They sat outside and basked in the rising sun. A few of the smaller yachts sailed by, with the people on board waving. Simone waved back, but Carly held her mug tightly in her hands. Not because she hadn’t wanted to greet them, but because her hands were shaking, and she was afraid someone might notice.
“Summer will be here soon,” Simone said.
She sipped her tea and closed her eyes as the tickle she had avoided earlier was back and much stronger. She coughed and felt her lungs tighten and seize, causing her to double over and gasp for air. She tried to set her mug down on the small table next to her, but it hit the edge and went tumbling down to the ground, shattering into tiny shards of ceramic as hot liquid spread across the patio.
Simone was in front of her, rubbing her back and coaxing her through the fit. Her words were soothing, but they wouldn’t help the pain she felt in her chest. “It’s time to make the call, Ms. Carly.”
She nodded. It was all she could do, as she feared that if she opened her mouth, an anguished cry would escape. It was time for her to admit things she wasn’t ready for.
ONE
Brooklyn thought she’d feel different as soon as the welcoming sign to Cape Harbor came into view. She anticipated a barrage of emotions to hit her as she neared the town line. She expected she’d have to stop, check her breathing, and remind herself why she was back. She had lost count of how many times she had tried to talk herself out of returning, unable to bring herself to get behind the wheel and drive north from her parents’ Seattle home . . . until now. She would never turn her back on her family. It was the timing that bothered her the most, and that was what made her pull over. Even under the bright afternoon sun, the floodlight still illuminated the white-and-blue sign, and Brooklyn stood there, with a hood pulled over her head to hide herself from passing cars, looking at the name of the man who had changed her life. She was back for him, for his mother, and to face the past.
Instead of heading straight to the Driftwood Inn, Brooklyn detoured and drove down Third Street. This was the only town she had ever lived in or visited that hadn’t had a Main Street. It was such a random thing she picked up on when she and her parents moved here years ago. She never understood why until she learned that when the town incorporated, the people counted the streets up from the harbor, numbering instead of naming, with First Street being the closest to the water.
Curiosity filled her. For years she had not asked questions about her favorite spots, mostly to avoid the feeling of being homesick, but also so she could forget. The less she knew, the better. The less she longed to return, the easier it would be to create a new life. That was what she needed to do: start over, put the past behind her, and move on.
At the red light, she closed her eyes. It only took her seconds to tell Carly she would come back, even though, deep down, it wasn’t what she wanted to do. Yet, she owed the woman and could never tell her no. Brooklyn was content with the life she was living. She was one of the most sought-after home renovators, with homeowners paying her top dollar to come to them, to transform their visions into their dream homes. Her job afforded her many luxuries, except roots. She didn’t rent a home, let alone own one. Each town became her stomping ground, until the next job came in. She traveled thousands of miles, back and forth across the country, leaving her mark everywhere she went.
The honking horn startled her. Her eyes flung open, and her foot automatically touched the gas before she slammed her foot back onto the brake, earning another long horn and probably a few choice words from the car behind her. She would never care about someone’s overeagerness to punch the gas as soon as the light turned green. Her reasoning was asleep in the seat next to her, and she would never trust other drivers to stop at red lights. She watched the cross traffic before pulling into the intersection to continue down the road.
