Too Beautiful to Break

by Tessa Bailey

  As I was saying.

  When I walked back up onto that Coney Island beach, dripping wet and exhilarated, I could see my future. It wasn’t perfect, but I glimpsed it. It glimpsed me back. I could see where I was going. How I would get there. Who would be beside me.

  My life changed that day. If I had one wish, it would be for my four children, Belmont, Rita, Aaron, and Peggy, to jump into that same ocean, on that same beach, on New Year’s Day.

  Together.

  Knowing I’m right there with them.

  And no, Rita, I’m not joking. How dare you question a dead woman.

  Epilogue

  Six months later

  Sage stared at her reflection in the mirror, tilting her head so she could admire the white flowers Peggy had woven into her hair. Her best friend had stepped outside to make sure everyone was in position for the wedding ceremony, and Sage was grateful for the few moments alone. This was her wedding day. She was marrying Belmont Clarkson.

  “Sage Clarkson,” she hummed, laying a hand on her swollen belly, feeling a brush of life against her palm. “If we’d waited any longer, you would have been a guest at the wedding.”

  When Sage and Belmont had returned from New York, she’d assumed he would want to get married right away. But he’d surprised her. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

  One morning while they were listening to the tide break through the open window of their apartment, she’d caught him staring at her. He’d laid a lingering kiss on her mouth while sliding a diamond ring onto her finger. “We’re already as official as two people can get, Sage,” he’d rasped. “But I’m so proud of you being mine, I’d be honored if the world knew.”

  “I want the whole family here.”

  Belmont had eased her down onto the couch and kissed her growing stomach. “Me too. I want them with us.”

  And then he’d lifted Sage’s nightshirt and used his mouth between her legs.

  The memory made her shiver, even in the summer heat.

  Having the family present for the wedding meant waiting, so that’s what they’d done. After all, it took some time to wrangle three hectic schedules and draw the Clarksons home from all over the country.

  In New Mexico, Rita and Jasper were already expanding their restaurant, Buried Treasure, to meet the growing demand for Rita’s cooking. By next summer, they would be finished with another new addition and be able to seat twenty more tables. Rita and Sage had announced their pregnancies at the same time during a Sunday morning phone call, leading to an embarrassing round of hormonal tears on both sides. In October, Rita and Jasper would welcome a son. They’d already asked Belmont to be the godfather.

  Aaron and Grace hadn’t picked a permanent home yet and Sage wasn’t sure they ever would. After they’d gotten the new YouthAspire camp up and running in Iowa, they’d moved on to the next project. And the next. Calling themselves Four Ribbons, they’d created an online community where failing nonprofit organizations could petition for help. Based on Aaron’s research and Grace’s gut feeling, they would choose their next project and go. Aaron used his expertise to rally the local community around the chosen cause, and the differences they were making were nothing short of miraculous. A major television network had approached Aaron and Grace to do a reality show just last month, but they’d turned down the offer without hesitation.

  Peggy and Elliott were a team that seemed to become stronger every time Sage saw them. Elliott appeared to be in awe of everything Peggy did and never failed to lend support to her ideas, even if those ideas were along the lines of a trust exercise in the desert. They also couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Elliott’s leave of absence from coaching had done wonders for their relationship as it allowed them to spend unlimited time together. Since arriving in San Diego for the wedding, they’d been sneaking out of dinners and dress/tux fittings, returning with guilty, but satisfied, expressions. “Must be the sea air,” Peggy had murmured rather dreamily this morning, while fixing her askew ponytail. When Elliott returned to coaching next fall, Peggy already had plans to lead a booster community at the college. She would be the liaison between the university and alumni, creating mentorships for athletes and raising money for students whose families were in need, just as she’d done with Kyler Tate’s family when their road trip had paused in Cincinnati. Peggy and Elliott’s relationship was clearly flourishing, as was their bond with Alice, Elliott’s daughter. She hadn’t come to San Diego for the wedding, opting instead to attend theater camp over the summer. But the distance didn’t stop Peggy and Alice from texting constantly.

  Usually about boys.

