He didn’t. The door shut behind her and she stared at it for a moment. This role reversal couldn’t be happening. The fabric of the universe had been torn in half somehow.
She couldn’t stop crying, either, as she fumbled for the door to her little cottage. Inside, the cottage wasn’t all that dreamy anymore. Not like Billy’s place which for the life of her had started to feel like home. That had been her first mistake. Spending too much time over there, allowing him to suck her in like a Hoover vacuum. What a fool she’d been. She couldn’t tell him the truth because she didn’t want it to be the truth.
She didn’t want to love him. Not with this ache that wouldn’t go away.
A long time ago, she’d felt that ache for him, but eventually it had gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Every once in a while she thought back to the night when they’d kissed, when in that one moment she’d embraced a kind of stupid-girl hope. Hope that maybe she and Billy would date in Chicago, out of the confines of small town life and the roles they’d each been assigned. In Chicago she could be more than Brooke the button-pusher. She could be Brooke, Billy Turlock’s friend. Maybe even someday something more than that. She’d made the grave mistake of planning, of hoping for something better. For somebody like him. If not him, then at least somebody like him.
But hope returned a big fat zero. Billy Turlock would not go to Chicago. He would go to the Minor League. She’d been nuts to think for a moment he cared enough to tell her personally. No, she’d heard about it like everyone else had. It was all anyone talked about for weeks. Hometown hero heads out for the big time. Next stop, the majors.
Now he said he loved her and she was supposed to believe that. Now he wanted her to trust him. Believe that he wouldn’t let her down again and pull the rug out from under her when she least expected it. Sure it was different. They were grown-ups now. It would hurt a whole lot more.
Brooke uncorked a bottle of Merlot. Another two fisted night of drinking lay ahead, because tonight The Holidays had delivered a knock-out.
*****
Billy Turlock had experienced a lot of firsts in his life. The first time he’d pitched a no hitter: Oakland Coliseum 2004. The first time he’d bought a house: his mother’s house, Starlight Hill, 2005. The first time the police were called for a baseball groupie that had holed up in his hotel room, insisting she would kill herself if he didn’t marry her: 2008 (thankfully also the last time).
This newest first had come courtesy of the love of his life. The first time he’d refused sex with the woman he loved: Brooke Miller, 2014.
Yeah. He should drink to that, in fact.
He rummaged through the cabinets in the kitchen searching for his bottle of single Malt Scotch. He opened it, knowing full well it would upset Brooke and taking actual enjoyment out of that fact. Damn. The Scotch went down like it should: hot, burning a hole in his esophagus. It reminded him he had hair on his chest, and made him feel like he’d spontaneously sprouted a few more.
Brooke loved him. He knew that like he knew the order of the bases on the diamond. She was so damaged that it was impossible to admit. Which slayed him as much as it pissed him off. Men like George Serrano might have had something to do with that. But before he pointed the finger, he had to remember that he’d let her down too. And forgiveness was apparently in short supply with his girl. Ten years ought to be long enough to let go of a grudge, but even if she said it didn’t matter Billy wasn’t buying it.
He heard an insistent knock on his door and he opened it to find both brothers. “Hey.”
“Are you alone?” Wallace, a couple of inches taller than Billy, looked over his head.
“Yep,” Billy answered and waved Wallace and Scott inside. “Scotch?”
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” Wallace answered.
Billy poured his big brother a glass and handed it to him. They clinked and Wallace shot it down, grimacing. “Ah. Now I feel like a man. All that wine is too girly for me. And all the pastries from Genevieve’s. Shit. It was so sweet in there I thought I was at a Nicholas Sparks movie.”
“What? You didn’t have the bacon puffs?” Billy asked.
“I did. Thought I’d died and gone to hog heaven,” Scott said. “You got a beer?”
“Here you go little brother.” Billy reached inside the fridge and behind all the bottles of Mirassu white wine Brooke kept in there. Sissy stuff.
