A Ceo In Her Stocking

Frankly, Grant couldn’t believe a three-year-old would know any of the things Hank knew. Then again, when Grant was three, he knew the genus and species of the chambered nautilus—Nautilus pompilius. He’d loved learning all about marine life when he was a kid, but the nautilus was a particular favorite from the start, thanks to an early visit to the New York Aquarium where he’d been mesmerized by the animal. If a child discovered his passion early in life, there was no way to prevent him from absorbing facts like a sponge, even at three. Evidently, for Hank, astronomy would be such a passion.

“Do you have a telescope?” Grant asked Clara.

She shook her head. “If he stays interested in astronomy, we can invest in one. He can save his allowance and contribute. For now, binoculars are fine.”

Hank nodded, seeming in no way bothered by the delay. So not expecting instant gratification was something else he’d inherited from his mother. Brent’s life had been nothing but a demand for instant gratification.

Yet Clara could afford to give him instant gratification now. She could afford to buy her son a telescope with his newfound wealth, whether he stayed interested in astronomy or not. But she wasn’t. Grant supposed she was trying to ensure that Hank didn’t fall into the trap his father had. She didn’t want him to think that just because he had money, he no longer had to work to earn something, that he could take advantage and have whatever he wanted, wherever and whenever he wanted it. Grant’s estimation of her rose. Again.

As if he’d said the words out loud, she looked at him and smiled. Or maybe she did that because she was grateful he hadn’t told her son that if he wanted a telescope, then, by God, he should have one, cost be damned. That was what Brent would have done. Then he would have scooped up Hank after dinner and taken him straight to Telescopes “R” Us to buy him the biggest, shiniest, most expensive one they had, without even bothering to see if it was the best.

As Hank and Francesca fell into conversation about the other planets on the ceiling, Grant turned to Clara. And realized he had no idea what to say to her. So he fell back on the obvious.

“Brent had an interest in astronomy when he was Hank’s age, too,” he told her. “It was one of the reasons my mother had this room decorated the way she did.”

“I actually knew that,” Clara said. “About the astronomy, not the room. He took me to Skidaway Island a few times to look at the stars. I’ve taken Hank, too. It’s what started his interest in all this.”

Grant nodded. Of course Brent would have taken her to a romantic rendezvous to dazzle her with his knowledge of the stars. And of course she would carry that memory with her and share it with their son.

“Hank is now about the same age I was when I started getting interested in baking,” she said. “My foster mother at that time baked a lot, and she let me help her in the kitchen. I remember being amazed at how you could mix stuff together to make a gooey mess only to have it come out of the oven as cake. Or cookies. Or banana bread. Or whatever. And I loved how pretty everything was after the frosting went on. And how you could use the frosting to make it even prettier, with roses or latticework or ribbons. It was like making art. Only you could eat it afterward.”

As she spoke about learning to bake, her demeanor changed again. Her eyes went dreamy, her cheeks grew rosy, and she seemed to go...softer somehow. All over. And she gestured as she spoke—something she didn’t even seem aware of doing—stirring an imaginary bowl when she talked about the gooey mess, and opening an imaginary oven door when she talked about the final product and tracing a flower pattern on the tablecloth as she spoke of using frosting as an art medium. He was so caught up in the play of her hands and her storytelling, that he was completely unprepared when she turned the tables on him.

“What were you interested in when you were that age?”

The question hung in the air between them for a moment as Grant tried to form a response. Then he realized he didn’t know how to respond. For one thing, he didn’t think it was a question anyone had ever asked him before. For another, it had been so long since he’d thought about his childhood, he honestly couldn’t remember.

Except he had remembered. A few minutes ago, when he’d been thinking about how fascinated he’d been by the chambered nautilus. About how much he’d loved all things related to marine life when he was a kid. Which was something he hadn’t thought about in years.

Despite that, he said, “I don’t know. The usual stuff, I guess.”

His childhood love was so long ago, and he’d never pursued it beyond the superficial. Even though, he supposed, knowing the biological classification of the entire nautilus family—in Latin—by the time he started first grade went a little beyond superficial. That was different. Because that was...

Well, it was just different, that was all.

“Nothing in particular,” he finally concluded. Even if that didn’t feel like a conclusion at all.

Clara didn’t seem to think so, either, because she insisted, “Oh, come on. There must have been something. All of Hank’s friends have some kind of passion. With Brianna, it’s seashells. With Tyler, it’s rocks. With Megan, it’s fairies. It’s amazing the single-minded devotion a kid that age can have for something.”

For some reason, Grant wanted very much to change the subject. So he turned the tables back on Clara. “So, owning a bakery. That must be gratifying, taking your childhood passion and making a living out of it as an adult.”

For a moment, he didn’t think Clara was going to let him get away with changing the subject. She eyed him narrowly, with clear speculation, nibbling her lower lip—that ripe, generous, delectable lower lip—in thought.

Just when Grant thought he might climb over the table to nibble it, too, she stopped and said, “It is gratifying.”

He’d just bet it was. Oh, wait. She meant the bakery thing, not the lip-nibbling thing.

“Except that when your passion becomes your job,” she went on, “it can sort of rob it of the fun, you know? I mean, it’s still fun, but some of the magic is gone.”

Magic, he repeated to himself. Fun. When was the last time he had a conversation with a woman—or, hell, anyone—that included either of those words? Yet here was Clara Easton, using them both in one breath.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she hastened to clarify. “I do love it. I just...”

She sighed with something akin to wistfulness. Damn. Wistfulness. There was another word Grant could never recall coming up in a conversation before—even in his head.

“Sometimes,” she continued, “I just look at all the stuff in the bakery kitchen and at all the pastries out in the shop, and, after work, I go upstairs to the apartment with Hank, and I wonder... Is that it? Have I already peaked? I have this great kid, and we have a roof over our heads and food in the pantry, and I’m doing for a living what I always said I wanted to do, and yet sometimes... Sometimes—”