After All

by McLaughlin, Heidi

  “What happened to you not becoming your father?” Answering a question with a question was the easiest way to avoid giving an uncomfortable answer. As soon as she’d found out she was going to be a mother, her dreams of being a nurse had been put aside, and she’d started doing what she knew how to do best, answering phones and setting schedules for a construction company in Montana, which had turned into painting the interior of homes after she’d had Brystol. Bowie had taught her how to use a paintbrush, and she had always found the job therapeutic, taking her anger out on the walls of unsuspecting homes by jabbing the brush a little too hard in the corners or pressing the roller irately into the walls, until a general contractor who’d liked her a little too much had handed her a hammer and told her to imagine whoever had hurt her was on the wall that he needed torn down. Brooklyn had done just that. Beating the old plaster until it was dust. She’d worked with that contractor for about three years, taking home-improvement classes at the hardware store until she’d set out on her own. Remodeling had become her therapy, and still to this day, the person she imagined each time she hit the wall hadn’t changed.

  “Things are different since you left,” he told her. She found his statement both odd and accusatory. She gathered he wanted her to ask what changed or who, for that matter. While she was tempted, she didn’t want him asking about her and her life, so she didn’t take the bait.

  Just then, the door to the carriage house where Carly lived opened, and she stood in the doorway, looking at Brooklyn and Bowie expectantly. She wanted to get down to business—that much Brooklyn knew. There was something about this whole situation that felt off to Brooklyn. The phone call, asking that she come back to complete the renovation, and now Bowie being there. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but her gut was telling her something was amiss.

  Bowie fell in step behind Brooklyn, following her into the dining room, where they sat across from each other. On the table, the renderings Brooklyn had drawn for the project were spread out, covering every inch of wood. They weren’t as detailed as she would have preferred but better than nothing. She could show Bowie the full scope of her ideas if he wanted or needed to see them, but, in her experience, the contractors did as they were told.

  She watched as Bowie picked up each sheet, studying her hand-drawn work. It had taken her years of night school to master the art of fine lines, arches, and framing, but she had. She sketched her ideas first before she put them into her computer. Most of her clients still loved the idea of paper; they loved holding the concept in their hands. With most of her custom jobs, she would frame the drawings and hang them on the wall for her clients, as it was their vision that helped Brooklyn. It was a small gift from her to them.

  “These are amazing,” Bowie said aloud.

  “Thank you.” His eyes shot directly to hers. She smiled, even though she hadn’t meant to. She hadn’t even intended to acknowledge his compliment either.

  “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Carly suggested as she entered the room with a tray of iced tea and small sandwiches, reminding Brooklyn that she still had a car full of groceries.

  “I’m afraid I need to unpack the car first.” She got up immediately and went back to her car. From the rear of her SUV, no one could see her. She used this to her advantage, finally letting her tears flow. They were hot, angry, and full of longing. There had been a time in her life when she’d told Bowie everything. It wasn’t long after they met that he had become her best guy friend. The one she could talk to about everything, including Austin. He encouraged her to go to college, to do what she wanted, but she never listened. If she had . . .

  No, she refused to think about what her life would be like without Brystol. Her daughter kept her sane and focused and gave her purpose. Being a single mother never bothered her; she never thought about what it would be like to have a partner to help or someone else to depend on. Mostly because there was no point in wishing for someone to come along. Even if she wanted, Brooklyn hadn’t had time to date. Brystol was her priority. Her daughter was also at the age where it would be nice for them to have roots, a stable home. Homeschooling was great, easy, but her daughter needed friends. Maybe that’s why Carly had summoned her back, to give Brystol a chance to grow up in her father’s hometown surrounded by family.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Brooklyn felt his hand on her back before she registered that Bowie was speaking to her. She shied away and tried to wipe her cheeks dry without him seeing. Of course, he knew something was wrong; he always could sense when she was feeling down.

