by Mia Malone
“Mom?” Amelia whispered. “Is it true? Dad died while he was sleeping with a prostitute?”
I winced when she put it like that, but now the ugly secret was out in the open, at least.
“I’m sorry,” I said gently. “I didn’t want you to know that about your father.”
“Oh, God,” she murmured.
I reached for her, but she stepped back, and my hand fell back down.
“He made a mistake, honey... It doesn’t make him any less your father, and he was a good dad. He wasn’t a bad man, he just wasn’t flawless,” I said.
It had taken me some time to come to grips with what Pete had done, and I still had no clue what the hell the man had been thinking, but I’d accepted what had happened, and they would too once the shock had eased off.
“You’re leaving?” Joey asked.
I looked at them, but my mind was made up, and I knew what I had to do.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “I've tried so hard, but I can't do it anymore. I took a chance, and that chance was big and scary, but you didn't care enough about me to even see that. And I still did it, in spite of everything you piled up on me. I can't keep calling you all every week, hoping that you just once will call me instead. And I didn't deserve to be lied to. So, I give up, and yes; I'm leaving.”
Brody immediately took my hand and pulled me along to his rental. Then he got us to the airport where we were lucky and got seats on a direct flight home. I slept most of the flight, and then he drove us home to Bakersville. We talked a little in the car, about the Café and what he planned to cook the coming week. He told me about an idea he had to bring in guest chef’s every now and then, to let others try their hand at cooking in his small kitchen. I avoided discussing what had happened on the front steps of my sister’s house, and he didn’t push.
When we had walked into his home, and he closed the door gently behind us, I turned to look at him.
“Baby,” he murmured, holding his arms out.
I stepped into his embrace and leaned my cheek on his strong, broad chest.
And finally, I started crying.
Chapter Sixteen
Finding firm ground again
Brody
Marie stood in his arms and cried silently until he couldn’t take it anymore and shuffled them through the house to the couch. When she was on his lap, he tilted her head back and looked at her.
He'd seen her cry before, but not like this. Not with this bone-deep sadness.
“They'll come around, baby,” he murmured. “Don't know about your sister, but your kids were genuinely devastated. Give them some time, and they'll figure shit out.”
A fresh stream of tears rolled down her cheeks and he wiped them off with his hand.
“Baby, please. Stop crying and tell me what to do for you.”
“Why would my sister do something like that?” she asked hoarsely. “And Amelia? What have I done to make them treat me like that?”
“Amelia was just tagging along. She should have thought shit through, but she wouldn’t because she’s what? Nineteen? This was all your sister, Marie.”
“Why would she do something like that?” she repeated.
Brody sighed and wondered if he should tell her what he’d thought about on the plane while he watched her sleep.
“It’s not about you,” he said slowly. “Or, I think it’s about you in a way. About who you are, but even more about who she isn’t.”
“What?”
Fuck it. He’d just tell her.
“Babe. You’re curious and push yourself to explore new things, and I think you’ve done that all your life. You took art classes for years, figured out that you hate yoga, tried making your own jewellery, and all those other things you told me about. You made new friends and talked about relocating to goddamned Tallahassee. And then you dared to move on when your dick of a husband left and died. Dared to pull up and leave because you wanted something you didn’t have back there. She’s not like that. I’m sorry as fuck, baby, but your sister is a bitch who’s stuck in a life she won’t ever have the guts to change.”
She stared at him, and he couldn't interpret the look on her face, but she'd at least stopped crying.
“I guess you didn’t like Linda,” she murmured.
He felt like laughing at that understatement but held his humor back.
“Baby, it's more than that,” he said gently and laid it all out. “You spread joy, Marie, and make people around you feel good. Happy. You labeled it being a hippie and talked about moving to a place just because the name rolled off your lips just right, but the labels and places are just words. What you do is embrace life.”
“I –”
She started shaking her head, so he cut her off immediately.
“Yes, you do, and that kind of happiness is fucking rare, babe. When I look into your eyes, I see joy. Curiosity and kindness and joy. It's as if life is one huge adventure and you can't wait to see what's around the corner. My mom has that look. Patrick too. Dad didn't, and I'm pretty damned sure I don't. And your sister does absolutely not have it.”