The slow pace she kept allowed her to take in the sights. The storefronts were all familiar and decorated red, white, and blue for the upcoming holiday. People lingered on the sidewalks, talking to friends; others wove through the foot traffic to get to their destinations. And then there were the tourists, stopping and taking pictures to capture their vacation memories: on benches, in front of the whiskey barrels holding various colors of tulips and the statues of Lewis and Clark and Sacagawea. Brooklyn saw a young couple go into Susie’s Sweet Shoppe, the 1950s soda fountain, which served locally made ice cream, the best she had ever had until one of her jobs had taken her to Vermont, where she had tried Ben & Jerry’s for the first time. Now they were her favorite with all their crazy flavors and different concoctions. Back when she lived here, she and her friends would meet at Susie’s after school, on Friday nights, or after a game, whether football, wrestling, basketball, or baseball. Of course, the girls would become giddy when the guys showed up, especially in their baseball uniforms, stained with grass and dirt. Susie’s always reminded her of the movie Grease, except with a black-and-white tiled floor and red vinyl booths. One year for Halloween, the owners hosted a sock hop, and everyone in town came out for the party. Next to the ice cream parlor was Ellie’s, the local florist; Washington Savings Bank; and the family-owned deli, O’Maddi’s. But it was the commotion across the street that got her attention. The open market on the corner displayed fresh fish, resting on packed ice, and the cafés had their wrought-iron tables and chairs outside, allowing patrons to enjoy the warm weather. People sat there, chatting happily among themselves, enjoying the fresh air and ambience of this small town.
At the next light, she stared at the fish market. It was busy; people waited in makeshift lines to place their orders while some had their cell phones held high, likely set to record the salmon being thrown over the stand and caught easily behind the counter, much like they’d see in Seattle at the Pike Place Fish Market. If things were still the same, it was the owner’s sons—and now maybe his grandsons—who threw the ordered fish behind the counter to teens, who wrapped the product in paper and cashed out customers. This had been her first job. She had wanted to hate it, but the camaraderie had kept her coming back. She loved her coworkers, but the smell! Teenage girls did not like to smell bad in any way, let alone smell like fish. After each shift, she’d rush home to shower and change, and she washed her work clothes every night. Her mother begged her to quit, but Brooklyn loved the job. It gave her independence and money in her pocket.
She smiled at the scene and let her eyes rove over the people milling around. She did a double take at the woman standing on the street corner. Waiting to cross was her old friend Monroe Whitfield. Brooklyn recognized her instantly. Her friend hadn’t changed one bit, with her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. She couldn’t recall a time when Monroe wore her hair down, unlike her sister, Mila, who never put hers up. The sisters were as opposite as night and day, from what Brooklyn remembered, yet best friends and inseparable. What is Monroe up to these days? Is she married? Does she have any children? If she were a better friend, she would’ve known these things. If she had kept in touch, if she had come back when expected, maybe her heart wouldn’t feel as if it were about to escape the confines of her chest out of fear that Monroe might somehow figure out she was staring at her. The emotional part of her wanted to push the button to put her window down, stick her arm out, and call the name of the woman who used to be her friend. The logical part of her knew she shouldn’t, and that saddened her. She knew the confrontations were coming; she expected them. She had no business going to look for them, though.
Once again, the car behind Brooklyn honked. This time, the driver laid on the horn for longer, making his impatience known. When she glanced in her rearview mirror, she could see the man flipping her off. She threw her hand up in the air, but he wouldn’t be able to see her with the tinted windows of her SUV. She let off the brake pedal slowly, purposely. She had a problem with overly aggressive drivers and had encountered quite a few in her travels.
Thankfully, her car looked like any of the other tourist vehicles in town with h
er out-of-state Florida plates. Driving down the road, she saw plates from Oregon, California, Texas, and as far as North Carolina. The longer she drove, the more her head was on a swivel, taking everything in. Memories flooded her senses, making her smile. Many times throughout her life she had wished things were different and wondered what it would be like to go back in time and make different choices. She didn’t care about altering her future, only changing one day. That was all she wanted to do. Make a better decision, say the right things, and not give up so easily.
When Cape Harbor High came into view, she pulled over. Very few students milled around, some sitting under the large oak trees, while others walked down the steps and turned in whatever direction they needed to go home. From here, her old house was approximately five blocks away. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind she could still walk home with her eyes closed.
Sitting in the passenger seat, her daughter stirred. Brooklyn peered over and thought about waking her up but drove on. Carly was waiting for them to arrive and no doubt pacing the floor.
