by Raine Miller
I left Nan and Herman after dinner and took myself home to the cottage. Home to my cottage. Now, that little idea was going to take some getting used to, but I felt confident I could manage it. How did I go from paranoia about money to owning a two-million-dollar cottage on Blackstone Island in the space of an evening? How was that even possible? My nan was marrying her long-lost love, Herman, who just happened to be the mayor. They were getting married in exactly one month and I was planning it with Eduardo, who didn’t even know he’d been commandeered into service.
God.
I wanted to do a bit of research tonight, and make some notes on ideas for the wedding, so I could be ready to begin full speed ahead with the actual plans in the morning. Only a month’s time to prepare. I knew it would be a challenge, but I’d make sure it was special for Nan and Herman if it killed me.
The first thing I did whenever I got home was change out of my work clothes. By the end of the day, I was beyond ready to ditch leather leggings and boots after nearly twelve hours of wearing them. The bra, too. Nothing felt better than to exchange the pretty stuff for cozy flannel pajamas and warm socks that maybe weren’t quite so pretty.
I made some tea and drafted a long email to Eduardo with the details and invited him to come over to the island tomorrow—if he was free—so we could search venues. I assumed they would want it at Stone Church, the old stone chapel perched against the rocky shoreline. Very stark, but reminiscent of the chapel on Cumberland Island where JFK Jr. and Carolyn Bessette married. It was going to be gorgeous.
It was just past ten when I picked up my phone to look at the pictures I’d taken of Herman and Nan. I saw the spaghetti and meatballs pictures, too. I don’t know why I decided to message Caleb. It was stupid really, but I wanted to reach out to him and apologize again. I felt badly with how our conversation had gone about west-side vs. south-end. Ouch. So bitchy on my part. My comments had been cringeworthy, despite the fact I couldn’t remember them exactly. Thank. God.
I did remember, however, that Caleb had said for me to think of him whenever I saw a meatball.
It was the least I could do to be accommodating, I told myself as I tapped out my text.
Thought of you tonight at dinner. –Brooke
I attached a picture of my plate of meatballs and pressed Send.
Caleb
Fuck!” Fuck, shit, cocksucker, motherfucker. What were the odds she would contact me now? I stared at Brooke’s text and wanted to call her so badly. I wanted to talk to her, mostly to hear her say my name in that beautiful, oh-so-proper voice of hers. “Is this Caleb calling?” I could hear her saying it. Knew exactly how she would sound when she did.
But I couldn’t call her right now no matter how badly I wanted to.
It would screw up my plans for Monday. She didn’t yet know I’d retained her services for my penthouse, and of course, had no knowledge my family employed her grandmother at Blackwater from the time before I was born, either. I had to set my plan for Blackwater in motion first, and then I’d tell Brooke who I really was, when we were at a point where the mistakes that’d been made were being set right. She’d never give me a chance otherwise. Brooke would tell me to fuck on off to my west-side mansion with the rest of the filthy-rich bastards who didn’t understand how things really worked.
I could hear her voice saying those words, too.
I wasn’t really concerned about my name because there were a lot of Blackstones in this area, probably distant relations, but it was still a common enough name to pull off anonymity when we met on Monday. I didn’t want her to know I was on the island this weekend, either, and if I called her back now, I knew I would cave and ask to meet her somewhere. She was too tantalizing to me and the temptation too immense for me to trust myself.
Her message made me fucking happy, though. Brooke thought about me at dinner tonight. She remembered the idiot with the black eye and the inability to be coherent—and she hadn’t ditched my number, either.
I stared at the picture she’d sent and wondered what time she’d been eating her dinner, and where she ate it, and with whom. I wanted to know every detail.
I suspected it was right about the same time I’d been jerking off in the shower to thoughts of her. Pretty pathetic. What would she think of me if she knew?
Lucas strolled back into his game room with a bottle of Lagavulin in one hand and two Cohiba Espléndidos in the other. “What was the f-bomb for?”
“I’m gonna need some of that Lag before I can go there, bro.”
“Brooke is why you came here. I figured out that much already.”
I looked pointedly at the bottle of Scotch in his hand as a reply.
“Okay, I got you,” he said, before plopping his ass down beside me, and started to pour.
I didn’t answer until I was on my second glass of Lag, and the Cohiba had been cut, toasted, and was burning properly. I didn’t indulge often but I enjoyed the hell out of it when I did. Smoking a cigar was a lot like tasting a fine wine, because you never inhaled with a cigar. You sipped it. Sipped the smoke and then blew it back out, leaving nothing behind but the flavor of ultrapure tobacco.
Smoking this fine Cuban cigar was perfect for my mood right now. I watched the white smoke swirl in front of me and slowly fade out. Lucas had a beautiful view of Black Bay from his game room. In fact, the whole house was amazing, and I was glad I had come to see my brother, regardless of what I’d discover tomorrow at Blackwater.
“Did you ever want something so badly that you were afraid for your future if you couldn’t have it?”
