“Yeah.” Brock turned his head. “You can see Maysie just starting to show. Gabby was about five months along when I took that.”
“She was beautiful.”
“She was.” He breathed a ragged sigh and closed his eyes.
“You miss her.”
A little less every day. And that scared him.
“Gabrielle was everything to me. Yeah, I miss her. But part of me is glad she’s not around for this.”
He heard her put the picture back. “Will you tell me about her sometime?”
“Sometime.” Brock closed his eyes under another wave of pain. “Savannah?”
“Yes?”
“Talk to me.” He opened his eyes again and patted the empty spot on the other side of him. “Come here and tell me a story. Tell me something good.”
“Okay.” She rounded the bed, gingerly lay beside him, and stared at the ceiling. “Once upon a time . . .”
Laughter shook him and he flinched with the effort it took. “Good grief, lady. You can’t start a story with ‘once upon a time.’ Too cliché.”
She flipped onto her side and gave him the look. “You did. What book was it? Oh, The Midnight Call. It definitely started with ‘once upon a time’ because I remember saying to Kevin how weird it was.”
“Good memory. But what was the next line?”
“Um . . . I don’t remember.”
“‘Maxwell Carter hit the Delete button with more force than necessary. He wouldn’t resort to clichés, no matter how desperate he was to meet this deadline.’”
“Ah.” She grinned. “I suppose that’s acceptable then.” She propped her elbow and hummed a wistful tune. “I’m not very good at telling stories.”
“Everybody’s good at telling stories. They just don’t know they are.” Brock smiled at her look of chagrin. “Tell me about your life. Tell me what it was like back when your kids were young. What kind of stuff did y’all do?”
“Oh, gosh.” Her eyes sparkled in a way that made him feel lighter. “It was like a circus most days at our house. Kevin worked long hours a lot of the time. But he’d make up for it on weekends. He always came up with the most outrageous ideas. Like driving north for four hours to find an orchard he’d read about that had the best apple cider. Or going to some llama farm out in the middle of nowhere because Shelby had never seen a llama. I swear he would have brought one home for her if I’d have let him. Oh—there was one year he decided to build an igloo in the backyard.”
“An igloo?” Brock chuckled. “For real?”
“For real.” Savannah rolled her eyes and laughed. “The kids thought it was going to be amazing. They used empty milk cartons to freeze the water, drew out elaborate plans and everything. I think it would have actually worked. They had two rows done and then the next day the weather warmed and the whole thing melted.”
“Ah. That sucks.”
“We took them to a movie and the ice rink. They forgot about it pretty quickly.”
“Sounds like he was a good dad.” The kind of dad Brock had wanted to be.
“He was. Is.” She lay back down and laced her hands together. “He and Adam have gone skiing for New Year’s. Zoe and her boyfriend are meeting up with them.”
“You didn’t want to go?”
“I don’t ski. Besides, I didn’t want the kids to think . . .” She trailed off and released a reflective sigh.
“Your kids are great. I enjoyed meeting them.” Even in spite of the curious glances both of them sent his way most of the afternoon. Brock would have found it funny had he not been so ticked with their father for showing up and sending Savannah into conniptions. He had to hand it to her, though; she managed the entire fiasco with remarkable finesse.
“They are great. Although I think they’ll be glad when this whole thing is over, one way or the other. They’re both still pretty angry with Kevin. And Adam . . . he’s not himself. I think he’s really struggling with all this. I tried to talk to him, but he said he was fine and didn’t want to talk.”
They lay silent for a while, listening to the music. Brock’s headache was bad, but it didn’t compare to what was going on in his heart. “What are you going to do, Savannah?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
Her sigh of frustration coaxed a smile. Brock shifted slightly so he could see her. She moved at the same time, and he caught the hesitation in her eyes. “Do you want to know what I think?”
“No.”
He grinned and somehow managed to prop himself up on one elbow. “I think you’ll know exactly what you want when you least expect it. And when you do, you’ll know you made the right decision.”