He handed Scott the bottle, then carried the Scotch with him to the couch, and his brothers followed.
“So— what was that all about tonight?” Wallace sat down and stretched his long legs out.
He fixed Billy with the big-brother stare. The one that meant he better talk now, because time was in limited supply and Wallace could never stand for stalling.
“George insulted Brooke.” Billy scowled into his flask.
“Pay up, Wallace,” Scott said.
“Man.” Wallace reached for his wallet in the back of his pants pocket and drew it out. He laid out two twenty dollar bills next to him. “I bet Scott this couldn’t be about a girl. Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
“That’s because you don’t know what I know. Brooke is different. Right Billy?” Scott leaned over and picked up the bills.
“She’s different all right.” Billy scrubbed a hand over his face.
“Where is she, by the way?” Scott asked, folding the twenties into his wallet with a grin.
“I kicked her out.” All right, he was exaggerating but essentially that’s what he’d done. And also it sounded a lot better than the truth.
Wallace plunked down his flask on the coffee table with a loud thump. “You defend a girl’s honor and then you kick her out?”
“Isn’t that kind of self-defeating?” Scott asked.
“Let’s just say she didn’t appreciate my actions as well as I’d hoped.” Billy poured himself another shot.
“I see. So she’s an ‘I can take care of myself’ type and I don’t need you Alpha males starting up shit?” Wallace scowled into his drink.
Something didn’t feel right talking about Brooke, brothers or not. Also, he wasn’t going to pour out his heart. He’d already done that with his girl and he sure wasn’t going to do it with his brothers. The teasing wouldn’t stop until next Christmas, and then only if he got lucky.
“Yeah.”
“And?” Scott pressed.
“And I’m not talking about it.” Billy slammed down the empty flask and poured another drink .
He glanced up to see Wallace and Scott exchange a look.
“It’s worse than I thought.” Wallace said. “This girl played hockey with your brain.”
“No hockey analogies.” Billy took back another shot.
“Wait a minute, Billy,” Scott interrupted. “Before you get too sauced there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Now’s not the time.” Wallace gave Scott a pointed look.
“What is it?” Billy poured another shot for Wallace, who just stared at it and then back at Billy.
“Well, you know your ex-girlfriend, Fallon? I didn’t really tell you the whole story. Here’s the thing of it. She’s in trouble, and she needs money,” Scott said.
“There it is,” Wallace said, throwing up his hands.
Billy groaned. Everybody always needed money from him. At least Fallon wouldn’t try to lie about having had his illegitimate child. Wait. Or was she? His brain felt foggy but crap, he felt scared for a minute. He didn’t want to have a family with Fallon.
“Wait. Why does she want money from me?” He became vaguely aware of Wallace moving the bottle out of Billy’s line of vision.
“She’s going through a divorce and fighting a custody battle with the ex. She’s afraid to lose custody.” Scott lifted a shoulder.
Billy threw back his head. This felt like the worst news he’d ever heard in his life. Malt Scotch had a way of making him feel everything a hell of a lot more intensely. “How much does she need?”
What was he, some kind of magician? If he were, he’d waste no time in materializing Brooke in his bed right now. He might have been a bit hasty earlier, come to think of it. He let out a slow even breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Money. A job. Anything else?”
“No, I think that would do it.” Scott grinned, taking a gulp of his beer.
“What does she do for a living?” Wallace asked.
Scott shrugged.
Billy could hire her at the winery. It would upset the hell out of Brooke. But even now, he couldn’t do it. What a sap. “Maybe she can clean my house.”
Scott turned in a semi-circle. “But your place is immaculate.”
“That’s because of Brooke,” Billy said, rubbing his eyes. Suddenly he felt exhausted. “But I plan on trashing the place from now on.”
“Oh. Well, then.” Scott said, putting his beer down. “This seems like a good time for me to exit. I told Ma I’d stop by. Later, bro.”
