by Tracy Brogan
This was everyone’s fault. Marti had been coddled and snuggled and indulged her entire life. By all of them. That little smattering of freckles across her nose made her impossible to resist.
Libby swallowed down another sigh. “Okay. If you say so. At least your wedding announcement got Dad off the hook with Mom.”
Marti smiled, her mood lightening in an instant. She hugged Libby around the waist.
“Thanks for trusting me. Now let’s go inside so I can take some pictures of Hottie McHandyman.”
Tom Murphy tightened his grip around the blueprints and tried to shake off his unease. This job was going to be a challenge. Not because the building was in such sad shape, although it was, but because Tom could already sense Peter Hamilton was a talker—a good-natured but bored retiree with too much time on his hands and not a lick of common sense about construction. One who was eager and invested and wanted to learn. But Tom wasn’t there to show some old schoolteacher how to build. He was there to get the job completed. Get in, get done, get out. That was his philosophy.
And then there were the two Hamilton daughters in their short shorts and flip-flops, who looked very much like they intended to hang around. They’d call it helping, of course, but they’d just be in the way. That was a complication Tom didn’t need. He had enough feminine drama in his life already.
Still, he needed the income. He didn’t have another big project lined up, and this renovation would carry him all the way to Christmas, maybe longer. Plus the building itself had plenty of charm, with wide crown moldings, high ceilings, even a bell tower atop the high-peaked roof. Restoring old places like this felt good. It was tangible. He could see the improvements as they came, see how he had fixed it with his own hands. So right now he’d smile, and nod, and try to keep Mr. Hamilton and his flimsy-shoed daughters away from the power tools. Especially that Dumpster-diving one.
Liberty Belle Hamilton. What a name.
She sure was pretty, though.
The thought caught him like a bee sting, surprising and painful, lingering no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. She had the darkest blue eyes he’d ever seen and the kind of thick blond hair that turned to pure gold in sunlight. She didn’t look half bad in those shorts, either. Or the ones from the other day, once she’d brushed off all the dirt. She seemed like the serious sort, not bouncy like her sister with the camera. Tom liked serious women. His wife had been a serious woman.
“Let’s take a look at those blueprints,” Mr. Hamilton said, moving toward the window.
“Sure. Here we go.” Tom spread the papers out on top of an old cabinet left behind by the previous owners. “These are the oldest I’ve been able to track down, but honestly, pictures from the Monroe Historical Society will give you better ideas for restoration. Then you’ll have to decide how historically accurate you want to go. The truth is, you can find new materials and fixtures to make this place appear historic for a lot less time and money than it’ll take to actually locate period-accurate materials. And obviously safety and building codes come first.”
“Of course.” Peter nodded and pushed his glasses up. “This shop has to function efficiently as a business, too. I’ve been watching plenty of television shows on the Learning Channel lately to sharpen my knowledge of the food service industry. I’ve got a strategy in place.”
Television shows? Tom hoped Peter Hamilton had a better grasp of what opening an ice-cream parlor entailed than whatever superfluous sound bites he’d picked up from staged interventions on a TV show. Like having an actual business plan, or knowing what the health codes for a commercial kitchen were. But in the end, that wasn’t really his problem. Tom’s job was to refurbish the building, make it structurally sound and visually appealing. Whatever happened after he handed the keys over to the Hamiltons was completely up to them.
Libby and her sister joined him and Peter a few minutes later, nudging in next to the cabinet to get a closer look. Tom noticed that at least Libby had the good sense to put on tennis shoes. Not exactly regulation, steel-toed work boots, but it was a start. Her shirt was turquoise blue with some sort of saying on it, but he couldn’t quite make out the words without staring at her breasts. That curiosity would have to go unsatisfied.
Then she leaned forward, and her long, silky hair brushed over his forearm like a caress. An innocent thing, bound to happen in such close quarters, but it sent a jolt of electricity through him. He knew right then—Liberty Belle Hamilton was going to be a hazard.
