Walk Me Home

by Liza Kendall

  From her brother came a swift intake of breath. Then silence again.

  “Jake, uh, says hello.”

  Brandon’s silence grew to ominous proportions. Then Charlie heard the click-click of a lighter, and the sound of suction as he drew on a cigarette.

  “Bran?”

  Her brother abruptly hung up on her.

  Seriously?

  Charlie removed the phone from her ear and stared at it, her inner knowledge and anger growing. Had her brother had something to do with the fire? Had he lied, all of these years?

  She grabbed a fourth vanilla pudding and ate it as she paced from the kitchen to the family photo and back again. If she confronted Brandon, would he try to hurt himself again?

  She paced back and forth, back and forth. Threw the plastic pudding cup in the sink and paced some more. It was on lap thirty-seven that she decided: She wasn’t going to participate in this family whitewash any longer. If Brandon had just come clean from the beginning, he might have healed.

  Charlie lay down on Granddad’s bed and gazed at the portrait of Grandma Babe, who smiled at her serenely, unsurprised at human weaknesses or failures. Time will tell, she seemed to say.

  Charlie closed her eyes and thought about the terrible night of the fire. Jake had been evicted two days earlier, after The Talk, and both of them had been upset, to put it mildly.

  But her parents, Dave and Maria, had made it very clear that Jake was still welcome to visit. That they had great affection for him, and that he could come over to visit anytime. He just couldn’t sleep there.

  So Jake—chin up and legs spread wide—had shown up on the doorstep to test that invitation. He’d rung the doorbell close to dinnertime and rocked back on his heels, hands stuffed in his pockets, probably to hide the fact that they were shaking.

  His bravado didn’t fool Charlie for a second, and her heart broke for him. She’d let him in, her parents and grandparents had converged on them, and she’d gone to find Brandon. He was in the backyard, facing the setting sun, and when she called him, he’d turned quickly and concealed something. Said he’d be right in.

  Charlie hadn’t thought much about it at the time. But now she knew exactly what he’d hidden. It came to her in a rush of clarity, brought on by that click-click of his lighter and his audible drag on the cigarette.

  Her fingers fumbled the phone when she dialed Brandon’s number again, surprised when he picked up and said in that gravelly voice, “I shouldn’t have hung up on you.”

  “Will you let me say what I have to say?” Charlie asked. “Let me finish?”

  He was silent, but he didn’t hang up.

  “Maybe you were smoking the night of the fire, Brandon. Maybe something happened.”

  There was a curse from his end of the line, and then a crash, as if he’d thrown something against the wall.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  She waited a beat. Then two. “If something happened that night . . . oh, Bran, I know it had to have been an accident,” she said, her voice somehow full of compassion.

  The tension on the line between them grew almost tangible, a blue-black ominous thing. A thing neither of them really wanted to risk touching. But she had to, no matter how painful it might be. She approached it with extreme caution.

  How could she feel sorry for her brother and yet be so angry with him at the same time? How could she love and hate him simultaneously? “You didn’t . . . kill . . . if something out there happened like that—maybe with a cigarette or a lighter or something—you didn’t kill anyone. It was an accident. And you were a kid, a scared kid. But you’re an adult now. It’s time to grow up.”

  Her brother was silent.

  “Brandon, it doesn’t make you bad. Just human. Okay?”

  He exhaled audibly.

  “I love you, Bran. Nothing will ever change that. Mom and Dad and Granddad and Aunt Sadie and Will—we all will still love you. But you have to tell the truth. For everyone’s sake. And for your own.”

  After yet another long silence, her brother finally said, “I hear you.”

  Charlie felt weak with relief. “Come in for Will’s wedding, Brandon. Talk to Jake. It’s a long story, but he’s a substitute best man.”

  “A what? For Will? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  “It’s a weird story. He’s helping out.”

  “Right.”

  She sighed. “Come in for the wedding. Then I’ll help you talk to Granddad. Mom and Dad, too. Just come.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Was that a trace of hope in her brother’s voice? She prayed that it was.