  “Fine.” Her tone was sharp despite needing to clear her throat. She started gathering the tote bags from the grocery store, determined to carry them all so Bowie couldn’t hold it over her head later.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep.” She wasn’t, but that wasn’t the point. Brooklyn wanted Bowie as far away from her as possible, and yet he couldn’t take a hint. He brushed up against her as he reached into the back of her SUV. Goose bumps sprang to life on her arms and legs, and excitement coursed through her body. How long had it been since a man made her feel this way? She knew the exact date and time when she’d had desire pooling in her belly. For as wide as the trunk of her car was, there was nowhere for her to escape.

  “What are you doing?” She stopped and tried to step back, but the heavy bags kept her in place. “I can do this.”

  “No one is saying you can’t.”

  “Then leave,” she huffed.

  Bowie stared, and under his penetrating gaze she felt two feet tall and completely admired all in one. How was that possible? They’d had a history, but their friendship had ended, just like the others she’d had.

  “God, you’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

  She opened her mouth to respond.

  She waited for the words to come.

  Nothing.

  Instead, Brooklyn took as many of the bags as she could muster and walked toward the house with Bowie hot on her heels. Simone met them at the door, smiled coyly, and reached for a tote.

  “I don’t know what you and Carly are up to, but it won’t work.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, dear.” Simone whistled her way into the kitchen as if nothing were amiss.

  When all the bags were deposited safely in the kitchen, Carly beckoned them back to the table. “Now, about the inn. When do you think it could open?”

  Bowie cleared his throat. “I’m thinking three to five months.”

  Brooklyn laughed. “What, do you plan to do the work yourself?”

  He tilted his head slightly. “No, I have a full crew.”

  “So, with mine and yours, that gives us a team of ten, plus us is twelve. Do you think it’s going to take twelve people five months to do a renovation with minimal construction? It should take six, maybe eight weeks.” Even as she said this, she wasn’t comfortable with the timeline, but Carly had insisted they move fast on the renovations.

  He opened his mouth and closed it quickly. He reached for the drawings, perusing the designs. “We need to make sure the foundation, electrical, and the roof are up to code. Building permits must be obtained, and those take time. We have to order enough lumber to add forty accent walls of shiplap because Kenyon’s Lumber won’t have that much in stock. The paint, fixtures—it all takes time. I’m being realistic here, Brooklyn.”

  Every fiber of her wanted to argue with him, but he was right, and she had no intention of telling him so. She looked at Carly, who looked very pleased with herself, even though the night before she’d told Brooklyn that she wanted life back in the inn and had suggested that five rooms open as soon as possible. Maybe now Carly would listen to Bowie because she certainly hadn’t listened to Brooklyn.

  NINE

  The Whale Spout was Cape Harbor’s only watering hole, apart from a few restaurants that served alcohol. The front door was made up of only planks, and the wide plank floors creaked when walked on. The walls were covered with
old fishing nets, a couple of lobster and crab traps, a broken oar, images of the lost fishermen from town, anchors, and really anything a local donated. The bar top happened to be an old deck from a shipwreck that supposedly dated back to the early 1900s, according to the old-timers who sat in the same corner, day after day, telling tall tales meant to entice visitors to stay. Tourists flocked here to hang out with the locals and to hear fishing stories that were so ancient no one really knew if they were true or not, and each time Bowie happened to sit in on one, the tale grew taller. Not that he cared. Those stories were part of the charm of the small coastal town, and what kept people coming back. The hospitality, the sights, and the amazing sunsets made his hometown a favorite place for people to visit.

  The Chamberlains owned the bar, and had for as long as anyone could remember. It had been passed down from previous generations, and it only made sense that Graham would run it when he returned from California after Austin’s funeral. What he and his parents hadn’t counted on was Grady becoming the town drunk.

