Page 40 of Just a Plot Twist (Tate Brothers #7)

Claire

“You’re bringing your grandparents milkshakes?” Inez sounds perturbed through the phone.

“Oh, keep your shirt on. I’ll bring you one soon.

” As I drive to my grandparents’ house in Boulder, I check the plastic cupholder that I packed with cups full of ice to nest the milkshakes in.

They’re my peace offering to my grandparents, so I’m hoping my careful, ice bath plan comes through for me.

“I rarely have a shirt on, to be honest. I’m breastfeeding twins!” She laughs and then pauses to yawn. “I haven’t had a shake yet this season, so I’m looking forward to that.”

“Now that the babies are home, I can see them in person, right? ”

“Yes. Can’t wait. And listen, Claire? Even though they don’t show it very well sometimes, your grandparents love you, okay? You didn’t need to bring them shakes to soften the blow.”

“What’s wrong with bringing them something they love? I’m just trying to express my…appreciation for them.”

Inez pauses. “Nothing wrong with that. So, what are you going to say to them?” she asks.

“Well.” I lick my lips, suddenly wishing I’d bought myself a shake to occupy me on the drive.

But when I picked them up, my stomach was in knots, so I didn’t want one.

“Grandma and Grandpa, thank you for all you’ve done for me.

I owe you so much. Also, I need to tell you, I’m… dating…Benson Kilpack.”

“Good. Bold and to the point.”

“Right.” I nod. “I’m dating him and he’s, he’s a…well, his father is Thomas Tate.”

“Oooh, what?” Inez is trying to impersonate my grandmother, with her high pitched, formal tone. “Thomas Tate doesn’t have a son named Benson!”

“Inez, you sound like a British Julia Child! It makes zero sense.”

Inez laughs. “What’s your response going to be?” One of the babies starts crying and there’s rustling feedback on the other line as she picks her up.

“I’ll explain about the birth mother and the adoptive parents and everything. And I’ll tell them about my feelings for him and then I’ll ask if they’re business partners with the Schillers. And I’ll mention that I’m not going to run for public office. Ever.”

“That’s a lot,” Inez says. “But it’s necessary. ”

“I realized something, Inez. My whole life, I’ve been blaming myself for the fact that Grandpa never ran for office like he’d dreamed.

I thought it was somehow my problem to fix.

” My throat grows hoarse as I go on. “But you know what? He still could have run for mayor or city council in Longdale. And he could have run for office when they moved back to Boulder over ten years ago. It’s not my fault he didn’t!

They want me to achieve their dreams for them, but I can’t do that.

I need to stop taking ownership for their feelings. ”

“Those are the wisest words you’ve ever spoken, Claire.”

Nerves flutter in my belly. “I’m tired of doing things I don’t want to do just to please them.” I clear my throat. “And I still want to be there for them. I wish I was more like Sophie and didn’t care what they think.”

“Sophie probably wishes she was more like you and got along with them better.”

“Interesting how that works, huh?”

I can feel Inez’s smile, even over the phone. “You’ve got this, you ferocious beast of a woman.”

I can actually live my life for myself, not for them. We’ll both be happier this way in the long run, right?

Okay. Maybe I can do this. Maybe it’s not going to be so bad.

Things really are that bad.

First of all, the shakes melted sitting in a their ice bath. Grandpa’s even tipped over when I braked in front of their house. I lost about half of it .

Then, they weren’t home, even though they said they would be. After I waited for a half hour in their living room, with the shakes sitting snugly in the freezer, they finally roll in.

“Oh, we forgot you were coming!” Grandpa says. He has the decency to look embarrassed. “We were at a rally for one of Norm Davie’s candidates. He’s coaching so many good people.”

Excitement pools in his eyes. And in Grandma’s too.

Crap. This is going to be hard.

I first go to the freezer and produce their shakes. They’re polite about it, but neither of them want them. Grandma even asks if they’re still safe to eat.

“They were always cold, Grandma! They’re fine.” I put them back in the freezer. If they don’t want them, maybe I’ll take them and eat them both on the drive home. Comfort in the form of cold, creamy sugar.

“You look like you have something important to tell us,” Grandpa says after we’ve gotten settled in their sunken living room.

“Well, I do.” I take a deep breath and first glance at Grandpa and then Grandma.

The lines splaying near her eyes seem deeper now, and her mouth still has a shadow of her worn-off, signature coral lipstick.

“I heard you contributed a large sum of money to Peter Schiller and his daughter’s business? ”

They both look surprised. They glance at one another. “We did,” Grandma says. “What’s the problem?”

“I can’t tell you what to do with your money, but I’m disappointed you contributed to something you knew would cause problems for the Tate family as well as Benson’s work.”

“Benson?” Grandpa asks. “The man you were with at the extravaganza? ”

I nod. “He works for Foundations Financial.”

I give it a moment to sink in. Then, “What Peter Schiller did was in breach of his contract with Thomas Tate. You have a beef with the Tates, but Peter’s actions were wrong. I’m asking you to consider rescinding your support.”

