Healing Beau (The Brothers of Beauford Bend Book 6)

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Too bad our house isn’t done,” Abby said. “That would be five fewer. Though we’re breaking ground after the holidays.”

  “Don’t worry,” Christian said. “Beau has a home at Firefly Hall as long as he needs it.”

  She was so torn. On the one hand, she would die of embarrassment if anyone knew how she felt and how utterly hopeless it was—but on the other hand, how comforting it would be to have someone to talk to. Of course, there was always Dear Abby.

  Dear Abby,

  I’ve loved a boy all my life. Only he isn’t so much a boy anymore. I don’t even know why I’m writing to you, because he’s never, ever going to love me back. I don’t want advice on how to move on. I don’t want to move on. I want to love him even though he won’t love me back. So really, that leaves me nowhere. Thank you for your time.

  Signed, Pitiful Pathetic

  Even if she wanted to talk to someone, it couldn’t be to these women. They had been her friends first, but now Emory, Neyland, and Abby were Beau’s sisters-in-law, and Gwen really was like his sister.

  “Truly,” Christian said. “Beau is welcome. He’s no trouble. He sleeps a lot. And it’s not as if we aren’t friends. I’ll be there for him.” She was dangerously close to rambling and needed to shut up. “So that’s all. It’s fine. Has anyone finished their Christmas shopping?”

  Everyone seemed relieved to change the subject and started muttering about this gift that hadn’t arrived or that one that might not be right after all.

  Christian went back to her knitting—until she felt a hand on her arm. She turned to look into Noel’s sweet elfin face.

  “Oh, honey.” Noel’s eyes were wide with sympathy and comprehension. “I didn’t know,” she whispered.

  Alarm moved through her. What she’d always feared had happened—someone had picked up on her secret. But then relief washed the alarm away—finally there was someone she could talk to, someone who wasn’t related to Beau. But this wasn’t the time or place for talking—or even for secret exchanged looks.

  “Please—” Christian looked around to be sure no one was listening.

  Noel cut her off with a shake of her head. “Another time. Let’s just knit.”

  Chapter Four

  Beau let himself in the back family wing door of Beauford Bend Plantation. The memories came flowing back, just like they had three nights ago, just like they always did.

  And he had more memories than most, because he seemed to have some kind of early remembering gene. He could remember his mother dancing around with him her arms, her cheek next to his. That might be his first memory, though there were other early ones—being held on the back of a pony, being carried up the stairs and put into bed, having a spoon head for his mouth, held by a hand with the ornate, antique, Beauford wedding band. It was hard to know whether he was incapable of feeding himself in the spoon memory or if she was feeding him because she wanted to. His father was always gently scolding his mother for coddling Beau, but she’d just laugh and say Beau was her baby. She never stopped saying that, even after Camille was born. And Aunt Amelia had taken the coddling up after the fire—though he hadn’t deserved to be coddled.

  He shook it off, like he always shook it off. There was nothing else to do. Besides, he had a box to fix and a brother to face.

  The house was quiet. Christian had said she was meeting the sisters-in-law and Gwen in town for something. Gabe was in Nashville for a Titans practice. Rafe and Dirk were probably somewhere on the place with all those kids, but Jackson’s truck was parked out back. He was probably in the music room upstairs.

  Just as Beau approached the staircase, Jackson came down, bringing enough awkwardness with him to fill Noah’s ark.

  “There you are.”

  “You knew I was here?”

  Jackson nodded. “Brett up in the guardhouse called and told me.”

  “Does Brett up in the guardhouse call you every time someone comes on the premises? I’d think you’d be too busy for that.”

  “I told them to call me if you came. And I’m never too busy for you.” That was the truth. “So. You want to go to the south end of the property and shoot some skeet?”

  There had been a time when Beau had loved doing that—and Jackson was trying to make him happy—but that time was long gone. Guns weren’t for sport anymore, not for him. They were instruments for killing, and even if it hadn’t been his choice, he was done with killing. He wasn’t traumatized by the memories of doing what’d had to be done, but there was a measure of relief at not having to ever do it again.