Scott let himself out, but Wallace didn’t move. Billy closed his eyes for a minute and when he opened one eye he found his big brother staring at him. “What?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. A little tired.” No one needed to worry about him. He would be fine. He just had a lot of decisions to make, but he’d make them in the morning with a clearer head.
“I’ve never seen you like this over a woman.”
Well, she wasn’t just any woman. She happened to be the woman but what did Wallace know about it? “You’ve never seen me like how?”
“Like someone hit you over the head with a baseball bat. Or like that time you actually did have a concussion and we had to run you to the hospital.”
“Get real. I’m fine.”
“What about Fox Sports? Are you going to take that?”
The last thing he wanted to talk about. He had been about to tell Gigi to turn the whole thing down, but maybe what he needed right now was some distance from Brooke. Give her some time to think things through. The winery could run without his help. Brooke obviously didn’t need him. “I don’t know.”
What he did know scared him a little bit. He wanted Brooke, and a bunch of children with her. Maybe their own Little League team. But it had been his misfortune to fall for a girl who didn’t trust the whole institution. Probably should have checked that out first.
Problem being, he’d had no idea he’d ever wanted those things until Brooke.
Chapter 17
Brooke spent Christmas day at the farm. She and Billy hadn’t so much as cuddled in twenty days and five hours, but who was counting? They hadn’t split up, not technically, but Brooke certainly recognized the avoidance method. She’d never said she wanted to break up, but she guessed a man like Billy Turlock couldn’t let his ego take a beating like the one she’d inflicted. He’d take it personally, and not understand there had to be something wrong with an institution that had such a high rate of failure.
Before he’d left for a children’s charity fundraiser he made a point to tell her that they would talk on the twenty-fifth when he got back. Eileen had invited her to the Turlock family Christmas, but it seemed only fair to spend the day with Mom since Brooke had spent Thanksgiving with the Turlocks.
She would miss everyone, but it wouldn’t be the same without Billy. Anyway, she wasn’t exactly filled with Christmas good cheer and love for her fellow man. But Mom had seen Brooke in every one of her foul moods and still loved her somehow. Probably because it was in the Mom contract.
The farm actually looked festive this year. There were fairy lights strung between the trees (solar, of course) and the sharp smell of pine permeated the air. They usually planted a pine tree outside every year, this one being no exception. No tree inside, because that would be murder.
Inside the smell of a roasted turkey (organic Mom said, from the farm next door), cinnamon, nutmeg and spices wafted through the air.
Looking around the table at dinner, Brooke realized Mom’s unorthodox collection of hippie friends felt a little bit like family. Sure, they were an odd conglomeration of quirky characters who didn’t have any blood connection to her. They kept their distance for the most part, and inquired politely about her life while staying on the outskirts where she wanted them to be. Not like Billy’s family, all up in his business and life.
Wonder what Eileen would make for Christmas dinner?
“Would you pass the goat milk, dear?” Mrs. Deering asked at the dinner table.
“Sure.” Brooke passed the little dish full of milk that must have come from Dolly’s nipples.
“I always like to make sure Dolly’s contributions to dinner are used up.” She took a swallow of the milk, made a face and put it down.
Brooke picked at her dinner. Strange, because it was by far the best food she’d ever had at the farm and yet she had no appetite.
“Are you all right, Brookie?” This was from Al, an odd man she’d long suspected might have a crush on Mom.
“Yeah. Fine.”
“Well, you don’t look fine if you don’t mind my saying,” Al said.
“I think she does mind,” Mrs. Deering said. “What kind of a thing is that to say?”
“Look at her. She’s too thin. And also, she looks pale. Melinda, what do you think?” Al turned to her mom.
“Al, she’s been working hard. Let’s give her a break,” Mom answered.
Brooke didn’t have the energy for their concern. Maybe some sugar would cheer her up. “So what’s for dessert?”
“Ah! Now you’re talking.” Mom got up from the large farm table and trotted into the kitchen. She came back with pie. “Pumpkin cheesecake. Your favorite.”