  As for herself and Belmont? They hadn’t spent a night apart since returning to San Diego. They’d driven back to California in the Suburban, of course, which was parked in their designated space outside. Belmont’s apartment, a two-bedroom overlooking the Pacific, had become their home, and while Belmont wanted to buy a house, they were putting it off for a while longer. There was something magic about the apartment. Maybe it was knowing he’d dreamed of her inside its walls. Maybe it was the gentle sound of rolling waves you could hear in every room with the windows open. Or maybe it was listening to the lapping of water and knowing Belmont was out there working on one of his three salvage boats, counting the hours until they were together again. But there was something about the place they called home. She could still remember how he’d followed her from room to room the first time she’d entered, as if taking mental snapshots of her in every square foot. “I love it, Belmont,” she’d whispered into his neck. “It feels like forever.”

  Sage blushed to the roots of her hairline thinking about what followed. Belmont’s hands parting her legs, palming her breasts, guiding himself between her thighs. She’d thought their lovemaking couldn’t get any better than it had been in the church, their very first time together. And that night would always hold a special place in her heart. But…wow. As they’d grown more confident with intimacy, things had just…ignited. Belmont was barely in the door some nights before Sage was being stripped down and carried to the shower. Or bed. Or like last week, taken roughly on the entry table while sauce simmered on the stove.

  She fanned herself with a fluttering hand. “Stop thinking about it or you’ll walk down the aisle looking like a tomato.”

  And Belmont would know exactly what she was thinking. He always, always knew.

  After two weeks back in San Diego, she garnered the courage to go get her old job back. Before the trip, she might not have been so brave. But after she’d faced down the town bully in front of God and man, there wasn’t much that could scare her. She’d quit the wedding planning firm so abruptly, thinking she would be remaining in Sibley for the indefinite future, but in spite of her hasty departure, they’d welcomed her back with open arms. Planning happily-ever-after’s for a living was even more rewarding now that she’d found her own.

  The bedroom door opened and Peggy slipped inside. “Everyone is ready down on the beach.” Peggy went up on her toes and squealed. “We’re going to be sisters. Oh my God.”

  Sage’s laughter came out in a watery burst. “We always were. But…” She stood and smoothed the white chiffon of her wedding dress, which ended just above the knee. “Now it’s real. I’m marrying him. And I don’t think it’s possible to be any happier.”

  “Stop. You’re going to make me ruin my makeup,” Peggy wailed. “And let’s face it, my makeup is perfect.”

  Sage picked up her bouquet of sunflowers. “Quick, what would Blanche Devereaux say?”

  Without missing a beat, Peggy cocked a hip and adopted a Southern accent. “Wearing white on your wedding day, huh?” She tossed her hair. “They would laugh me out of the church in anything less than scarlet.”

  The two best friends were still smiling as they walked out onto the beach minutes later. But Sage’s steps faltered when she saw who would lead her down the aisle.

  Her father stood waiting at the beach’s edge in a tuxedo, looking healt
hier than she’d ever seen him. From the many phone conversations they’d had since Sage departed Sibley, she knew the town—especially the church—had rallied behind her parents, supporting them while they attempted to stay sober and attend meetings. They were still inseparable, though. Bernadette, as usual, wasn’t far away from her husband, in the small gathering of people waiting for her beneath a waving white canopy decorated with yellow and pink flowers.

  Peggy patted her arm and handed her off to Thomas, going to join her siblings.

  Sage knew without a doubt that Belmont was responsible for her parents being present, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at her future husband just yet, lest she burst into tears. She could picture him standing, tall and proud, beside his best man, Aaron, and Rita, who would pronounce them man and wife. She could see Jasper and Elliott and Grace, their smiles genuine and encouraging. Libby was there, too. Come fall, she would be their daughter’s nanny and she was going to be amazing at it.

  Belmont’s father was there, too. Their relationship hadn’t been the milestone Belmont had been hoping for, mostly because Belmont had reached a very important milestone on his own. He’d reached down deep and found a wealth of inner peace and strength unlike the world had ever seen. So he’d become friends with Jonas Belmont instead. Good friends. Through Jonas, they’d found out he’d met Miriam the morning of a Polar Bear plunge in the late eighties. There had been a month of whirlwind dating and nonstop togetherness. Jonas had fallen head over feet for Miriam and thought she’d felt the same, so he’d proposed one night on the beach in Coney Island. But he’d wanted a wife who stayed home, content to devote all her time to a husband. So she’d turned him down. Jonas had taken it hard.