  Bowie walked toward the end of the bar and took the last stool available, resting his arms on top of the bar and slouching down, clearly defeated. He was so lost in his head that he hadn’t even bothered to look at the other patrons to see if any of his friends were there. Truth was, he wanted to drink. He wanted to celebrate the fact that his divorce would be final . . . a thought that gave him pause. He’d gotten so caught up in the inn he had forgotten to stop by the office and ask Marcia to file the divorce papers. Tomorrow, he told himself. First thing in the morning he’d drive over and file them. And while he wanted to rejoice, he also wanted to get so shit-faced drunk that the day would be nothing but a blur. He wanted to drown his sorrows and memories, erase everything from his mind. At this point, he’d really like to forget about the last twenty years of his life or so—go back to the moment when he met Brooklyn Hewett and look the other way.

  “Surprised to see you here, Holmes. We have a dart competition going—want to join?” Deep in his funk, he hadn’t turned around to acknowledge the voice he recognized as one of his employees, knowing that it was Chris Johnson standing behind him with his hand on Bowie’s shoulder. Chris was the newest member of the work crew and would have been the first one Bowie laid off if he hadn’t taken the reno job at the inn. He felt stupid for even having considered passing up the work. At first, it was his feelings for being an inadequate friend to the Woodses, but then Carly went and dropped a bomb—not just any bomb, but the bomb of all bombs that would undoubtedly destroy Bowie . . . Brooklyn.

  “Uh, not tonight, but thanks,” Bowie mumbled to Chris. Chances were, he couldn’t hear what his boss had said over the loud music and voices that filled the bar. Nonetheless, Chris stepped away, leaving Bowie to wallow in his self-pity. He was going to hell. In a handbasket or whatever the saying was. It honestly didn’t matter because Bowie had a one-way ticket, and there wasn’t anything that could be done to stop him.

  As if by magic, a pint appeared in front of Bowie. He glanced up and saw his good friend Graham behind the bar, tending to another patron. Bowie sipped the cold beer slowly. As much as he wanted to drink until he passed out, he also wanted to keep his wits intact. Any minute, he expected Brooklyn to walk in and continue ruining his night. After she’d questioned him in front of Carly, he’d felt emasculated, worse than Rachel ever made him feel. He couldn’t deny that she knew her stuff, but to be showed up in front of others—that was a hard pill to swallow.

  He had so many questions; mostly he wanted to know what was going on and why Brooklyn was back. Was she purely there to do the renovation and go back to wherever she came from? Or did Carly know something? Had she suspected all those years when she’d helped nurture Austin’s friends that he’d felt something for Brooklyn? No, he was sure there was no way Carly knew anything then, nor was she playing matchmaker now. Aside from him and Brooklyn, the only people who knew were Graham and Rachel. Actually, Rachel had found out by accident. That particular year, Bowie was struggling. He was missing his friend and told Rachel everything and then said he never wanted to speak about it again. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders, but it was short lived. Once the anniversary of Austin’s death rolled around, Bowie was back on edge, wondering if Brooklyn was going to storm into town, wrecking him. And she finally had.

  Graham placed another beer in front of Bowie. He looked up and tried to smile. Graham set his hands on the edge of the bar and bent over until he was eye level with him. “Want to tell me what’s going on?” Graham asked. The man was a vault and would never share the stories people told him while sitting at his bar. Plus, since they had grown up together, there wasn’t much they didn’t know about each other.

  Bowie shook his head slowly and picked up the next pint to take a drink, finishing it off without a pause and setting the glass down with a thud. It was going to be a long night, and he suspected Graham would supply him with plenty of booze to get him talking.

  “I haven’t seen you like this in years. Not even when Rachel asked for a divorce. Is Luke okay?”

  Luke? He turned cold at the mention of his dog’s name. Where was he? Bowie tried to recollect whether he drove him home or left him in the truck. There was no way he’d leave his faithful companion in the cab while he sat in the bar. He had never been that careless before and if Brooklyn’s return meant he was . . . well, that was unacceptable. Luke was his best friend, and he would never do anything to hurt him.