  “One last thing,” Charlie said. “Promise me that right now you’re okay. That you won’t do anything stupid.”

  He promised.

  “I love you, Bran,” she told him again.

  “You still love Jake, too,” he said. “I could hear it in your voice.”

  His bold statement was like a bucket of cold water in her face. Things could be so different if she hadn’t had to make that promise to Granddad. Love wasn’t even on the table, much less in her hands. “That’s ridiculous,” Charlie said emphatically. “Now, let’s both get some sleep.”

  She hung up the phone, knowing that she’d done the right thing but feeling as spent and limp as linguine. At least the call hadn’t been for nothing.

  She’d taken a huge risk. She’d stopped avoiding the past. She’d addressed the bruised, painful tension between her and her brother. It might have exploded in a mess. She could have destroyed the ghost of their relationship.

  But she hadn’t.

  It had turned out okay . . . maybe even better than okay. They’d have to wait and see.

  Brandon’s reaction still vaguely puzzled her. She’d expected an extreme: either total denial and a permanent rift—or a flood of true confessions. But he was still . . . what was the word? Hedging?

  The question was why, but she wasn’t going to solve the riddle tonight.

  Exhausted, she turned out the lights and shoved her head under Granddad’s pillow.

  Sleep did not come easy. She did not love Jake Braddock. She might be attracted to him. She might want to resolve the issues of the past. But just because she wanted the truth to come to light did not mean she loved the guy.

  Chapter 17

  Jake finished up a fire-safety inspection in a local warehouse the next day and drove back to the firehouse, bracing himself for the wedding rehearsal and dinner. Ridiculous what a case of nerves he had. He was paid to keep calm in every sort of life-threatening emergency, yet here he was, sweating bullets over a nonevent.

  Why in the hell had he agreed to be a stand-in groomsman? Oh yeah. For a little petty revenge on Charlie, who so clearly hadn’t wanted him as a substitute at the time.

  Except after that last kiss, Jake didn’t want revenge. He had no idea what she wanted, though. The worst part was no longer standing up next to Charlie; it was seeing whatever members of Charlie’s family were going to show up.

  Jake owned only one jacket, a standard navy blue blazer. He put it on with a light blue dress shirt and gray slacks, debating whether or not he’d have to strangle himself with a tie for Bridezilla. He owned only two of those, and one was dotted with reindeer and Santas.

  Muttering darkly to himself, he snagged the other tie—boring blue and gray stripes—and shoved it in a pocket of the jacket. He looked in the bathroom mirror and recoiled. That was not him staring back. No way. It was his brother Everett, about to go into some business meeting.

  Jake scowled and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up so that he looked more like himself. Then he trudged down the stairs, wishing he were going anywhere but to rehearse for somebody’s wedding.

  Mick and Tommy were downstairs with Not-Spot, watching the ball game while Mick made ch
ili, which smelled phenomenal. Even more reluctant to leave, Jake inhaled the aroma of garlic, chilies, onion, tomato, and beef.

  “Save some for me,” he said, without much real hope. The guys ate like raptors, and Not-Spot was a criminal counter surfer who devoured anything within reach.

  Mick turned around and whistled. “Look at you, Princess Buttercup! Aren’t you lovely.”

  Tommy grinned. “Off to prom, then? Did you get her a corsage?”

  Jake shot them double fingers, but it didn’t do any good.

  “Do we need to have the birds-and-bees talk, son?” Mick asked.

  Jake looked around for his keys. “I’m only doing this for my sister, guys.”

  “Doing it for his sister,” Mick mused. “That just sounds wrong.”

  “It does,” said Tommy. “But speaking of doing and sisters—” He waggled his eyebrows.

  Jake palmed his keys off the kitchen counter and narrowed his eyes at Tommy. “You stay away from Lila, or there will suddenly be one less hose in this firehouse. Understand?”

  “What if she likes me?”

  “I can fix that.” Jake headed for the door.