  “No, thanks. I’d beat you anyway,” Beau said.

  “True enough, but you can’t sing a note.” Jackson led him into the big family room, the one they had grown up using. This part of the house had been added about fifty years after the original structure was built. Though they had used the original, more formal part of the house for special occasions, those rooms and the ballroom on the third floor had been used mostly for his mother and Aunt Amelia’s party business—the same business Emory ran now. After the fire, the house had gotten pretty run down, but once Jackson had made it big, he’d restored the old part and renovated the newer wings.

  They sat down opposite each other in the big leather chairs that flanked the fireplace. Though the day was cold, there was no fire; there never was unless it was certain someone would be in the room every second. That was one thing that all the brothers agreed on. Beau set the broken writing desk on the floor beside him.

  “Are you comfortable there?” Jackson asked with a worry line between his eyes.

  “Fine.” Beau gestured to the room. “Something’s different in here. The room looks good.”

  “It’s the same, except it’s lived in.”

  Was that it? He supposed it was. Along with the gaming system controls, magazines, books, and e-readers on the coffee table, there were other signs of life throughout the room—dog beds, a basket of toys, blankets, and pillows scattered around. Minus the up-to-date electronics, it was a lot like it had been before they had all grown up and gone their separate ways.

  Odd. Now they were all back.

  Jackson nodded. “Do you want something to eat? Or drink?”

  Truly amused, Beau laughed. “And if I did? Gwen’s not here. I don’t see Sammy anywhere. Were you going to fetch me a plate of food yourself?”

  Jackson laughed a natural laugh, too, and the tension broke. “Maybe. I can get food. If I have to. There was a time when I made you a lot of grilled cheese.”

  “Yes, you did. But lucky for you today, I’m not hungry. I had a banana and chocolate milk.”

  “You’ll notice I’m not saying anything about how you might need a little more to eat than that.”

  “I do notice and I thank you.”

  “I sent the hospital bed back. Got rid of the physical therapist and the masseuse.”

  “What about the Porsche?”

  Jackson shrugged. “I kept it. We can always use another vehicle around here. I think Gabe drove it to practice. But Gabe never has had any trouble indulging in what I buy.”

  “That’s because he can buy his own, Jackson.”

  Jackson nodded. “I understand.” But Beau knew he didn’t, not really. Sometimes acceptance was all you could expect from Jackson, and that didn’t come along very often. “So, are you home?”

  He’d been expecting that. “Well, this is home. And I’m here. So when you look at it that way, the answer is yes.”

  “But you aren’t going to sleep here?”

  “Not tonight, no.”

  “Beau—” Jackson began.

  “Jackson, please. I’m settled in at Christian’s right now. I’m not mad. It’s Christmas. Let’s leave it alone for now.”

  “Okay.” Jackson held out his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry about the hospital bed and all. Emory tried to tell me.”

  “It’s okay. But I do need some help.” He picked up the writing desk and set it on the coffee table in fron
t of him.

  Jackson sat forward in his chair. “What can I do? And what is that?”

  “This is a portable writing desk that belonged to Christian’s grandmother a couple of generations back.” He unlatched the door and laid it on the table. “And she broke it this morning.”

  Jackson reached for his cell phone. “I can get my people on finding an identical one.”

  “No, Jackson. She doesn’t want another one. She wants this one. And I told her I could fix it.”

  Jackson narrowed is eyes. “Can you?”

  Beau shrugged. “Hell if I know.”

  “Have you done any woodworking?”

  “No. But I hadn’t done anything until I did. I was hoping you might know how.”

  Jackson shook his head. “Sorry, little bother.”

  “Do you think Rafe or Gabe might know?”

  “Most assuredly, they do not. Why did you tell Christian you could fix it?”

  Good question, and one that hadn’t occurred to him. “She was crying? Is that a reason?”

  “One of the best.”