  Like a typical heartbroken young man, he’d been stubborn. He’d closed himself off to the memories of Miriam and chosen to ignore that he was going to be a father. If she wanted to be on her own, so be it. And he’d spent a long time regretting it, but life and his own family had taken precedence. Belmont, being Belmont, had forgiven him and they’d slowly worked their way toward a relationship. One built on the mutual acceptance of each other’s flaws.

  A lot like Sage’s relationship with her own father, whose eyes she looked into now, noting they were clear and hazel, just like her own. Was it too much to hope Thomas and Bernadette could still turn their lives around? No. Hope was overflowing. It was real and she would never stop having it. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Thomas responded, obviously referring to Sibley.

  Finally, Sage blew out a breath and stepped onto the runner, arm and arm with her father, and locked eyes with Belmont. The baby kicked in her stomach. Hard.

  Her fiancé was nothing short of striking in a black tuxedo, his hands folded at his waist. Although they let go and dropped at his sides when he saw her in the dress for the first time. His lips parted on a puff of air she swore she could feel against her neck…and he smiled. That same incredible smile he gave her on the beach in Coney Island.

  Her limbs were temporarily paralyzed by the depth of affection in his expression. It reached out and held her close, sending her floating down the aisle toward the love of a lifetime. The greatest love she could have ever hoped for.

  When the service was over, the siblings and their other halves went out on Belmont’s first boat. They each took a position overlooking the water, side by side, shoulders brushing. Belmont cut off the motor and came up behind Sage, pulling her back against his chest.

  “There’s my heartbeat,” he whispered in her ear. “I love you.”

  And everyone was silent in the sunlight as they drifted…drifted…

  DISCOVER HOW THE CLARKSONS’ ROADTRIP BEGAN!

  Rita Clarkson is stranded in God-Knows-Where, New Mexico, with a busted-ass car and her three temperamental siblings. Then rescue shows up—six-feet-plus of hot, charming sex on a motorcycle. And Jasper Ellis has only a few days to show Rita that he isn’t just for tonight…he’s forever.

  An excerpt from

  Too Hot to Handle follows.

  Chapter One

  The roof! The roof! The roof is…literally on fire.

  Rita Clarkson stood across the street from Wayfare, the three-star Michelin restaurant her mother had made a culinary sensation, and watched it sizzle, pop, and whoosh into a smoking heap. Some well-meaning citizen had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders at some point, which struck her as odd. Who needed warming up this close to a structural fire? The egg-coated whisk still clutched in her right hand prevented her from pulling the blanket closer, but she couldn’t force herself to set aside the utensil. It was all that remained of Wayfare, four walls that had witnessed her professional triumphs.

  Or failures, more like. There had been way more of those.

  Tonight’s dinner-service plans had been ambitious. After a three-week absence from the restaurant, during which she’d participated in the reality television cooking show In the Heat of the Bite—and been booted off—Rita had been determined to swing for the fences her first night back. An attempt to overcompensate? Sure. When you’ve flamed out in spectacular fashion in front of a national TV audience over a fucking cheese soufflé, redemption is a must.

  She could still see her own rapturous expression reflecting back from the stainless steel as she’d carefully lowered the oven door, hot television camera lights making her neck perspire, the boom mic dangling above. It was the kind of soufflé a chef dreamed about, or admired in the glossy pages of Bon Appétit magazine. Puffed up, tantalizing. Edible sex. With only three contestants left in the competition, she’d secured her place in the finals. Weeks of “fast-fire challenges” and bunking with neurotic chefs who slept with knives—all worth it, just to be the owner of this soufflé. A veritable feat of culinary strength.

  And then her bastard fellow contestant had hip-bumped her oven, causing the center of her divine, worthy-of-Jesus’s-last-supper soufflé to sag into ruin.

  What came next had gotten nine hundred forty-eight thousand views on YouTube. Last time she’d checked, at least.