Back in the day, the Driftwood Inn was the hot spot of the town. Aside from the view that the guest rooms offered of the magnificent scenery, the ballroom alone was a sight to behold with the gold tear-dropped diamond chandelier that hung in the center of the room. Brooklyn always imagined she was Cinderella at the ball when she stood there. The ballroom itself held every type of party, weddings and receptions, school dances, and conference luncheons. In that room and under the beautiful light fixture, men had bent down on one knee to propose. It was where countless best men and maids of honor had stood, toasting their friends. It was where couples had fallen in love. And for Brooklyn, it was where she thought she’d have her wedding reception, dancing in the arms of the man she once loved.
Brooklyn pulled onto the crumbling driveway. Potholes, chunks of missing pavement, and weeds had taken over the half moon–shaped parking area. She put her SUV into park. Her finger hesitated on the push-start button, and she wondered if she had just entered the twilight zone. Nothing looked the same as she remembered. She finally pressed the button to shut off her vehicle and opened her car door, instantly stepping into a hole small enough that it could easily be ignored or missed if you were in a hurry but large enough to do some damage to an ankle if you were not paying attention. Brooklyn came around the back side of her car and stood there, staring at the darkened windows. In all her years coming here, she’d never seen the inn like this—drab, dreary, without life—and the carriage house attached to the inn wasn’t faring much better. She scanned the area and noticed that the landscaping was fine but far from the pristine vista it once was. The effervescence of the inn was gone, and she had a good idea as to why.
Brystol opened the car door, having woken up, and slid out of the passenger seat with her arms stretching toward the sky. Mom and daughter glanced at each other for a second before Brooklyn turned her attention back to the inn, which seemed out of place for the oceanfront property. When Carly had called and asked her to come and renovate the inn, she had assumed she meant new paint, fixtures, and tapestries. She hadn’t thought the inn would need a new life, but the cobwebs, overgrown shrubs, and chipped paint led Brooklyn to believe otherwise. The disarray she was witnessing was nothing like the prestige she had known the inn to have, and she was afraid of what the inside looked like.
“Did Nonnie close the inn?” she asked her daughter. When she spoke to Carly, it was always about Brystol and nothing more. It pained Brooklyn to ask too many questions about the people and life she once had in Cape Harbor, and she knew it hurt Carly as well.
Brystol shrugged and rubbed her eyes, clearly not fully awake.
“Do people stay here when you visit?” Brooklyn tried again.
Her daughter shook her head. “It’s only Nonnie, Simi, and me.”
No mention of the housekeepers, chefs, or waitstaff that worked around the clock to keep the inn a tourist destination. Carly had never said anything to her about closing the inn. Not that she would expect her to, and Brooklyn never asked, but she would expect her parents to say something at least. It had been years since she had been in Cape Harbor, but not Brystol. She spent her summers in Washington, split between here and Seattle, where her other grandparents lived.
“What about parties, luncheons? Does Nonnie have people in the ballroom?”
“No, why would they?” Brystol asked.
Because that’s what the inn was for, Brooklyn wanted to tell her daughter. She kept her thought to herself. Her daughter knew nothing of what this inn could do, the joy it brought to the people of Cape Harbor and the many tourists who came through the beautiful town. When Brooklyn had left Cape Harbor, she had allowed guilt to consume her, shutting everyone out, including the one woman she shouldn’t have.
To the left of the inn was a smaller dwelling where Carly lived. Brooklyn knew the inside well and loved the old charm of the carriage house. She had spent many days and nights inside those walls, doing homework, watching television, and falling in love. She had also spent a great deal of time worrying, right alongside Carly, who had always put on a brave face each time a storm rolled in and the guys weren’t back in port. They had spent hours together, watching out the back window for the pink flag of the Carly to come into view. Without fail, whoever saw it first would point, and they would let out a sigh in relief. Their men were safe, for another day. There had been only one time when the pink flag wasn’t blowing in the wind when the Carly returned to port—the day Skip Woods died. For the first time, Brooklyn had seen what life would be like if she were to marry Austin, a life full of worry and wonder, mixed with happiness.
