hour #1)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brendan
I check my watch for the umpteenth time, and it’s still not five yet. I’ve been ready to head over to Hali’s for ages, but she seemed tense when I left earlier, and I don’t want to make things weird again by showing up early.
It’s my own fault, reacting so visibly when she started singing.
I meant what I said. She sounded amazing.
But there was definitely something different from when I saw her on stage.
Just like when I overheard her through her bathroom window, I didn’t feel that buzz underneath my skin.
The awestruck adoration I felt after her first note.
The need to hear nothing but her voice for the rest of my life.
Thinking about it now, my reaction that night at Memaw’s seems way over the top. I shake my head. Like I told Hali earlier, it was probably the atmosphere. The lights and the band and the speakers pushing the music deep inside me.
I check my watch again, and it’s two-til-five.
Close enough.
Smoothing my palms down my shirt, I head out and jog over to Hali’s. Taking a moment to run a hand through my hair nervously, I lift a fist and knock on the door. A few seconds tick by, then the door swings open and there she is.
My brain goes a little haywire at the sight of Hali. She looks gorgeous in a long dress held up by thin straps that crisscross over her chest and tie behind her neck. Her hair is piled up on her head in a messy, yet somehow elegant bun, and her face is clean and make-up free.
“You look beautiful,” I say before I can stop the words, and her naturally-tanned cheeks turn a bit rosy.
“Thanks,” she says, stepping aside to invite me in. “You look good, too.”
I look down at my khaki pants and a bright blue polo that matches my eyes. “You’re sure I don’t look like a car insurance salesman?”
Hali’s laugh rings in my ears as she closes the door behind me, making my heart beat faster. She leads me into the kitchen, where she already has the ingredients we bought today spread out on the counter. A large pot of water sits on the stovetop next to a large, rectangular glass baking dish.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” she says as she grabs a bottle of Pinot Noir from the fridge and two large wineglasses from a nearby cabinet. “Wine? I put it in the refrigerator an hour ago to chill it a bit.”
“I’d love a glass,” I say as I set about organizing the ingredients I need for the lasagna.
I frown at the jar of sauce I bought, but I didn’t have much choice.
The small grocery store didn’t have all the ingredients I’d need to make my signature homemade sauce, so I improvised.
Turning to the stove, I turn on the burner underneath the pot of water and set the oven to the right temperature.
Hali approaches, handing me a glass of wine, and I thank her before taking a small sip. I’m about to ask her about her mom when I hear movement in the hallway. Setting my glass down, I straighten my spine as a burly man in green scrubs pushes a wheelchair into the room.
“Thanks, Denny,” Hali says, and the man nods before bending over Hali’s mom.
“I’ll be back in a few days,” he says, and the older woman nods and smiles.
Denny, obviously an in-home nurse, calls out a goodbye to Hali and nods at me before making his way toward the front door.
“Brendan,” Hali says, “this is my mom, Grace.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I say, moving forward to take her hand.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Grace says, a twinkle in her hazel eyes. She looks up at Hali. “You didn’t tell me he was this good looking.”
Hali squeezes her eyes shut as I stifle a laugh at the woman’s cheekiness.
“You didn’t?” I ask, sounding appalled. “Hali, how could you not tell her how handsome I am?”
“Yes, that should’ve been the very first thing you told me,” Grace says, leaning into my act.
“Very funny, you two,” Hali says, then shakes her head and mumbles, “What have I gotten myself into?”
Hali’s mom and I chuckle, and it feels like we’re immediate co-conspirators. I wink at Grace before moving back toward the stove to check my water. Hali pours her mom a glass of wine, then hands it to her before rolling the wheelchair up to the dining table just outside the cooking area.
“Brendan,” Grace says, gaining my attention, “did you know your name comes from the patron saint of sailors?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” I say. “That’s pretty cool.”
“And Hali means ‘sea.’”
“It’s a beautiful name,” I say, my eyes skirting toward the woman in question.
She holds my gaze for a split second before looking away, that pretty pink color riding high in her cheeks again.
Changing the subject, I ask Hali to put the lasagna noodles in the now-boiling water while I organize the sauce, ricotta, and other ingredients on the counter to make an assembly line, of sorts.
I catch Grace watching us with curved lips as we work. Once the pasta is ready, Hali leans against the counter beside me, memorizing how I layer the ingredients together in the glass dish. Once the lasagna is in the oven, we join Grace at the table.
Grace regales me with stories about Hali growing up and the mischief she’d get into. Hali doesn’t seem to be embarrassed, at all. She smiles and laughs with us, adding elements to the stories that I’m sure are embellished.
“And what about your dad?” I ask when Hali finishes Grace’s story about the two of them sneaking off to Atlanta to ride roller coasters when Hali was supposed to be in school.
Quiet descends, and I panic, feeling stupid for bringing it up. Of course, he’s not in the story. Hali told me he wasn’t in the picture. I just forgot for a moment. And now, I’ve probably ruined the evening by bringing up an off-limits topic.
“I actually don’t have a dad,” Hali says before I can backpedal. Taking Grace’s hand, she smiles at her mother, adding, “Mom adopted me when I was baby. She raised me all on her own.”
“That’s…amazing,” I say, this new fact driving home what an awesome mother Grace is to Hali.
And why Hali won’t even consider leaving her. Not even for a record deal that could potentially make her a star.
“We’ve had a good life,” Grace says, shooting a loving gaze at her daughter. “And I want Hali to have everything.”
There’s meaning in those words, an undertone I think Grace meant for me to catch. Like she knows why I’m here, and she wants Hali to go for it. To shoot for the stars and not let her mom’s condition hold her back.
Or maybe I’m just hearing what I want to hear.
The conversation flows on to other topics, and by the time we have steaming plates of lasagna in front of us, we’re laughing and bantering like they’ve known me for years. Grace is a true delight.
It’s obvious by the time we finish that Grace’s energy is lagging, and I offer to clean up while Hali helps her to bed.
Hali shoots me a grateful look as Grace thanks me for dinner, then I watch as they disappear down the hall.
Snapping into action, I make short work of packing away the leftovers and loading the dishwasher.
I’m pouring two fresh glasses of wine when Hali reappears. Her steps stutter when she sees what I’m doing, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped. Did she expect me to leave now that dinner’s over?
I’m relieved when her lips curve upward. She moves forward, picking up one of the glasses and taking a sip with a satisfied sigh. Jerking her head toward the living room, she heads in, fully expecting me to follow. She plops down on the couch, and I sit beside her.
“I know Mom wants more for me,” she says quietly, “but I can’t leave her. She needs me. I have to take care of her, both physically and financially. She’s the reason I can’t sign your contract.”
Even though I’d already drawn that conclusion on my own, I want to argue with her. To get her to see that signing a deal would bring in more money than she could imagine. She could afford the best care for her mom. She would never have to worry about money again.
But I hold my tongue. I know that money isn’t as important to Hali as being here with her mom. Especially now, knowing that Grace adopted her and raised her on her own, I can see how much Hali loves her and doesn’t want to leave her side.
I respect her for that. But that respect is completely at odds with my mission. It’s my job to get her to sign. My own livelihood could very well depend upon it.
But how can I, in good conscience, convince her to leave when I know it’s not the right thing for her?
God, this whole situation is impossible, and I have no clue what I’m going to do.