Chapter 14 - THE SUNDAY SUPPER
That evening, the grand dining room on the Battery was filled with the smell of roasted garlic, rosemary lamb, and warm buttermilk biscuits.
No armed guards stood at the doors.
No security scanners hummed in the foyer.
Only the laughter of friends and the clinking of heavy silver against china.
At the head of the long mahogany table sat Dr. Kenneth, telling outrageous stories about Graham’s teenage years on the boxing circuit to Frank Russo and his wife.
Beside them sat three senior union foremen who had worked alongside Arthur Calloway forty years ago, drinking vintage port and arguing good-naturedly about the college football rankings.
I sat at the other end of the table, wearing a simple, comfortable dress of emerald silk.
Graham sat beside me, his chair pulled four inches closer to mine than protocol had ever allowed in our ten years of marriage.
Under the white linen tablecloth, his large, warm hand rested firmly on my knee.
His thumb stroked slow, rhythmic circles against my silk, a constant, grounding reminder that he was there.
That he was whole.
That he wasn't going anywhere.
“Mrs. Calloway,” Dr. Kenneth called down the table, raising his crystal glass.
“A toast to the real boss of Charleston Harbor.”
The entire table rose to their feet, glasses raised high in the candlelight.
“To Eleanor!” they shouted in unison.
“To Eleanor!”
I laughed, my cheeks flushing pink with happiness, raising my own glass to return the salute.
After dinner, our guests filed out into the cool November night, their laughter drifting down the stone driveway toward the waterfront.
Frank Russo was the last to leave.
He shook Graham’s hand at the door, then turned and offered me a sharp, respectful nod.
“The night watch is posted at the gates, Mrs. Calloway,” Frank said with a faint smile.
“Not for defense.”
“Just to make sure nobody interrupts your quiet.”
“Thank you, Frank,” I smiled.
Graham closed the heavy oak door.
He threw the brass deadbolt with a soft, final click.
He turned around.
The foyer was dim, lit only by the twin sconces beside the grand mirror.
He walked across the marble floor, stopping right in front of me.
He reached out and gently unpinned the pearl comb from my hair, letting the dark waves fall over my bare shoulders.
“You’re quiet tonight, Eleanor,” he murmured, his hands resting on my hips.
“I was thinking about the anniversary gala three weeks ago,” I admitted softly.
His expression tightened for a fraction of a second, the old guilt flickering behind his eyes.
“I spent that whole night wishing I could disappear, Graham.”
“And now?” he asked, his voice dropping into a tender, trembling question.
I reached up with both hands.
I cupped his face, my thumbs tracing the sharp, handsome line of his jawline, feeling the steady heat of his skin beneath my palms.
“Now,” I whispered, “I’m exactly where I want to be for the next fifty years.”
Graham let out a low, breathless laugh that shook his chest.
He swept his arms around my waist, lifting me off my feet, and kissed me with a slow, deep passion that made the world fade into a blur of golden light and clean linen.
He carried me up the grand staircase in the dark.
Past the photographs where he had once looked at me instead of the camera.
May you like
Past the study where his father’s watch ticked on the desk.
Into our bedroom, where the harbor lights danced across the ceiling like stars.
