When I Fall in Love

by Susan May Warren

  But Ivy wasn’t listening.

  “I’ll see you at the reception,” Grace said and headed back to the parking lot before Eden could track her down.

  Yeah, that wouldn’t be pretty.

  But soon she’d wow them with her ravioli, impress them with the grilled chicken, stun them with the beautiful dipped strawberries—

  I knew I could trust you with an amazing dinner. The Minneapolis Institute of Culinary Arts didn’t know what they were missing. Tonight Grace had prepared a dinner that would make everyone forget she never had any formal training. She didn’t need cooking school to go places.

  And up here, one great party led to word of mouth across the county. She didn’t even have to make up business cards.

  Grace spied the curl of smoke as she turned onto Main Street. Stomped the gas as she tracked its source.

  The folk school.

  No.

  But her timing was finally perfect as she skidded into the parking lot, right behind the Deep Haven volunteer fire department.

  Maxwell Sharpe wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “Okay, listen, Evan. Your sister isn’t doing a good job of blocking around the end, so when I hand the ball off to you, I want you to run straight toward the big oak. Jenness and I will block for you. You just have to outrun a girl.”

  “But, Uncle Max, Lola is older than me, and she’s faster. And she hits. And trips. And bites.” Evan stared up at him, his blue eyes huge in his head.

  Max curled an arm around his seven-year-old second cousin, once removed, although everyone under the age of eighteen was referred to as a nephew or niece, regardless of the official tree ranking. “You don’t want to let Uncle Brendon win again, do you? He wins every year. Isn’t it time to take him down?” He glanced over to where his older brother huddled with his own cadre of extended relatives, ages six to twelve, ready to draw blood.

  Two of Max’s linemen had gone in to use the bathroom; only one had emerged. The five-year-old had found a frog and was busy terrorizing one of the toddlers. And his defensive end, nine-year-old Jenness, his secret weapon, lay on the ground staring at the sky, having already whined through the last huddle about her skinned knee.

  Where was the fight in the Sharpe family line?

  “I’m hungry,” Evan started.

  “One touchdown, pal. We just need one. Then we’ll get lunch.”

  This put a fire in his nephew’s eye, and as his meager team lined up, Max pointed at Brendon. “You’re going down.”

  A moment later, he lay on his back, Lola and three of her cousins on top of him, Brendon laughing. The football Max had lost in the sack. He pushed up, grabbed Lola, and tickled her into the grass, reaching for Daniel and Evan, sandwiching them along with their sister as he gave them wet willies.

  “Uncle Max, cut it out!” Jenness jumped on his back, apparently switching sides to protect her generation.

  Max heard Brendon laughing behind him, no help at all.

  Well, he could pin all his nephews and nieces with the joy swilling through him today. A perfect, blue-skied family picnic; the storm clouds had bumpered their way around the Sharpes’ Wisconsin homestead, hanging just over the horizon but holding back the deluge and allowing the extended family a jolly day of reunion.

  He’d spent hours towing one relative after another behind the wakeboarding ski boat that he kept moored at his grandfather’s lake place, then took a turn on skis himself, letting Brendon pull him around Diamond Lake.

  So he’d shown off, just a little. Max had victory sluicing through his veins after the last two months. Even though the Blue Ox hadn’t made it all the way to the Stanley Cup, he’d earned himself a slew of impressive stats as their right wing, and Hockey Today magazine planned on running a glossy centerfold feature including him in the “Hot Shots of the Season.” They’d even hinted at the cover.

  He’d wrapped up the photo shoot in St. Paul yesterday before heading out to the family cabin, where he planned to spend three glorious days before he took off for his annual vacation.

  “Max, get your nose out of the grass and fire up the grill. We’re starving,” Lizzy, Brendon’s wife, shouted from the deck, where she held court with Ava, their cute baby daughter, now almost a year old. Their first. And hopefully only.

  Max could only take so much dread. They’d all held their breath during Lizzy’s pregnancy, waiting for Ava’s birth and the test results that would reveal her fate.

  Brendon had gotten lucky. Or maybe God had decided Brendon had earned a pass. This time.