  “Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do,” Mick said. “By the way, we do it all, so go crazy. And give Charlie my love!”

  “Charlie from the bar the other night?” Tommy asked. “Gotta agree with you. She does have a nice ra—”

  “That is enough, gentlemen!” Jake said, glaring at Tommy.

  Tommy laughed. “Well, if you like her so much, then why do you look like you’re about to go in front of a firing squad?”

  “Because I probably am.” Jake shut the door on them and headed for the Durango.

  Minutes later, he pulled up at the Old Barn, where Charlie was waiting for him in the parking lot that Lila had marked off using more of those damned swags on hammered posts. Waiting there in a stunning classic black knee-length dress that hugged her every gorgeous curve.

  Jake felt a lump growing in his throat. Swallow it, idiot.

  He did, but another one welled in its place. He told himself he’d seen too many sappy movies, but he knew that his feelings had nothing to do with Hollywood and everything to do with Charlie.

  She looked regal in her simple black dress. Her uncomplicated beauty absolutely undid him, as her words had last night.

  You didn’t fail Grandma Babe . . . You did the best you could for her.

  He loved her for saying it. He just wished the rest of her family felt the same way.

  She offered him a warm smile, and when he parked, she walked over.

  Jake leaned over and opened the passenger-side door. Charlie hiked up her skirt a little so she could climb inside. “Hi,” she said.

  Jake’s gaze was riveted to the expanse of smooth, bare thigh she’d revealed. “Hi.”

  “Ready to rhumba?”

  He reached out to touch her left leg, tracing his fingers from the hem of her dress down to her knee, gratified when she shivered and made no move to push his hand away. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He’d leaned forward to kiss her, when the barn door flew open and Lila peered out.

  “Charlie? Charlie, we need you in here right away!”

  Charlie sighed, scooted for the door, and slipped out of the truck.

  “What is it about weddings that make women crazy?” Jake asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But excuse me.”

  “Give me a minute. I’ll be right in.”

  “You okay?”

  He nodded.

  “It’ll be okay,” she said softly.

  “I’m not afraid of them, Charlie.”

  She gave him a level look that said she didn’t believe him, but she shut the door and went into the barn.

  She knew him too well. As Jake braced himself to face the entire Nash family, a sandy-haired guy pulled up in a silver BMW. Instead of getting out, he just sat there, gripping the wheel and staring straight ahead.

  Jake did the same thing. I am not afraid of any member of the Nash family, he told himself. I have done nothing wrong. If they behave strangely, it’s on them . . . It has nothing to do with me. He got out of his truck, and the sound of his door closing seemed to jolt Mr. Beemer out of his trance. He got out, too.

  “Hi,” said Jake. “Here for the rehearsal?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m the groom. Will Spence.” He smiled and stuck out his hand, and Jake froze, because he looked so much like a younger version of his grandfather Kingston. And because they’d met once before.

  But Jake took his hand. “Jake Braddock, rented groomsman, your grandfather’s physical therapist, and your wedding planner’s brother. We’ve met, but it’s . . . been a while.”

  “Right, right. We have met. At my grandmother’s funeral.” Will didn’t withdraw his hand, but his expression congealed. “Listen, I guess this is all a bit weird, but when Felicity gets an idea . . . Anyway. But, uh, thank you, man. For subbing in at the last minute. We appreciate it.”

  Jake nodded slowly. “No problem. Glad I can help.”

  Together they entered the Old Barn, where almost everyone else was already gathered. “You know my parents? Sadie and Theo Spence?” Will asked politely.

  Jake didn’t, though of course he’d seen them at the funeral, too. He’d stood in the very back of the service, trying not to throw up from nerves, doing his best to ignore the whispers and sidelong glances. Brandon’s friend . . . They set a campfire in the backyard . . . May have had something to do with the house fire. Jake looked around; Brandon wasn’t here.

  “Mom, Dad,” Will said a little too jovially, “this is Jake Braddock. He’s subbing as groomsman for Geoff, since he was transferred overseas.”

