“There you go. And who knows, it might be fun. Family dinners can be nice.”

He laughs. “My family is not like the di Fiores, Grace. This will probably not be fun.”

“Way to sell it.”

He laughs again, his dimples doing their best to distract me, his smile warmer now. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He leans over and kisses me on the lips lightly, sending the slightest jolt of electricity through me. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m glad you’ll be there.”

We drive out in the morning. I sit in the passenger seat of St. Clair’s convertible as we leave the bustling city for the countryside home of his parents in Sussex. I’m excited to learn more about his family, but St. Clair hasn’t said much at all since we left London’s border - seeming to withdraw more with every passing mile. I can see the change come over him the further out we get, moving closer and closer to his past, so I try to lighten the mood, chatting about all the different student projects I’m reviewing – some of them pretty out there.

“Did I tell you about the Twitter installation?” I ask. “This girl stands in a white room reading Twitter comments about darkness out loud.”

St. Clair barely cracks a smile. He keeps his eyes on the road.

I babble on. “And there’s another student who has been spray painting black Xs on abandoned buildings to call attention to the media’s abandonment of diversity and social justice. It’s like they think that by being weird they’ll get noticed, but weird doesn’t mean good, you know? I think some of them are just too young to see that yet. I remember when I was in art school, we all wanted to make a splash.”

He smiles, but it’s dimmed, not his normal thousand watt version. “Any more promising ones?”

“A few. It’s like you said—it’s just not going to be the right time for some of them. Timing is so important.”

Like with us. I think about everything St. Clair has done, how he changed my life in so many ways. Not just the job, and this incredible opportunity to travel, but little things too. Encouraging me to paint again, inspiring me to be more confident and believe in myself more.

The miles slide by, and now the scenery is changing. Green grass on green hills and green leafy trees for miles. Dark wooden barns and white woolly sheep dot the fields and hillsides, and a few wire fences mark property lines, but we are definitely not in the city anymore, out in the English countryside in all its lush glory.

“Are we getting close?” I ask. “I can’t believe you grew up out here. It seems so remote!” I think of my childhood in Oakland, surrounded by activity and noise and people.

“That’s the idea for most of these folks.” He turns onto a narrow paved road I would have missed—unmarked except for an ornate freestanding mailbox. As we wind down the road overhung by giant oak trees, St. Clair seems to tense even more, his jaw tightening.

The lines of oaks on either side of us stop and open up to reveal an amazing country estate, buried in the hills. St. Clair’s family home is all stone and brick, three stories high, and imposing and grand. A low stone wall separates the house from the deep mossy green of the yard and a stone pathway leads to a huge wooden door like a castle entrance. Flowers line the stone wall, and ivy makes a pretty green archway above the door.

“Home sweet home,” St. Clair says in that same tone of the eternally damned. Out of the car, the air smells like fresh earth and feels damp. Ferns and other flowers trail up the path and it’s so quaint and cute, I can’t help but be excited despite St. Clair’s sour mood.

“It’s so pretty, like a fairy tale.”

St. Clair nods as we head up the path. “There are plenty of monsters. Brace yourself. ” He pushes the large door open with some effort. “Mum?”

It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim inside, but then I see a tiled entryway and the large sitting room beyond, with windows looking out over a blooming and colorful garden. St. Clair leaves our luggage and we walk through a stone archway into a room with antique velvet couches with shapely lines and plush cushions, dark wood side tables, and brass lamps that complete the castle look. The stone walls are mounted with oil paintings of landscapes, old maps of the UK, and one huge deer head above the mantle. I shudder.

“Darling!” A small woman wearing a flowing peach dress comes in and kisses St. Clair on each cheek. “It’s so wonderful to see you!”

They hug and St. Clair smiles his first real smile since we left London. “Good to see you, too, Mother.”

“I’m so glad you could make it,” she says. “Your father—”

We hear heavy footsteps approaching. “Speak of the devil,” St. Clair mutters as a tall man with St. Clair’s dark hair and swimmer’s build stomps in.

“Son,” he says and extends a hand for St. Clair to shake. “Your front tire looks a little low. Have Renaldo take a look at it before you leave.”

“Hello, father. It’s nice to see you.”

“You’ve brought a guest.” St. Clair’s dad turns his steely gray eyes to me. There’s nothing of St. Clair’s warmth or sparkle of humor in them.

“I was just about to introduce Mum to Grace here. Grace, this is my mum and dad, Alice and Richard.”

“Hello, nice to meet you.”

There’s a long silence as they look me over. I feel like I should curtsey or something. Do I shake their hands? I don’t know what to do with myself. I knew there wouldn’t be warm fuzzies, but this is so awkward. The silence stretches as the large grandfather clock ticks back and forth. I finally settle on, “You have a lovely home.”

St. Clair says, “Grace is helping me with the final art show for the London College of Art.”

Richard snorts. “Still wasting your time on those artsy flights of fancy then.”

“Your son is supporting a wonderful school,” I pipe up. “There are some really talented artists—”

“What about the company?” Richard interrupts me. “Or are you running that one into the ground, too?”

“We have company,” Alice says quietly just as St. Clair’s phone rings.

He looks at the screen. “I have to take this.”

“Of course you do,” Richard says.

“It’s business, father. Remember what it’s like to have a job?”

I cringe inside but watch St. Clair leave through the stone archway. Richard walks out in the other direction without a word.

Alice looks awkward. “Boys will be boys.”

I laugh nervously, not sure what to do here. But clearly, St. Clair’s mother is a practiced hostess. “How about we go have some tea?” Alice suggests. “You must have had a long drive. We could stretch your legs in the garden, have a little walkabout?”

“That sounds great,” I breathe, grateful for an end to the tension.

Outside, in what is obviously her sanctuary, Alice seems to come alive. She shows me her prize rose bushes bursting with color and scent, her pale blue and white clusters of hydrangeas, the bright yellow and magenta snapdragons. We settle at a table by the kitchen door, and she brings out the tea. I can see beyond the garden there’s a pasture with two horses grazing and a stable off to one side. It’s breathtaking. “It’s like a painting,” I say, awed by the natural beauty. “Or something I wish I could paint.”

“You are an artist, too?”

I shrug, embarrassed. “I dabble. But I really love art.”

“Like Charles.” She passes me a cup. “His father wouldn’t let him pursue anything creative, but I’ve often wondered if he might have gone on to great things if he’d had the choice.”

I nod, not sure how much to disclose. St. Clair has not painted a glowing portrait of the family patriarch. Alice chuckles. “Ah, so he told you.”

“A few things,” I admit.

She looks out onto the hillside, the dappled gray horses that look small like figurines in the distance. “I’m very proud of my son. I do worry he works too much, though.” She squints at me. “He does, doesn’t he?”