  In Max’s estimation, their family should only push God’s providence so far. As for Max, his faith drew the line at putting people he loved in danger. Sure, he believed God could carry him—but he didn’t wish that journey on anyone else if he could help it.

  He pushed himself off the grass and jogged toward the house, where the older relatives sat at the fire ring. Uncle Ed, who’d lost his wife young, and Aunt Rosie, widowed over twenty years, nursed sweaty lemonades. Rumor was she had a boyfriend, but she hadn’t brought him to the family reunion. Too much explaining to do, maybe.

  He heard his mother’s laughter drifting over the deck above. Probably playing with the baby. And helping with Dad’s only remaining sister, Audrey, now confined to a wheelchair, her body gnarled, her brain drifting in and out of the past.

  He’d helped his mom pick up Audrey at the nursing home, despite his better judgment. Why bring that reminder to the party? Although maybe that was part of the price of being a Sharpe—dealing with the ugly instead of ignoring it.

  “Whatcha got on the menu tonight, son?” Norman, Dad’s brother, the only one who’d escaped the curse, gestured him over.

  “Shish kebabs. Pork, chicken, and beef. Marinated them for a day in olive oil, fresh rosemary, oregano, and basil.” Max opened the cooler and pulled out sheets of wrapped kebabs, already skewered.

  “What’s that with ’em?” Ed said, leaning over to survey the offering.

  “Squash, zucchini, red onions, basil leaves, green pepper, and mushrooms. But don’t worry, Uncle Ed; I have a few burgers tucked away, as well as brats and hot dogs for the less culinary.”

  “Just because you fly all over the world every summer, cooking in exotic places, don’t make you highbrow, son.”

  “No, but the fact that he helped his team get into the division finals does,” Aunt Rosie said. “Your dad would have been so proud of you, Maxie.”

  He grinned at her, only a little twinge in his chest.

  “Where you going this time, kiddo?” Norm asked.

  “Hawaii. It’s my third year. I can’t seem to get the beaches and blue ocean out of my blood.”

  “Learning to roast a pig?” Ed said. “Now that’s my kind of meal.”

  “I don’t think a luau is on the menu. More like sushi and fresh fish, Uncle Ed.”

  “Shame. Nothin’ better than roast pig.”

  Max tried not to grimace. “If I see any grass skirts and leis, I’ll bring them home with me. But I’m mostly going for the education.”

  “Right,” Ed said.

  “Leave the boy alone, Edmund.” Rosie swatted him. “How long, Max?”

  “Three no-stress, sun-filled weeks.”

  “Well, bring sunscreen with you. A burn is only going to hurt when you put on your hockey pads.” She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He winked, then went over to fire up the grill. He lowered the lid to let it heat up and began setting out the skewers on a tray.

  “Hey, Max, remember me?”

  He turned at the voice and found it connected to a blonde, all tan legs and mini shorts and a tank top that made him avert his eyes. “Um . . . remind me how we met?”

  “Lauren. I’m Lizzy’s sister.” She switched her Coke to her left hand and extended her right, finding his and holding on longer than she needed to. “I watched some of your games this year. You’re amazing on the ice.”

  He managed a smile and
glanced at the grill, untangling his hand to lower the heat. The last thing he needed was to ignite a fire. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Uncle Ed spying on him. Max turned his back to him. “Thanks. Unfortunately we were shut out against Denver, but hopefully next year we’ll bring home the Cup.”

  “The Cup?”

  He noticed the blank look. Probably a football fan. “The Stanley Cup. It’s like the Super Bowl of hockey.”

  “Right. Lizzy says you have a convertible. Is that yours?” She pointed past him toward the lot, where his Audi sat in the drive.

  “Mmm-hmm.” He opened the grill and began to lay the skewers on. The grill spit as grease from the meat dripped into the pan. “You might want to stand back.”

  She giggled.

  He glanced up at Lizzy, who was watching him through her sunglasses. If he could, he’d take a skewer and aim it her direction. She knew how he felt about relationships. He wasn’t Brendon, wasn’t naive, wasn’t about to entangle himself with someone he’d only eventually hurt.