CHAPTER four
Tom’s old truck shimmied as he shifted to idle. He was late. Rachel would be annoyed. Then again, when wasn’t she? His fifteen-year-old daughter was in a perpetual state of exasperation, at least around him.
Sure enough, her pink-cheeked face was marred by a scowl as she pushed through the double doors of Monroe High School and made her way toward him. She dipped her head, hiding behind a swish of wavy blond hair, and climbed into the cab. She was dressed in various shades of gray and black, like a dismal little sparrow.
“God, Dad, will you ever fix this truck? Your muffler is, like, sonically loud.”
“Nice to see you, too. How’s your day?” He waited for her to buckle her seat belt before shifting into gear.
Rachel wedged her backpack between them. “Fine. So far. What’s this shrink’s name again?”
His daughter was thin, all arms and legs and elbows and knees. She looked more like her mother every time he saw her. It was hard to get used to. It made him miss Connie even more. He turned his eyes back to the road and began to drive.
“Dr. Brandt. She’s a friend of your aunt Kristy’s.” At Rachel’s elongated sigh, he added, “She sounded very nice on the phone.”
Rachel’s head fell back against the seat with a soft thud. “So do pedophiles.”
He pressed his lips together. What was the correct parenting technique for chronic sarcasm?
Rachel continued to glower at the ceiling as if it had insulted her, and another sigh escaped.
Tom gripped the steering wheel. He wished it was his daughter’s hand so he could squeeze it with reassurance, but he had none to offer. The inches between them yawned like a canyon. He drove on, letting silence fill the space.
“Do we really have to do this?” Rachel finally asked, her voice small, the question directed to the window.
“Yes, Rachel, we do. Didn’t Kristy talk to you about this?”
“She did. But the whole deal is creepy. It’s like I’m going to couples therapy with my dad.”
It was, a little, and he chuckled. “It’s not couples therapy. It’s grief counseling. To help us, well… you know.”
“Grieve?”
“Yes.”
She slumped down farther on the seat. “I’m pretty good at missing Mom, you know. I don’t think I need a professional coach to tell me how.”
His chuckle evaporated. “It’s not to help you miss her. It’s to teach us how to live… harmoniously together without her.”
Rachel turned her face toward him, her pale blue eyes flashing. “I live harmoniously at Grandma and Grandpa’s house just fine. If you’d let me stay there, everything else would be fine, too.”
His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. His stomach felt full of rocks. Rachel had been living with her grandparents for more than a year, ever since the car accident, but he wanted his daughter back in his house. He missed her. He missed her constant singing, and the smell of her waffles toasting before school. He missed her soft kiss on his cheek, and the way she’d giggle when they’d watched television together.
“Sweetheart, I want you to come home and live with me. Is that so hard to understand?”
“But I want to stay where I am. Is that so hard to understand?” Her voice broke, and she twisted back toward the window, letting her hair once again shield her expression.
She didn’t want to live with him. She’d made that fact abundantly clear, and so had her grandparents.
Rachel remained silent f
or the rest of the short drive, and he wondered if this counseling would be a waste of time. Even if it was, he had to try.
They stepped into a small, dimly lit waiting room full of plush, pale green furniture and an artificially floral smell. The adjoining door opened before they could sit, and Tom was relieved. The sooner they started, the sooner they’d be done.
Yes, he wanted this to work, but he wanted it to work fast.
A woman dressed in shades of pale cream crossed the room and extended her hand. “Hello. Are you Tom?”
He shook her hand. “Yes. And this is Rachel.”
“Hello, Rachel. I’m Meredith Brandt. Why don’t you both come into my office? It’s right through here.”
The next room had more overstuffed furniture and shelves full of books and plants. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling window letting in the golden afternoon sunshine. It was a beautiful day outside, the kind of September afternoon that clung to summer, but Tom felt a chill in this room. He wiped his hands on the front of his jeans, not sure what to do next.
“Sit wherever you’d like. Would either of you like a bottle of water? Or some coffee?”