“You’ve been hanging out with Clarice too long.”
“Probably.” His smile didn’t quite make it. “But I’ll tell you something else, darlin’. Second chances don’t come around too often in this life. If you get yourself one, grab it good and don’t let go for anything.”
“Brock . . .”
“Promise me.”
“Why?” She wore a pained look that he wanted to kiss away, but he wouldn’t go there. Instead, he shook his head and lay on his back again.
“Because it would please me to no end to know you’re happy, Savannah.”
“And you think taking Kevin back will make me happy?”
“I don’t know. But I think y’all had something pretty special until he screwed it up. And maybe that can’t be fixed. But the way he looked at you Christmas Day?” Brock flung one arm across his eyes and wrestled with the truth. “I’d say you owe it to yourself to find out.”
CHAPTER 21
“All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.”
—HAVELOCK ELLIS
Not quite what he’d wanted to hear, but perhaps there was hope. If he allowed it.
Brock exited the hospital, eager to be rid of its stifling air and smothering, life-altering prognoses, stepped out into the winter sun, and headed for the bar where Mitch was waiting.
Mitchell sat in a booth near the back of the dimly lit establishment, eyes glued to his iPhone.
He’d flown in from Zurich yesterday, at Brock’s request. Dressed in skinny jeans, brown Oxfords, and a white button-down, with a discarded leather jacket beside him, Mitch could easily pass for a twenty-five-year-old hipster rather than a high-powered international lawyer.
At thirty-seven, his brother had been to more countries than Brock could count. His ridiculously high-paying job took him all over the world into some of the most well-known boardrooms—and, often, bedrooms. Sadly, Mitch’s reputation among the crowd of rich and famous friends he seemed to attract like bees to honey was not exaggerated.
Brock had hoped to see his brother settled down by now. Still, when he called Mitch a few days ago to ask if he would meet him in New York, that it was important, he hadn’t hesitated.
Now Brock almost regretted asking him to come. He’d kept his diagnosis from Mitchell because he wasn’t sure how his brother would handle the news. So, for the past year, he’d made Clarice promise not to say a word and had kept things to himself, hoping the situation might improve. But last night he came clean. And Mitch had been furious. Understandably so. But his brother never stayed angry long.
Mitch hated hospitals. Refused to go anywhere near them since the day their mother died. Brock counted himself lucky that Mitch had agreed to be with him today. Still, Brock gave him an out and suggested meeting after his appointments.
“Hey.” He took off his jacket and lowered himself into the booth opposite his brother.
Mitchell pocketed his phone and looked up through worried eyes. “Well?”
Brock sighed, laced his fingers together. “Well. I could use a drink, and you’re gonna need one.”
Mitch needed more than one. He was on his second double Scotch before he finally spoke. “That’s it? This is the only option?”
“I guess.” Brock glared into his bourbon, tempted to chug it
.
Mitch swore, his eyes glistening. “No. This is crap.”
Brock shrugged. “I sort of expected it. At this point I’m not sure it’s wise to hold out much hope.”
“You gonna do the operation?” Mitch’s eyes narrowed. “Brock. You have to have the operation.”
“Why? So I can be dead a few months earlier?” He finished his drink and signaled for another. The waitress brought menus with the next round. Brock wasn’t hungry but knew he needed food.
The crazy thing was, weeks ago he would have jumped at this option. A chance to live. But now he wasn’t so sure. It was a long shot at best. The specialist was honest at least. They’d only done the operation three or four times with a fifty-fifty success rate. Fifty-fifty. Only slightly better than his current odds.
“And what if it works?” Mitch drummed his fingers on the table, agitated. “What if—“
“That’s a heck of a big what-if, little brother. You’re the gambler in the family. Not me.”