Lucas didn’t answer for a long time. He sipped on his Cohiba, and seemed to be far away in his own thoughts. My brother was probably lost in the past to a time when he didn’t have the scars that now marred much of the right side of his body, including his face. They looked mostly superficial to me, and always had, but I didn’t have to live in his skin, so I didn’t know how it was for him. Women didn’t seem to mind his scars. If anything it made him more attractive, his personal wealth notwithstanding, because he was a mystery. Pussy was never his problem.
“Yes.”
“What do you do about it?” I asked.
“You accept it for what it really is.”
“And what is that, exactly?”
He turned toward me and read me like a book. “You love her, Caleb.”
I shut up for a while and just let that idea roll around in my head for a bit. It seemed totally impossible for Lucas to be right, but no desperate urge to deny it as false came over me, either. And even weirder was the peaceful feeling of calm that settled in my chest. I felt relief for the first time in days.
How could I love someone I barely knew? Is that how it worked for people? They just met a person and fell for them that easily? I didn’t know the answers because I was unable to compare what I was feeling about Brooke to anybody else I’d known. It was a totally different experience with her. I had no guidebook to spell it out for me, either. This was one I’d have to figure out as I went along.
Time kept marching forward no matter what. The grains of sand continued to fall until the last one slipped through and there were no more. I thought of our dad and some of the conversations we’d had together before he died. One really stuck.
The idea that right now was the most time you had left to live of your life. This day, this hour, this minute of your life—was the greatest amount of time you had remaining. The time you had left only grew shorter . . . and so, more precious.
Maybe the Cohiba was more potent than I thought, because my head was way out into the next galaxy tonight. I took another sip of the Lag and savored it across my tongue.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I would text Brooke and let her know I liked the picture she sent me—maybe ask her to dinner in the city. I’d go up to Blackwater in the morning with Lucas and evaluate the property. Then I would figure out what to do and have faith I was making the right decisions for the future.
“So are we going to pl
ay or what?” he asked with a nudge to my shoulder. “Because I wouldn’t dream of denying you the pleasure of losing to me. I have to keep you in line, remind you who has the better skills—the bigger brain.”
“Bigger brain, little brother?” I scoffed. “Bitch, please!” I grabbed a controller and started setting up the newest version of a game he’d created called iInVidiosa. I knew it inside out because I’d invested heavily in its development. Lucas was a brilliant designer, but he didn’t need to hear it from me. The proof was in the half billion dollars we’d made on this one game alone. “Oh, before I forget—Victoria said to tell you hi.”
I caught it. The flash of emotion lasted for only an instant and just appeared in his eyes before he masked it, but I knew what I saw. “Cool,” he said after turning back toward the game. “Tell her congratulations from me.”
So the poor bastard was interested in Victoria, which might have worked out well for the both of them, if not for the fact his friend Clay was planning on marrying her.
ONE shared bottle of Lagavulin, one fine Cuban cigar, and eight hours of sleep with the sound of the ocean against the rocks had worked wonders. I woke up feeling much better, like the cobwebs had been blown out and the dark mask lifted away, so I could see clearly.
I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and fell back onto the bed with a stretch. I opened her text from last night and read it again.
I am honored, Brooke. You remembered our deal to think of me whenever you see a meatball. I hope it was a good thought.
I felt better after I texted her back. It was torture not to respond late last night when it came through. I didn’t expect her to answer me right way, but at least she wouldn’t think I’d blown her off like an arrogant prick. If only she knew what I really wanted to do. I’d drive Lucas’s Escalade over to the cottages above the Fairchild Light, find the one that she lived in, and knock on her door. Then I’d—
Then I’d do what? Take her in my arms and tell her she was the woman I’d been searching for all my life and demand she marry me?
That sounded really fucking stupid and a whole lot like a movie a woman would love to see—but a guy would have to be dragged into the theater without the promise of anal afterward.
This was all seat-of-the-pants stuff for me, and probably not a good idea to be pondering when I was naked in bed and sporting morning wood. I had no idea what I was doing anymore. Scary as fuck, too. To realize my whole life had destabilized because I’d met a girl who’d transformed my idea of what love might be about. I still didn’t know because, well . . . I didn’t even really know her yet.
My phone vibrated and my heart dropped like a rock when I read what she’d texted.
May I call you right now, Caleb? Always so proper.
Of course. I tapped out with shaky fingers.
There went my heart again, pounding painfully with nervousness when my phone started going off. I gave it two rings before I picked up. “Brooke?”
“Good morning, Caleb.” Why was her voice so soothing? And what am I needing soothing from?
“It is a good morning, I agree.” You called. “How were the meatballs?”
She laughed softly, and I pictured her lips as she did it. “Remarkably good, considering where they came from.”
“Oh, where did you eat last night?”
“Blackstone Therapy Center with my nan. That was hospital food if you can believe it.”
“She’s in the hospital now?” Jesus . . .
“It’s a rehabilitation hospital and temporary, so not for much longer. She had a bad fall five months ago and needed to have a knee replacement.”
“I’m glad to hear she will be leaving soon.” I couldn’t help wondering about the medical costs and how she was paying for it since there were no medical benefits forthcoming from her grandmother’s employment at Blackwater. Ergo the need for a second job.