Whiskey. Straight up. That’s what he needed. “No, thank you,” Tom answered, choosing a brown leather chair closest to the exit door.
Rachel dropped her gray backpack on the floor and flung herself into the seat by the window. She kicked off her little black shoes and pulled her feet up on the upholstery, wrapping her arms around dark-clad knees.
Tom frowned and gave a slight shake of his head, triggering the requisite eye roll from his daughter. She crossed her arms and frowned back. With exaggerated motions, she unfolded her legs and jammed her feet back into her shoes.
Dr. Brandt slid gracefully into her own chair. “We’re very informal here. Rachel, if you’re more comfortable with your feet up, feel free.”
Rachel tossed a look of triumph his way and pulled her bare feet up once more. His own eyes might have rolled just then, before he sent his gaze toward the counselor.
Dr. Brandt was younger than he’d expected, maybe in her mid-thirties, like him. Everything about her was a generic sort of creamy beige, from her bobbed hair to her tiny tortoiseshell glasses. Even her voice was soothing, probably cultivated from years of talking to unstable adults and hair-trigger adolescents.
She smiled at him and then turned to Rachel. “I’ve spoken with your dad on the phone briefly, Rachel, about his goals for us. So why don’t you share some thoughts on what you hope to gain from these appointments, too.”
Rachel looked down at her black-polished fingernails. “Nothing.”
“Rachel!” Tom’s embarrassment flared, but Dr. Brandt raised her fingers from the arm of the leather chair, a tiny gesture that spoke volumes. “Tom, here in this office, there are no incorrect or inappropriate answers. We are each entitled to feel what we feel. You don’t have to censor what Rachel shares.”
Rachel relaxed more in the chair, flipping her thick hair over one shoulder.
“And Rachel, I hope that when your father shares his thoughts, you’ll keep an open mind as well. Can you do that?”
A lifetime passed in a breath before Rachel finally said, “Sure.” Her half-shrug, quasi-nod was not encouraging to Tom, but Dr. Brandt’s smile brightened.
“Excellent. Now keep in mind, if you expect to gain nothing from these appointments, that’s likely what you’ll get. But since we’re here, I’d hate to waste your time, so if you had to come up with something you’d like to work on, what might that be?”
Rachel’s glance flicked over him, light as a mosquito and just as hard to capture. She wouldn’t even make eye contact. She looked at the counselor instead.
“Fine. I guess we’re here because even though I’m perfectly okay living with my grandparents, my dad thinks I should move in with him. I don’t want to, so I think you’re supposed to referee that argument.” Her chin jutted forward, her posture tense once more.
Tom swallowed hard, realizing how sour an unspoken scolding tasted. Rachel was being deliberately abrasive, and as usual, he felt the blame directed toward him. There was a lot more to this situation than just getting Rachel to move back home.
Dr. Brandt nodded, though her hair remained motionless. “Referee? That’s a good way to put it. Sometimes I feel like one. The difference is, in a game, there are specific rules to follow. There is a winner and a loser. But in relationships, all those lines are blurred. The real challenge is to move from feeling like you’re on opposite sides, competing with each other, to feeling like you are on the same team. Because when you’re on the same team, you can both win.”
Rachel shifted in her chair, the leather squeaking around her. “I don’t see how that’s possible when we want totally opposite things.”
“Well, that’s what we’re here to talk about. Let’s say your father didn’t want you to move home. How would that make you feel?”
Rachel picked at the black polish. “That house isn’t my home. We lived there for, like, six days before my mom died. It’s just a beat-up old farmhouse out in the boonies. It probably doesn’t even have Internet.”
Her words were hornets inside his lungs. Rachel had been excited about the farmhouse when he’d bought it, thrilled at the prospect of getting her own horse and planting a garden with Connie. None of that had happened, of course. But some of it still could—if she’d just move there and give him a chance.
“Have you asked him?” Dr. Brandt said.
Rachel blinked. “Asked him what?”