  Bowie got up from the bar and went outside. There was a chill in the air, and he shivered, crossing his arms for comfort. He jogged down the block until he came to his truck. The cab was empty. His head rested against the window as he cursed before pushing himself away from his truck. He knew Luke was at home. He had dropped him off after he left Carly’s. After he’d fed Luke, they’d gone for a long walk along the beach, a place where Bowie always found a bit of calm amid the madness that was in his life. It hadn’t worked tonight, which was how he had ended up at the bar.

  He was losing his mind, and for what? A woman? A former friend who had walked out on the people who loved and cared about her the most? Not worth it. “She’s not worth it,” he mumbled into the night sky.

  “Who isn’t?”

  Bowie jerked in shock and found Monroe Whitfield standing in front of him. She smiled softly and pushed her hands deeper into the pockets of her jacket. Along with the Chamberlain twins, she had grown up with Bowie. While Monroe was beautiful, he wasn’t attracted to her. Sometimes, he wished he was, though, because his mother loved her. He did as well, but only as a friend. He looked around and realized he was back at the bar. Was he really that deep in thought that he was losing time, or was he drunker than he realized? Either that or Graham was spiking his beer.

  “Hey, Roe. You snuck up on me.”

  “Really?” She tilted her head and smiled. “Pretty sure if I hadn’t said something, you would’ve plowed me over.”

  Bowie ran his hand over the back of his head and sighed. “Sorry. I’m in a fog.”

  “Rachel?” she asked.

  He shook his head slowly and motioned toward the door. “You going in?”

  “Yeah, do you know if Grady’s in there?”

  Bowie wasn’t sure what Roe saw in him other than a charity case. Everyone in town knew Monroe tried to help Grady. Late at night, she would be seen driving around, looking for him, trying to get him to go home. The accident that had taken Austin also had taken Grady, but in a different way. Everyone had been affected, lost someone they loved, but Grady had taken the death of Austin the worst.

  Again, Bowie shook his head. “Sorry,” he said, pointing to his head. “Foggy.” Bowie held the door open for Monroe and followed behind her. Graham yelled her name, and she waved. Monroe chose to sit at a table, likely expecting her sister to join her later. Bowie was torn. Go back to sit at the bar or go converse with one of his oldest friends. Graham made the decision for him when he sat two beers down on the table along with a bowl of p
opcorn and two menus. The Whale Spout served some of the best finger foods this side of the Sound.

  Bowie sat and studied the menu even though he knew what was offered. All around, others filled the silence with clapping, hollering, and cheering when someone hit a bull’s-eye or sank the eight ball in the designated pocket.

  “You’re not playing?” Monroe motioned toward the dartboards.

  “I’m not really feeling myself tonight.” He tossed the menu down on the table and picked up his pint, chugging half of it. “I thought I left Luke in my truck. So stupid,” he said after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Did you hit your head or something?”

  “No . . . I don’t know.”

  Monroe leaned forward and rested her hand on top of his. He regarded her, wondering what she was thinking. “Brooklyn Hewett is back in town, Bo. I saw her at the grocery store today. Our encounter was weird—it was like she was hiding or something. She wore dark glasses and a hat. I don’t know. She didn’t act like she was happy to see me, though. I wonder what she’s doing here.”

  That makes two of us.

  Bowie sighed. “She’s renovating the inn.”

  “What? Why?”

  “The inn is going to reopen.”

  “No, I figured that much.” Monroe waved him off. “I heard some rumblings around town earlier today. But why her?”

  Bowie pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen a few times and finally slid it over to Monroe. After he’d left Carly’s, he’d done what he’d always vowed he would never do—he’d searched for Brooklyn on the internet. He only had to type her name and the first letter of her last name before her website and hundreds of links and images popped up. She wasn’t just someone who painted interiors but one of the most sought-after decorators and renovators in the country. Her client list was a who’s who of celebrities. Anyone from actors to singers to professional athletes. Not to mention clients who paid top dollar to have Brooklyn redo a room in their house. Brooklyn had made a name for herself. That’s why she was here. Carly wanted the best, and the best just happened to be her son’s former girlfriend.