  He’d seen what his mother went through after his dad died, after all. Thanks, but he couldn’t inflict that on anyone.

  Even if Lauren did have an overly eager, even pretty, smile. He closed the lid on the grill.

  “Maybe you can give me a ride later?”

  “Maybe.” He saw Brendon heading his direction. “So what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a nurse.”

  A nurse. Swell. He wanted to ask what Lizzy had told her about him, but he bit it back. No need to start a conversation that would only end in her pity, awkward silences, and maybe some sort of declaration of nonchalance. As if it didn’t matter that he would someday die from choking on his own food or even be tempted to take his own life.

  “I think your meat is burning,” Lauren said.

  Smoke billowed from the grill, and he opened the lid. Nice. But so far, dinner survived.

  “Max, can I talk to you?” This from Brendon, who appeared behind Lauren, all fun and games vanished from his expression. Now what?

  Max had the terrible, unsportsmanlike urge to say no but swallowed it. “Sure.”

  “Lauren, can you watch the grill?”

  “Dude—” Max protested.

  But Brendon clamped him on the shoulder and drew him toward the side of the house. Max kept one eye on dinner.

  Lauren reached in to turn the skewers.

  “Leave them be! They need to char on one side!” Max turned to Brendon. “What?”

  “You know what. It’s time, Bro. I need you.”

  It took a second for Max to catch up, and when he did, everything inside him tightened, his breath lodging in his chest. “No—seriously? Look, I know what I said, but I’ve been thinking and I don’t think I can . . .” He blew out a breath. “When did you start having symptoms?”

  Brendon stared at him, blank-faced, then, “Wait, no. I’m fine. I promise. Symptom-free.”

  Max noticed his hands shaking and shoved them into the pockets of his cargo shorts, trying to hide the panic that had crawled up his throat. He wasn’t ready. Maybe would never be.

  But a promise was a promise, especially between brothers.

  “The charity is finally starting to get some traction,” Brendon said, motoring right over Max. Over the way his words had rattled him. “We have a number of big donors, and we need a spokesperson. We need you.”

  Max closed his eyes. “No.”

  “Bro, you told me that you would help out—be our spokesman, the face, you know?”

  “No.” Max shook his head, just in case Brendon needed help. “I’m not doing it.”

  Brendon stared at him, sucker punched. “Why on earth not? You said you would. The Sharpe brothers, changing the face of Huntington’s disease. It’s what you always wanted.”

  “Again, no.” Max glanced at the congregation of family clumped on the deck or around the fire pit and cut his voice low. Not that any of this would be a surprise to them, but if anything could darken this day, it was a reminder of the Sharpe family curse. “It’s what you always wanted. I wanted to play hockey.”

  Max turned, but Brendon caught his arm. “I cannot believe you are being this selfish. This disease has claimed too many of our family members. It’s going to claim me. And you, someday.”

  “Then maybe we should stop procreating!” Max wasn’t sure where all the volume had come from, but the chatter on the deck above quieted.

  His voice turned to a hiss. “I don’t want to be known for this disease. I don’t want my face to be on your ads. Pretty soon I’ll be pitied, not praised. I can’t let it define my life.”

  Brendon looked as if Max had checked him into the boards. “Are you kidding me? It already does! In every important way, it defines you. Tell me the last time you had a girlfriend.”

  Max looked away, his jaw tight. He glanced at pretty Lauren, at the kebabs. No doubt they were charred, but he couldn’t move.

  “I’ll tell you when—never. You live in the here and now, playing hard, living hard, and, buddy, you’re going to die alone and sad.”

  Max set his face, his words harsh. “And you’re going to leave behind a wife and a beautiful daughter.”

  Brendon’s shoulders rose and fell. “Yes, I will. But for the precious years I have with them, I’m going to love them with everything inside me. Just like Dad did.”

  Max’s eyes burned, and he hated Brendon a little for that as he turned away. “Yeah, well, you remember him a lot better than I do.”

  “You remember him just fine. And you know he’d want you to do this. This is his dream for you.”