  “Do we have woodworking tools?” Beau asked.

  “No idea. Sammy would know. He’s out doing my Christmas shopping, but I can call him home.”

  Sammy, of course! “Hey, what about Sammy?”

  But Jackson was already shaking his head. “If you could have seen us trying to put cribs together for Rafe’s kids, you wouldn’t even ask. But I do have an idea. I’m going to call Will Garrett.”

  “Who?” For once, Beau was glad Jackson was willing to take over.

  Jackson picked up his cell phone. “Will Garrett. He’s from Merritt. A friend of Missy’s. He built my guitar display cases.”

  Jackson said that like those custom mahogany cases that housed his priceless collection were ordinary. Inasmuch as Jackson was willing to do anything for the people he loved, he’d never been one to indulge himself much—that guitar collection and the display cases being the exceptions. Those cabinets with the hand carved musical scores of songs Jackson had written had been two years in the making. And apparently, Jackson was going to try to get this woodworking superman to fix Christian’s writing desk—and for some reason, Beau was not all right with that.

  “Wait.”

  Jackson stopped scrolling through his phone. “What?”

  “I really need to fix it myself. I can’t send it off to this guy.”

  Jackson laughed. “Believe me, there’s about as much chance that Will Garrett would be willing to put his current project on hold to fix that box as me agreeing to co-write a song with Lindsay Lohan. Best case scenario, he might drive up here and coach you through it. I’ll ask, but I wouldn’t hope for best case scenario.”

  “I might have implied that I could get it done today.”

  “Of course you did. Why not? If you’re going on a lying spree, do it right.” Jackson settled back in his chair and hit a button on his phone. After a few seconds he smiled.

  “Hey, Will. Jackson Beauford here. Yeah. Yeah. We’re about as ready for the big day as we’re going to get. We’re good. I guess Missy told you Emory’s pregnant. Yeah. She’s good. How about Arabelle and the boy? Yeah. Great. Uh, listen, Will. I’ve got a situation here. My little brother is home. Oh? Missy told you? He’s good. A little banged up, but he’d going to be fine. But his girl broke an antique portable writing desk, and he promised her he’d try to fix it.”

  His girl? Where the hell had Jackson gotten that? Beau shook his head and waved wildly. He had to tell this Will Garrett different.

  Jackson frowned, waved him off, and kept talking. “I know it’s two days until Christmas, but is there any chance you could drive up here and help Beau out with this? Yeah. Sure. Okay. That’s great, Will. We’ll do that. I appreciate it and I owe you. I mean it. Merry Christmas to you, too.”

  “What the hell?” Beau exploded as soon as Jackson hung up. “Why did you tell him Christian’s my girl?”

  Jackson rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Economy of words and because it doesn’t matter. Because I didn’t want to say instead, ‘childhood friend of Beau’s, former U.T. basketball player, one of my wife’s best friends, and daughter of old family friends who owned the neighboring plantation that’s now a B&B.’ Will hasn’t got time for all that, and neither have I. And neither have you if you intend to learn a skill and apply it all in one day.”

  “Now he’ll go tell Missy.” And that would go well. Beau loved his cousin, but she was a force of nature who thought the world owed her information and she owed the world her opinion.

  “Calm down, Beau. He will not. He hasn’t even thought about it again. And besides, I didn’t say Christian’s name. Now, do you want to know what he’s going to do for you, or not?”

  “Yes. When’s he coming?”

  Jackson sighed. “He’s not. Will is weird. He’s world-class good at what he does, and he only works for people he likes on projects that interest him.”

  “I thought he liked you.”

  Jackson nodded. “He does. And he appreciates your service to this country, but his wife has taken a few days off work for the holidays, and he has no plans of leaving her and his boy for one second. He wouldn’t leave town if Michelangelo came back to life and asked him to carve him a chapel ceiling.”

  “I think you’ve got that all mixed up. Michelangelo wasn’t a woodworker. He was a painter and a sculptor. Not a woodworker.”