  So, yes. Pride in shambles, Rita had overcompensated a little with tonight’s menu. Duo of lamb, accompanied by goat-cheese potato puree. Duck confit on a bed of vegetable risotto. Red snapper crudo with spicy chorizo strips. Nothing that had existed on the previous menu. The one created by French chef and flavor mastermind Miriam Clarkson. Had the fire been her mother’s way of saying, Nice try, kiddo? No, that had never been Miriam’s style. If customers had sent back food with complaints to Miriam’s kitchen, she would have poured bourbon shots for the crew, shut down service, and said, Fuck it…you can’t win ’em all.

  For the first time since the fire started, Rita felt pressure behind her eyes. Twenty-eight years old and already a colossal failure. Not fit to compete on a reality show. Not fit to carry on her mother’s legacy. Not fit, period.

  In Rita’s back pocket, Miriam’s notebook burned hot, like a glowing coal. As if to say, And what exactly are you going to do about me?

  A hose-toting fireman passed, sending Rita a harried but sympathetic look. Realizing an actual tear had escaped and was rolling down her cheek, she lifted the whisk-clutching hand to swipe away the offender, splattering literal egg on her face.

  “Oh, come on.”

  Denial, fatigue, and humiliation ganged up on her, starting in the shoulder region and spreading to her wrist. Secure in the fact that no one could hear her strangled sob, she hauled back and hurled the whisk, watching it bounce along the cobblestones leading to Wayfare’s entrance.

  No more.

  She felt Belmont before she saw him. It was always that way with her oldest brother. For all she knew, he’d been standing in the shadows, watching the flames for the past hour, but hadn’t felt like making his presence known. Everything on his terms, his time, his pace. God, she envied that. Envied the solitary life he’d carved out for himself, the lucrative marine salvage business that allowed him to accept only jobs that interested him, spending
the rest of his time hiding away on his boat. When Belmont sidled up beside her, she didn’t look over. His level expression never changed and it wouldn’t now. But she couldn’t stand to see her own self-disgust reflected back in his steady eyes.

  “They won’t save it,” came Belmont’s rumble.

  Her oldest brother never failed to state the obvious.

  “I know.”

  He shifted closer, brushing their shoulders together. Accidental? Maybe. He wasn’t exactly huge on showing affection. None of the Clarksons were, but at least she and Belmont had quiet understanding. “Would you want them to save it, if they could?”

  They were silent for a full minute. “That’s a million-dollar question.”

  “I don’t have that much cash on me.”

  His deadpan statement surprised a laugh out of Rita. It felt good for two-point-eight seconds before her chest began to fill with lead, her legs starting to wobble. The laugh turned into big, gulping breaths. “Oh, motherfucking Christ, Belmont. I burned down Mom’s restaurant.”

  “Yeah.” Another brush of his burly shoulder steadied her, just a little. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

  Exasperated, Rita shoved him, but he didn’t budge. “And they call me the morbid one.”

  Belmont’s sigh managed to drown out the sirens and emergency personnel shouts. “She might be dead. But her sense of humor isn’t.”

  Rita once again thought of the journal in her jeans pocket. “You’re right. She’d be roasting marshmallows over there. Starting a hot, new upscale s’more trend.”

  “You could start it yourself.”

  No, I can’t, Rita thought, staring out at the orange, licking flames. She’d already started quite enough for one night.

  * * *

  Rita and Belmont were sitting silently on the sidewalk, staring at the decimated restaurant, when a sleek white Mercedes with the license plate VOTE4AC pulled up along the curb, eliciting a sigh from them both. Rita shoved a hand through her dyed black hair and straightened her weary spine. Preparing. Bolstering. While Belmont’s modus operandi was to hang back, take a situation’s measure, and then approach with caution, her younger brother, Aaron, liked to make a damn entrance, right down to the way he exited the driver’s side. Like a Broadway actor entering from stage left into a dramatic scene, aware that eyes would swing in his direction. His gray suit boasted not a single wrinkle, black shoes polished to a shine. His golden-boy smile had made him a media sensation, but for once it was nowhere to be seen as he approached Rita and Belmont.