Mitch gave a slow grin. He mussed his blond hair and trained his gaze on Brock. “Well, excuse me for pointing out the obvious, Captain Doom, but at this juncture it’s not like you have anything to lose.”
“Ooh. So true. Glad to see that law degree isn’t going to waste.” Brock scowled and flipped open the menu. “Think I’ll have a burger. Haven’t had a good cheeseburger in a long while.”
“Great.” Mitch’s grin faded. “You’ve just been told you’ve got six months, give or take, unless you have an operation that may or may not kill you, and you want to talk about food.”
“May as well go out fat and happy.” Brock tried to smile, but the sudden anguish on his brother’s face stopped him. “Look, I would have told you before now, but . . .” He didn’t really have a good excuse. He hadn’t told Mitchell for a few reasons, but mostly because he didn’t want to face the look he was seeing now. Didn’t want to have to tell his brother he was going to need to plan yet another funeral.
The waitress stopped by and took their lunch order.
“Yeah. You should have told me. But I know why you didn’t. And to be honest, part of me appreciates that.” Mitch shook his head and gulped from his glass. “Clarice knows, I gather.”
Brock nodded.
“And your agent? Your publisher?” Brock nodded again.
“Maysie?”
“No.” Brock shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Well. This sucks.” Mitch swore, peeled a bit of skin off his sunburned nose, and blew air through his lips. “Have the operation. At least leave it open for discussion. You have a daughter to consider.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Brock sat back, hoping the food would hurry up. The booze was giving him a buzz that wasn’t making him feel any better. “What do you think keeps me up at night? It’s not the thought of dying, Mitchell.”
“What will happen if . . . I mean, Clarice is pretty old. And I’m . . .” He looked away and blinked hard. “You’re not going to ask me to take her, are you?”
Brock couldn’t stop a chuckle. He’d thought about it. Once. At the beginning. Thought maybe Mitch might clean up his act. Might actually sort out his life and come through for his niece if push came to shove. But he’d quickly moved on.
“Don’t worry, you’re off the hook. There’s a plan. It’s pretty wacked and I don’t fully understand it yet, but Aunt Clarice has been trying to convince me it’s what needs to be done.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that. What plan?” Mitch looked back at him, doubt marring his face. “I thought Gabby didn’t have any family.”
“She doesn’t. Didn’t.”
Gabrielle’s mother died when she was only ten. Her father couldn’t cope with the grief and turned to alcohol, practically ignoring his young daughter. She’d learned to fend for herself at an early age, but Brock suspected the pain of her father’s rejection had never quite dissipated. It had been what connected them, he supposed. He knew what it was like, having gone through his folks splitting up, missing a parent. Feeling like you got the short end of the stick somehow.
“There may be one or two cousins someplace, but no immediate family. After her dad died, she was pretty much on her own.”
Mitch scowled. “Well, whatever this plan is, it better be good. I love Clarice, but you know . . .” Mitch hummed Twilight Zone music and Brock grinned. If his brother only knew the half of it.
The food arrived and they got busy. After a few bites, nausea got the better of him and Brock pushed his plate to one side. His cell buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out.
Savannah. A smile moved across his face, unbidden. He glanced up to find Mitch watching him with interest. “You mind if I take this?”
“By all means.” Mitch continued to eat but kept one eye on him.
Brock swiveled in the booth, stretched out his legs, and put the phone to his ear. “City Morgue.”
Savannah’s giggle made him grin.
“Brock. Don’t be an idiot. How’d it go?”
“It went.” Brock arched a brow as Mitch leaned in a little closer, grinning like a kid. “I’m having lunch with my brother. Who is apparently dying to know all about the beautiful woman I’m talking to right now.”
“Well, I’d like to know about her too.” She laughed and his heart lurched. “So what happened? Are you okay? What did they say?”
“Um. I’ll fill you in when I get home. How’s Maysie?”
“She’s good. She misses you. So does Clarice, although she’d never admit it. When are you flying back?”