  “Again. It doesn’t matter. This is what matters: He said for us to take some pictures of the damage and send them to him. If he thinks it’s something you can handle, he’ll talk you through it. And don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

  Great. Two clueless people turned loose on a family heirloom, including one, Jackson, who would decide he was an expert. They’d be lucky if they didn’t have kindling when they were done.

  Jackson took a couple of pictures of the writing desk and sent them.

  “I wish you’d told him I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Don’t worry. Where his craft is concerned, Will assumes nobody else on the planet knows what he’s doing.”

  Jackson’s phone signaled that he had a text. “Good,” he said after reading it. “Will says it looks fairly simple, and he wants some more pictures from different angles. He’s going to call a woodworking shop in Nashville and tell them what supplies and tools we need. I’ll call Sammy and send him to get them.”

  “Thank you, Jackson.” Beau really did appreciate the help, but he needed for this to be his project. “But I’m going to pay for the supplies.”

  “As you like. Now, turn that thing around, and let’s get those pictures.”

  Chapter Five

  Christian wearily climbed the stairs to the third floor, anticipating the warmth she’d find behind the door of her private quarters. Could a day when war had not been declared and no one she knew had actually died get any worse?

  Noel had followed Christian home after the knitting class, which was good news and bad news. While Christian dreaded the conversation, she had never confided in anyone about how she felt about Beau, so it was probably time she did. And Noel would never tell.

  But the conversation never took place. They walked in to find most of Firefly Hall like an iceberg. Christian sent a reluctant Noel away in order to deal with the emergency. A visit from the heating and cooling repair people confirmed what she already knew: the first floor central unit was broken in a bad way. What she hadn’t counted on was that the needed part wouldn’t come in until the day after Christmas. On a different day, she would have counted her blessings that this had happened when she didn’t have customers and that her quarters had a separate unit that was working fine.

  But this wasn’t a different day. This was a day when Beau would be coming back, expecting a warm room. Or maybe he wasn’t coming back. It was getting late. Either way, she was in no mood to count her blessings; she was in no mood to count anything, including the time ticking away on the clock. It was aft
er nine o’clock, and not only was Beau not home, she hadn’t heard from him. An hour ago, she’d told herself she was only going into his room to bring clean towels and make sure he still had chocolate milk, but it was a lie. She’d wanted to see if his things were gone. She hadn’t looked in the closet or drawers, but his toiletries were still in the bathroom.

  She went straight into her bedroom, shucked her clothes, and put on flannel pants and the U.S. Army sweatshirt Beau had left there five years ago.

  Damn it, where was he? Should she be worried? If she could have thought of a reason to call Emory or Neyland, she would have. Maybe he’d decided to move back into Beauford Bend. Even if he hadn’t, he probably would when he discovered it was forty-two degrees in his room.

  Or maybe he wasn’t at Beauford Bend at all. He probably wasn’t. He’d never had any problems finding a woman, and he’d most likely found one—maybe some country music star. Someone like Carrie Underwood, though not exactly her since she was married. Beau wouldn’t do that. He had a code of ethics. But he could have Taylor Swift. Yes, that was it. Swift would have finally found someone she wouldn’t write an unflattering song about. In fact, they would probably get married, if they weren’t already. That was it, why he wasn’t here. He’d bring her back here for the wedding night. And why not? If Firefly Hall was good enough for Tim McGraw and Faith Hill, it was good enough for Taylor Swift-Beauford.

  But she’d better bring a flannel nightgown. Either that, or a heat pump and a lackey to install it. Though she wouldn’t need those things, because she’d have Beau to keep her warm.

  A chime rang softly, alerting her that the front door had been opened. Ah, there they were now. Perhaps she should go greet Mr. and Mrs. Swift-Beauford and explain the lack of heat situation. But she stopped with her hand on the doorknob. Crazy, internal kidding aside, what if he really had brought a woman here? How awkward would that be? At least for her. Why should it be awkward for Beau? He had the right. She’d told him this was his home as long as he wanted.