“We’re joining them as silent partners. There are others besides us. Why do you care?” Grandpa says.

So, they really are intending to go into business with Thomas Tate’s enemy?

“I’ll get to that in a minute.” I start off the I don’t want to run for office bit with “Sometimes, people’s dreams in life change. What I wanted in elementary school isn’t what I want now. I haven’t for a long time.”

Grandpa understands first. “You don’t want to run for office.” He stares at the floor, his jaw moving around words he’s not willing to say.

Grandma’s face is white. Grandpa’s is ashen. He’s defeated but still fighting it.

We sit in silence.

They must be in shock.

But, regardless, I press on, tacking on in what probably appears to be a delightful little afterthought: that I’m dating Benson. I let it slip that I’ve never felt this way about anyone.

I don’t mean to go that far. But it’s true.

“I’ve never told any man that I’ve loved him before,” I add, in case there’s any doubt in their minds.

And I haven’t told him that yet, either. A cold sensation numbs my limbs .

Grandma breaks open her once-lipsticked, closely pursed lips to the beginnings of a smile. Yeah. I’m not surprised she enjoys that little tidbit.

Grandpa’s face goes still and he ceases his small sighs of disgust. “You love ’im, Claire?”

I nod. Swallow hard. “I do. And I’m going to tell him.”

“So, you haven’t yet?” Grandma lets a breath out like Praise the heavens, we can still stop this.

“I will. Because I do. I’m in love with that man, and I don’t care that you won’t like that he’s a Tate.”

“He’s a Tate?” Grandma and Grandpa say in unison. Grandma’s face is one of hardened steel, but Grandpa’s? His is one of grief-filled shock.

“Uh huh. He’s Thomas Tate’s son.” I explain all I know about Benson’s story. I talk for a long time. And they keep listening. There’s a visible flinch on Grandma’s end when I tell them about Dax and Indie. But then I grin even harder.

“I’m crazy about those kids,” I say.

We sit in silence, the grandfather clock in the entryway through the wall behind me ticking with the urgency of a bomb about to go off.

Finally, Grandpa opens his mouth. “You’ve given us a lot to think about.”

Grandma nods, suddenly looking tired.

My throat is sore from my strong, impassioned stance. And when it’s clear they’re not ready to say anything else, I stand to leave.

“Thanks for hearing me out,” I say, my knees soft and spongy. For all that I said, I’d hoped I’d be stronger by now. Free.

But I’m not. I just feel exhausted .

“We need some time,” Grandpa says, then glances at Grandma. “Sweetheart,” he says to her. “I think we’ve waited long enough to—” His face screws up in pain.

She flicks a glance at him as she wrings her hands together. And then I notice how suddenly lost she seems. What is going on? Her nod is nearly imperceptible. She stares at the floor.

She seems so small. So bent and vulnerable that I swallow hard against the growing ache in my throat.

Something’s wrong.

“Claire, we wanted to tell you and Sophie together, but I think we just need to tell you now,” Grandpa says. “We’ll inform Sophie later.”

“Tell us about what?” I manage.

Grandpa looks at Grandma again, then eases his arm around her shoulders. His bulk and strength make her seem even smaller.

“Your grandmother was diagnosed with dementia,” he says, his voice strained. “We’re facing some pretty frightening possibilities in the near future.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Grandma’s not…” I stare at her. “You’re not…forgetful.”

“She’s done well to compensate for the memory loss, but it’s there. And there are other symptoms,” Grandpa says. “She’s undergone extensive testing. It’s early, but they’re sure it’s only going to get worse.”

“No,” I say again. My eyes sting and my limbs jitter. After several moments, I finally find some words. “I’m so sorry.” I meet their gazes. Grandma’s is far off, blank. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism for what’s going on. Maybe it’s the disease itself .

“We’re going to do all we can to help her.” Grandpa’s voice has regained some of its strength.

“I do appreciate all you’ve done for me,” I say, my voice trembling. “You’ve believed in me and cared for me all these years.” My grief is a stone, one that I can barely hold up. Breathing is a burden. Thinking is impossible.

Finally, Grandma glances at me and then at her husband. “I need to lie down.”

Grandpa kisses her cheek. “Of course, sweetheart.” He helps her off the sofa and tosses a glance at me. “We’ll be in touch.”

They don’t like shows of affection or emotion, but I can’t control my tears as I gather them both in a hug. Uncharacteristically, they don’t stiffen but instead soften into my arms a bit before Grandpa breaks the embrace and, with a nod, guides Grandma out of the room.

There are no words. Nothing I can offer. Nothing that will make this better.

Something inside of me breaks on the long walk out the door and down the steps of their porch.

Everything makes so much sense now. No wonder they threw the biggest celebration of their lives and went on their dream vacation.

No wonder she’s seemed so unhappy lately. Isn’t irritability one of the symptoms?

I’m shaking the whole drive home.