  “Oh dear. Oh, yes. Jake Braddock. Hello.” Sadie looked like a plus-sized version of Babe Nash, taller and with a little more stuffing. She seemed frazzled, and to avoid making eye contact with Jake, she kept beaming artificially at an older couple who looked as if they’d just stepped out of Town & Country magazine. Must be the bride’s parents.

  “Nice to meet you,” Jake said, because he couldn’t say, I’m sorry to this day that I failed to get your mother out of her burning house alive. It didn’t seem appropriate for the occasion.

  Sadie’s husband, Theo, was a tall, gaunt fellow with cup-handle ears and a faintly condescending expression. “Ah. Good to meet you,” he managed, examining some lint on his sleeve.

  “Likewise.” Why didn’t I bring along a flask? Why wasn’t there a bar right here in the barn?

  Jake got to meet Town & Country Twosome next. They were indeed Bridezilla’s parents, fashionably dressed and sporting magnificent blindingly white dental work.

  “You know my fiancée, Felicity?” Will asked, as he and Jake approached her.

  Jake nodded. “Yes, we’ve met. Good to see you again.” Felicity was resplendent in hot-tamale red lipstick and a silky silvery cocktail dress. It left very little to anyone’s imagination. It clung to . . . everything. So much so that Jake had to look away.

  Felicity seemed oblivious, but her husband-to-be’s color rose as the pastor and his wife took the same tack as Jake did; they avoided looking directly at the bride for fear of ogling anything ripe or low-hanging.

  Jake thought about talking to the pastor about this bizarre situation and what a very strange sense of humor God had, but he reminded himself that this occasion was not about him. He also reminded himself that he’d thoughtlessly and foolishly said yes to the devil, a.k.a. Lila.

  He excused himself and searched among the gaggle of bridesmaids for Charlie, but he didn’t see her. He was relieved when she and Lila came in, and went over to them immediately.

  “Jake,” Lila said, smooching him on the cheek. “How are you?”

  He grimaced. “Is it too late to find a different groomsman?”

  “Yes,
” Lila said.

  “Because this is extremely awkward.”

  “I know. But at least this way, the Nash family has to recognize your existence.” She punched him in the shoulder and then flashed him a surprisingly sympathetic smile.

  “I’d actually rather they didn’t. It was cleaner that way.”

  “We’re not talking about your wishes here. We’re talking about what’s right.”

  Jake was shocked at the vehemence in his little sister’s tone. Huh.

  “They should not only thank you,” she said, “but kiss your butt, every last one of them, and I intend to see that they do just that.” She exchanged a meaningful glance with Charlie, one that he found highly suspicious. Then Lila rushed away, because Bridezilla was demanding that someone bring her the antique fan she’d be holding.

  “Charlie,” Jake said. “What in the hell is going on here?”

  But Charlie galloped away, too. So Jake wandered over to his sister and the bride.

  “Felicity,” Lila said, trying to reason with the bride, “you’ll be holding your bouquet while you walk down the aisle, so you don’t want to have the fan until later.”

  Bridezilla pouted. “But the fan is a vital accessory for my dress, just like the mantilla!”

  “Well, but the mantilla will be sitting on your head. The fan is something that you have to keep track of.”

  “Lila, I’ve already choreographed my steps with the fan . . . There’s no rule that I have to hold my bouquet in both hands, is there?”

  Lila pinched the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb. “No rule. But you’ll want to hold your groom’s hands once you’re up at the altar. Remember?”

  “Of course I remember. But my maid of honor can take both the fan and the bouquet, can’t she?”

  “She’d need a third arm to be able to arrange your train, then . . .”

  And so it went. Jake was truly amazed at his sister’s reserves of tact and patience.

  Finally, Felicity was organized to her satisfaction, though she didn’t seem to notice there was no groom. Lila had to run around shouting Will’s name until she found him shotgunning a flask in one of the old stalls with a loose chicken pecking at his polished oxfords.