The front door opened; Brooklyn’s and Carly’s eyes met. Neither woman smiled. It had been years since they’d seen each other, for no other reason than Brooklyn couldn’t find her way back here. She stared at the once-regal woman, who was now frail and older than her years. She watched as Carly turned to Brystol, her face morphing into a wide smile. She held her arms open, and Brooklyn’s daughter went running, yelling as she did, “Nonnie!”
After a long hug, Carly held Brystol’s face between her hands. “Finally, my baby’s home,” she said, pulling the teen back into her arms. “You’re getting so big.”
“You say that every time I see you.” Brystol laughed and stepped out of her grandmother’s hold.
It took a moment for the two women to move toward each other. They met somewhat in the middle and embraced as if they hadn’t seen each other in weeks, not years. The tension rolled off Carly in waves. Brooklyn could feel the animosity coming from Carly, and she knew there wasn’t anything she could do about it. The decision to stay away had been her own, regardless of who it hurt.
Carly stepped away and crossed her arms over her torso. It was unseasonably warm, but it seemed like Carly was trying to keep a chill away from her or protecting her heart from breaking. Something Brooklyn knew too much about. Carly glanced at Brooklyn one more time before turning her back to her. They exchanged no words. None needed. Brooklyn knew Carly resented her for taking Brystol away. She resented her for a lot of things. That was another reason she never came back here—there were too many demons because of bad decisions.
Later, after the car had been emptied of their belongings and Brystol had filled Carly and Simone in on how homeschooling was going and where their latest adventures had been, Brooklyn found Carly sitting in the sunroom, rocking back and forth in her antique white chair. She took the seat next to her, sighed, and made the mistake of looking out the window. Boats filled the harbor, both commercial and recreational. But it was the vessel coming in, with its crew standing starboard and waving, that made her heart lurch, the ache she hadn’t felt for years coming back tenfold, the knife that lived within her twisting its jagged edge. Her hand flew to her chest just as tears came rushing in. Fifteen years, that was how long it’d been. She wiped angrily at the hot, wet drops, wishing she could control her emotions better. This was one reason she’d stayed away. The me
mories were too painful, and she hated the way they made her feel.
With no words, Carly reached for her hand, causing Brooklyn to cry even harder. There was a time in her life when she thought of Carly as a mother. In fact, most of the kids who walked through the doors felt the same. It was natural—this was the house everyone came to after school—but things changed. Death happened. She wanted to apologize, to tell Carly how sorry she was for staying away and how she thought Carly wouldn’t have wanted to see her. She had sent Brystol every summer, thinking that would be good enough. She saw now it hadn’t been. They held hands until Brooklyn’s tears ran dry, but the pain still lingered, and she knew it was never going away.
TWO
Bowie Holmes slid his foot into his brown work boot and pulled the laces over and around the hooks, skipping a set about halfway up since a hook had broken. He pulled the worn-out piece of leather as tightly as possible. He repeated the same for his other foot before he stood and groaned. His hand went instantly to his lower back as he bent over, trying to stretch out his aching muscles. He desperately needed a new bed, and as he stood there, looking at his boots, he knew a new pair of those would do him some good as well.
Amicable or not, divorce was hard. When Bowie and his soon-to-be-ex-wife, Rachel, separated, they were anything but cordial, and both ended up with separate lawyers, which was something he’d wanted to avoid, but her parents insisted. His lawyer was sucking the life out of his checkbook, while Rachel’s made sure he had to cover her fees too. He was getting royally screwed and couldn’t even enjoy it. Nor could he do anything about it.
He went outside and whistled. Within seconds, his faithful companion, Luke, came running. Bowie held the door to his truck open as his dog jumped in. This was the one thing he wouldn’t budge on with the divorce. He was keeping his dog, and he couldn’t care less what Rachel’s lawyer threw at him. Luke had adopted Bowie—at least that’s how he told the story. When he was a pup, the black Lab had wandered onto a jobsite, climbed into Bowie’s open-doored truck, and fallen asleep. He’d shooed, tried to chase the dog away, and told him to scram. The dog wouldn’t leave.
After All Page 2