“Wow, thanks, Mom,” Brooke said without enthusiasm. She picked at the filling, leaving most of the crust.
Of course, no one at the farm believed in buying presents because that signified excessive consumerism. For once, Brooke couldn’t care less.
Mom had knitted her a sweater in colorful autumn colors. Mrs. Deering made cards for all of them. Al had whittled Brooke a heart out of wood. She touched the smooth edges of the heart. A lot of work went into whittling. She’d had no idea the man was so talented.
“Thank you,” Brooke said to all the gifts. “I brought you all some wine.”
“Of course you did,” Mrs. Deering said.
Even though Brooke didn’t technically make the wine herself, she was involved enough in the process that Mom let it go every year. Brooke circled around and handed over Mirassu Merlot, Pinot, Cabernet, and Chardonnay. Of course the wine reminded her of Billy.
“So Brooke, when you do you think you’ll settle down and bring some lucky guy around to meet us all?” Mrs. Deering elbowed Mom.
This had been their running joke every year. Brooke would quip that no man alive could handle or tame her. Everyone would laugh loudly and say “You got that right” and that would be the end of it.
Ahead of time, everyone began giggling in anticipation. Brooke couldn’t laugh this time, and for some reason, she burst into tears.
Al stood up so fast that he knocked his chair over and nearly fell into the fresh organic cranberry sauce. “What’s wrong with her?”
Mrs. Deering came to pat Brooke’s back. “What do you think, idiot? She’s crying. Obviously she’s upset over something you said.”
“Something I said? What did I say?” Al asked.
“So now you’ve got short term memory loss? You should try some of my flax seed oil.”
“Really, Clara? You want to talk about my memory when Brookie is crying? What’s wrong with you? And who forgot to turn off the stove last week?”
“Stop it,” Mom said, rubbing Brooke’s back and handing her some tissues. “I think I’d like to talk to Brooke alone.”
This felt so out of control. Brooke couldn’t stop or get a hold of a b
reath. Al and Mrs. Deering left the room and Brooke sort of slid off the chair on to the floor. Felt kind of cool down there, but there were crumbs everywhere. Did anyone ever clean this floor? She would have asked, but she couldn’t breathe.
Mom didn’t say a word for a minute, but handed Brooke a box of tissues. “I’m going to let you cry. You need it. And no one should stop you. Don’t worry, I’m fine with it.”
But when Brooke didn’t stop, Mom took her hand and raised her up off the floor. “You’ll be more comfortable on the couch.”
The couch felt soft all right, being made from the coat of one of Dolly’s friends, Lana the lamb. So soft that Brooke sunk into the middle. Now she struggled against a sofa that would swallow her whole. After a little while the sobs became hiccups. Finally this torture would end. Really, how did women do this? Crying took so much energy. Energy better spent doing…anything else.
“I’m sorry about this,” Brooke said to Mom’s pale face.
“What’s wrong? You haven’t been yourself all day. You didn’t even roll your eyes when Mrs. Deering mentioned the super algae she’s selling now. And you haven’t mentioned the lack of a tree inside once.”
“I guess I’m having some residual Holiday issues. You know, from the divorce.”
Mom narrowed her eyes. “You can’t keep blaming everything on the divorce.”
“You left me at the Fairmont Hotel the day after Thanksgiving! We were supposed to be having a nice dinner, then you and Dad left the table so you could keep arguing. You never came back for me. The waiters fed me ice cream I felt too sick to eat and asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I stared at the huge fake tree in the restaurant and thought I was about to have the worst Christmas ever.”
“I’ve apologized a hundred times. You had one lousy Christmas, and I’m sorry but that doesn’t mean every one of them has to be awful.”
“But they have been. I dread it every year. Something always goes wrong.”
“Could it be because you always expect something to go wrong? You’re prepared for it. You expect disaster, and somehow you always get it.”
“Especially this year,” Brook said, pulling out another tissue.
Somebody Like You (Starlight Hill Series Book 2) Page 24