“If the house has Internet.”
Rachel squinted. Tom sensed this was a trick question, but as long as it wasn’t his turn to answer, he’d just observe. He watched his daughter process her options carefully.
“No. I never asked him.”
“Then why don’t you ask him right now?” Dr. Brandt’s voice was light and conversational. The light in the room cooled as a cloud passed in front of the sun. Rachel paused.
“Well… it’s not just the Internet. It’s all kinds of things.”
“Yes, I understand that. But since you mentioned Internet, let’s at least get that one question out of the way.”
The walls in this office were painted a shade of terra-cotta red, and there was no artwork hanging anywhere. No pictures on the desk sitting over in the corner, either. Tom had time to notice all this while his daughter prolonged the silence.
Finally, she relented and turned her gaze his way. “Do you have Internet?” Her voice was as bland and impersonal as a traffic officer asking for license and registration.
“Yes, the house has Internet.” Tom glanced at the doctor and wondered if he should add more. Like the fact that he’d fixed the broken step on the front porch, the one Rachel had stubbed her toe on just days before her mother died. Or that the barn was still empty, waiting for her to fill it with a horse. Or that he missed her.
“Is the kitchen finished?” Rachel blurted out, suddenly becoming animated. “Or the bathroom?” She turned to face Dr. Brandt, her cheeks flushing pink. “The last time I was there, he hadn’t even unpacked yet. It’s been more than a year. How am I supposed to live there with boxes all over the place?”
The doctor looked at Tom. “Have you unpacked?”
Her voice was mellow, the question innocent enough, but it felt like an accusation. He brought his ankle up over his other knee and tried to stop his foot from tapping. He’d meant to unpack. But the boxes were full of memories better left in storage. He and Connie and Rachel had moved into the old farmhouse barely a week before the accident. And once Connie was gone, and then Rachel was, too, he just never got to it.
“The house is completely functional, Rachel. I’m sorry it’s not as nice as your grandparents’ place, but we could fix it up and decorate it. I thought we might go through those boxes together.”
“You want me to move home so I can do work and unpack for you?” More accusations.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. S
ee, Dr. Brandt? This is what happens. I say one thing, and she hears something completely different.” He’d meant to stay calm, but frustration sharpened his tone.
The counselor’s expression remained enigmatic as she gazed at him and then his daughter.
“Rachel, I think what your father means is that he’d like to have a shared experience with you of going through the boxes. Is it the labor of unpacking that bothers you, or the fact that the boxes are full of things that will remind you of your mother?”
Rachel sat up straighter. “I see reminders of her all over the place. I live with her parents, remember? They have pictures everywhere, and some of her old clothes and stuffed animals. I can even sleep in her bed if I want to. I don’t need to go through boxes with him to help remember my mom.”
Tom felt a hot flush of comprehension. That was something he hadn’t thought of before. Of course Rachel would feel closer to Connie surrounded by her things. At the farmhouse, they hadn’t built any memories together as a family. His wife’s presence wasn’t there. There hadn’t been enough time.
Dr. Brandt seemed to reach the same conclusion. “It’s important to keep those memories close to your heart, Rachel. You can cherish them, but you can’t hide in them. Do you think your mother would want you sleeping in her old bed, or would she want you to go live with your dad?”
Rachel’s jaw lifted again. “Well, it would be nice to ask her, wouldn’t it? Except we can’t—because she’s dead.”
The caustic words, flung so carelessly, were a gut punch to Tom. She wanted to wound him. She wanted to remind him that everything they were going through was entirely his fault. He’d been driving the car. If not for his mistake, Connie would still be alive.
It was the only thing he and his daughter agreed on.
CHAPTER five
“Of course I miss you. What kind of a question is that?” Seth’s voice was mildly reassuring over the phone, but Libby couldn’t shake the sense he was drifting away. Her job loss had hit hard, and maybe she hadn’t been that easy to live with because of it, but she was making an effort to be a kinder, gentler version of herself.