“Oh, I truly am, thank you, Caleb.” Such proper manners my sweet Brooke used in conversation. I’d love to see her lose control, though—for example like when we were in the heat of fucking. My dick started throbbing.
“Caleb, I have a confession.”
If you only knew, Brooke, if you only knew . . . “Oh? Please tell me then.” Maybe teasing would help diffuse all of the blood that had suddenly decided to travel south to the region of my cock.
“Our conversation last time—about west-side verse south-end—it was horrible of me to say those things to you, and I just wanted to let you know I don’t really feel that way. Nobody can change who their parents are or how much money their family has, only how they choose to use it. You were very kind to me the night we met and offered your help. I want you to know I did notice your random acts of kindness to a complete stranger, and I do thank you very much for being such a gentleman. And for the beautiful flowers as well. I’m very sorry for the things I said to you when we spoke last time.”
Was I hearing this? She was reaching out to me for some reason.
“Are you still there, Caleb?”
“Yes. Yes I am.”
“Can you find it in your heart to forgive me for being a tad cunty with you?” Only a Brit could say cunty and have it sound classy and funny as she just did.
“It’s forgotten, Brooke, but only on one condition.”
“And what’s that?”
“You let me take you to dinner on Monday.”
“Hmm . . . I don’t even know your last name, and you don’t know mine,” she said cautiously. It didn’t bother me, though. I liked that she was careful about who she went with. She was smart.
“Actually, I do know your last name is Casterley.”
“So, you have been stalking me after all.” Yep, she was smart.
“Only in the most honorable way, Brooke. I’ve thought about you a lot since that horrible cocktail party, and I felt really bad about what happened. I just want to be able to talk to you over some good food and get acquainted in a normal environment.”
“Unfortunately the reception where I met you was a normal environment for that shit-show of a job. I’m so glad I quit. I hope your suit wasn’t ruined. I’d be happy to pay for the cleaning bill if you drop it by Harris & Goode.”
“The suit is taken care of, Brooke, and I am very glad you quit the shit-show of a job, too. Your boss was an ass.”
“You are right about that, Caleb, but you still haven’t told me your name.”
“It’s Blackstone like the island. It’s a fairly common name around here.”
“Yes, I remember Massachusetts state history in high school. The Reverend William Blackstone was the first European settler in the area and settled in what is now Boston Common in 1625. I’ve seen the statue.”
“You were a good student, Brooke, but you still haven’t told me your answer about dinner.” It was fun to copy her choice of words.
“The last ferry to the island leaves at eight thirty on weeknights. Can we make it an early dinner, Caleb Blackstone?”
“We can do whatever you want, Brooke Casterley.”
“Ah, you’re a stalker, thanks for reminding me.” She had a natural wit I really liked. A lot. When she teased it turned me on.
“A nice stalker, though, and before you ask, I found out your name when I stopped in at Harris & Goode for a consult late yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh? Are you in need of a designer, Caleb?”
More than you will ever know . . . and only one designer in particular. “I think you’ll get all of the details on Monday morning from Mr. Harris.”
“So a stalker and a master manipulator both?”
“Nice, Brooke, only in the nicest possible way.”
She laughed again. The sound of her laughing did something to me. Something very sensual and erotic—to the point I knew I’d be back with the soap and my hand in the shower as soon as we hung up. When in the hell have I ever had to do that with one woman in mind? Ever?
ISLAND air smelled different. Clean and sharp with scents of the sea and t
he earth.
I shouldn’t have stayed away for so long. Eight years was a long time.
But Brooke was here, and I certainly planned on getting to be very good friends with her, so maybe I’d be coming here a lot more often.
Blackwater had been built in 1890 by my great-grandfather, Nathaniel Blackstone, who was a direct descendent of the man who’d founded the city of Boston in 1625 as Brooke reminded me on the phone earlier.
My great-grandfather made his fortune in the continental railroad, and in early oil-well development in Texas. He built Blackwater after he’d made his fortune and wanted to return to where he’d been raised as a child—Blackstone Island. I guess so he could reminisce about simpler, more innocent times.
I had my own memories of simpler times during holidays on the island as a kid with my brothers and sisters. I recalled those times as happy and innocent. Dad taught us all to sail and went with us boys on Boy Scout campouts. He taught the girls how to shoot a bow and arrow and to swim. He was a hands-on father. Mom was not as enthusiastic about the island, but she was always there with us that I remember—organizing clam bakes and beach picnics with my aunt Cynthia who was also her cousin. Yeah, we’re an incestuous mess of a family. Money likes to keep with money. The law of averages is in your favor that way.
So, as I stood staring at the historic stone mansion that had been in our family for more than a hundred years, I couldn’t understand why my mother would sell it off. Especially without having a family meeting first, to ask her children if they had any interest in it for themselves.
Something was off with this situation—I just hadn’t found out what.
Yet.
I took a photo of the realty sign and texted it to my attorney who handled property acquisitions. I could always buy it outright, but that didn’t seem like the correct move when I had four other siblings to consider, and also what our dad would want for all of us.