Brock drummed his fingers on the rough-hewn table and watched Mitch down the rest of his drink. He didn’t like the tremor in his brother’s hands. Maybe he should spend some time with him. While he could. “Not sure yet. I’ll let you know. Do you mind staying over there a few more nights?”
“Not at all.” Her pause was longer than he liked. “You’re not okay, are you?”
Brock pressed his lips together and stared at the floor. “I’ve had better days.”
“I wish there was something I could do.” She was tearful, and he knew he needed to let her go.
“You’re doing it. Give Maysie a hug from me, and tell Clarice I’ll call later, okay?”
“I will. Well, I just wanted to make sure you know . . .”
“I know.” He closed his eyes a moment. “Thanks.”
“You’re taking care of yourself?”
“Three square meals a day and in bed by six.”
“Liar. Brock, you promised you’d—”
“Darlin’, I’m fine. Quit worrying. I’ll call you back tonight and you can nag all you want.”
“Oh, goody. I’ll make a list.” Savannah laughed at his low growl. “All right. Ack, Hope just peed on the floor. I’d better go.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling.” Brock hung up and faced his brother’s inquiring gaze. “Don’t ask.”
“Oh, no sir!” Mitch shook his head and let out a low whistle. “You’re not getting away that easy. Spill it.”
Brock groaned and took another bite of his burger. Mitch would only hound him until the truth came out. May as well get it over with. “Her name is Savannah. Her family owns the house next door to Clarice. We’re friends. Just. Friends.”
“Sav-an-nah.” Mitch sat back, muscles flexing beneath his shirt. “Just friends, my rear. I’ve said that enough times to know what it means.”
“She’s married, Mitch.”
His brother stared, slack-jawed. And then he erupted. Mitch’s laughter rang around the room and caused several heads to turn in their direction. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to know I’m no longer the only nefarious Chandler.”
Brock slunk a little lower in his chair and glared. “Would you keep your voice down? It’s not like that. It’s . . . I don’t know what it is. And I refuse to discuss it here.” Or anywhere, for that matter.
Mitch was still laughing. “Whatever you say, big guy. Well, I’ll be a pig on a sp
it. After that revelation I need another drink.”
“No.” Brock pressed his hands onto the table and pinned his brother with a scathing look. “Mitchell. You do not need another drink. I’ve got things I need taken care of, and I need you to do that for me. I need your head in the game, man. Please.”
“Don’t get your blood pressure up.” Mitch sobered and signaled the waitress for the check. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He sighed, ran a hand down his face, and gave a sad smile. “I know I haven’t always been there for you. Haven’t been someone you could count on, and I’m sorry for that. But I’m here now. You have my word. Whatever you need, just ask.”
Brock nodded, relief untying the knot in his stomach. For all his faults, Mitchell never went back on his word. “Thank you. So, if you’re free the rest of the week, what do you think about flying to Atlanta? Spend a few days in our old stomping grounds. Go see Dad.”
“Heaven help us.” Mitch rolled his eyes and chuckled as he counted out a few bills and slipped them into the leather binder that held their check. “Figured that was coming. What’s the point? He won’t know we’re there, Brock.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Brock stood and pulled on his jacket. “I’ll know.”
CHAPTER 22
“The tragedy of it is that nobody sees the look of desperation on my face.”
—HENRY MILLER
She just had to get through today.
Zoe splashed cold water over her cheeks that Monday morning, breathed deeply, and glared at the small bottle in the medicine cabinet. Carly told her the pills would help. “But just take one. And a Red Bull. You’ll ace that exam.”
She didn’t know about acing it, but she needed to stay awake for it. A two-hour test that would make or break her grade. And if she didn’t pass this course . . . Oh, she was so not ready for this. How did it creep up on her so fast? Christmas and New Year’s should have given her time to study. She thought she’d prepared. But it was now the end of January and she felt like she didn’t know a thing.
Where Hope Begins Page 19