  Max rounded on Brendon then, heat in his veins, his voice. “You’re right. I do remember him. I remember that he loved to watch me play hockey. He’d sit in the stands even when his body betrayed him and he couldn’t bear to go out in public. When he forgot where he was, and when he couldn’t even remember my name. Still, he believed in me. Cheered for me. Wanted life for me, not death.”

  Now emotion had wrecked his voice, turning it ragged, his eyes burning. “Dad wanted me to play hockey, not be the front man for your useless charity organization.” He wiped his hand across his chin and accidently glanced toward the grill.

  Lauren was watching him, something pitying and stricken in her expression.

  Nice. “I don’t need this.” He pushed past Brendon, out to the driveway, where he rooted around in his shorts for his keys.

  “Max!”

  He heard his mother’s voice as he reached his Audi. The edge of anger softened at the sight of his petite, generous mother running up to stand next to Brendon, hurt in her eyes.

  “I think I’m going to take off, Mom,” Max said, not sure she even heard him. But his mom gave him a soft, almost-broken smile. The same one she’d given when Max left home at age sixteen to play in the juniors. The same one she’d offered when Max packed for North Dakota State, and the same expression she’d left him with when Max moved to St. Paul. “I can’t . . . I can’t be here.”

  A knowing, sad smile that understood that Max could never truly face the future. She crossed the distance between them and drew him into her arms. He hung on, just for a moment, and closed his eyes.

  “I’m praying for you, Maxie,” she whispered.

  He nodded, let her go. “I love you, Mom.”

  Brendon stood at the edge of the yard, hands in his pockets, a hard resolve on his face as Max fired up the car and pulled out of the driveway.

  Max looked away. He hadn’t reached the end of the road before the clouds finally broke open and poured out tears over the Sharpe family reunion.

  If Grace was lucky, no one would miss her. Especially since she’d stolen the cutest bachelor from the dance floor, luring him out under the sprinkle of starlight to tuck him into her embrace. The wind twined through the trees, fragrancing the night with the scent of evergreen. It all conspired to . . . lull him to sleep.

  Figured. But six-year-old Tiger, Grace’s favorite and only nephew,
had endured the long day with the toughness of his breeding. After all, he was a Christiansen, and as ring bearer, Theo “Tiger” Christiansen had important duties. He’d managed to not only hand off the ring to his father, Darek, but also stay clean and even smiling through the entire wedding.

  Trouper.

  Only at the reception did he start to fade, whining his way through dinner and then stealing one of the cupcakes from the dessert table.

  Grace pressed a kiss to his curly blond hair. His lips open against her dress, he’d even left a puddle of drool, dampening the fabric. She loosened his bow tie, drew it off his neck.

  If she could, she’d never leave. Everything she wanted, everything she needed, was right here, right now. Even with tonight’s near disaster.

  Whoever had last used the folk school grill let a hamburger sit on the bottom, charred, yet ready to flame with the next user. Calling in the fire department seemed overkill, but Raina had panicked. They’d doused the grill, saturating Grace’s marinated chicken with hose water.

  Thankfully, they still had the ravioli, which Ty cooked to perfection. No one seemed to notice the missing chicken after she’d served the strawberries. She hoped.

  Music from the local blues band, the Blue Monkeys, drifted out across the dock and the glistening water, mysterious and romantic.

  If Grace simply stayed out here, swaddled in the night, babysitting, no one would notice that she hadn’t danced once and managed to eat dinner in the kitchen. It seemed a better option than sticking around for small talk.

  She had no doubt someone would eventually ask her about her plans. Inadvertently surface her failures.

  Yes, I’d planned to go to culinary school in July, but no, I didn’t get in. Which is okay because I like working at Pierre’s Pizza.

  Really.

  Most likely, they’d get stuck on the question “What kind of person gets rejected from cooking school?”

  The kind that nearly burned down the folk school building.

  She wanted to believe that in His kindness, God had looked down from heaven, seen disaster looming, and saved her from herself. From the dreams of others that said she had to leave Deep Haven to find happiness.