“I don’t –”
“Don't believe me?” he asked and wiped another tear from her cheek. “You got Jools to cry fucking tears of joy, and I think the last time he cried was when he was born. Shelly is taking time off to go jogging, and run around the state looking for chairs when she's been working eighty-hour weeks to keep their company surviving and expanding. And there's my damned son who tries so fucking hard to pretend he doesn't care about anyone, but always knows the exact moment you've taken the last sip of coffee and immediately walks out to check if you want a refill. Mom gave you half her wardrobe when she's kept everything for years because she likes to take stuff out just to look at it. To remember.”
“Oh, God,” she murmured. “I didn’t know. I could –”
“No,” he protested and tightened the grip around her cheek. “She said she got more joy out of seeing the happiness in your eyes than she ever got from looking at her old clothes.” He sighed and leaned forward to kiss her. “Your sister feels threatened, and she spends way too much energy on putting you down and calling you names. But, baby... she also loves you, and she wants to have that joy back because it’s fucking amazing. She expected you to return with your tail between your legs and when you didn’t, I guess she just had to make you. And your kids aren’t acting like idiots because they hate you. They’re doing it because they’re afraid they’ll lose you.”
Her head fell forward into his chest, and after a while, she sighed and mumbled, “I don’t know what to do now.”
He hoped he'd never have to meet her fucking sister again in his life, but she shouldn't give up her son and daughter. He'd made some spectacularly stupid mistakes with his own kids over the years, and part of why he'd been a crappy dad was ex-wife number one and two, but a lot of it was on him. Now he had Thea just a few hours away, and they were talking. He had Jag at his side every day, and they were finding a way to build a relationship. It hadn't been easy, and he didn’t want that for Marie, though.
“Take a break from them all for now, but if they don’t pull their asses out of their behinds, then reach out to your kids. They’ll cry tears of fucking joy, I promise.”
Brody pushed her head up to face him again and could see in her eyes that she wasn’t sure what to think, so he waited for her to process what he’d said.
“You're uncharacteristically verbose,” she murmured after a while.
“Verbose,” he echoed.
“Loquacious,” she clarified and pouted in a way that made him lean down again to slide his mouth over hers. “Positively chatty,” she added against his lips.
He pulled back and watched a slow, sweet smile spread on her face. When he felt that familiar, warm flare of happiness run through him, he knew what he'd said about her family was true. And he knew this because he'd feel what they felt and he would do just about anything
to keep her with him.
“How come you got the regency romance name, and she got Linda?” he asked. To his surprise, she suddenly burst out in loud laughter. “What, babe?”
“Her real name isn’t Linda.” She was still laughing when she shared, “She’s called Olinda Veneria. I got Marie, at least.”
Marie
I fielded phone calls from my sister, children, friends, and even my brother-in-law who had not called me once in the thirty years he’d been a fixture in my sister’s life.
Brody pushed me to not close off entirely from the kids, so I texted them and shared that I'd appreciate if they could give me some time and that I would call.
Amelia replied that she was sorry and that she would call again later, which made me sigh because I’d just told her not to.
Joey replied that he was sorry, that he understood and that I should take care of myself. That made my brows go up high on my forehead. We'd talked a lot back when he lived at home, but he'd always been such a boy, and had never been comfortable talking about feelings. He'd never in his life told me he understood anything except his homework, or that I should take care of anything for that matter, least of all myself. For a split second, I wondered if Marlena had written his reply, but started laughing at the thought.
Brody was adorable in a way that made me want to growl at him. He made sweet love to me, in bed and under the covers, and brought me coffee each morning before leaving for the Café. He even made dinner several nights in a row. And made more slow love to me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like it when he was sweet, but I’d gotten used to hot and heavy, and mostly felt like pushing him into the pantry and demand that he’d take me against the door.
Or, I would have if the Café hadn't been so incredibly busy. We were according to the Misses Clarke still offseason, but there was a steady trickle of customers one the weekdays, and the weekends were crazy. Brody had decided to keep the place open on Sundays, which meant he only had one day off each week. He compensated by closing an hour earlier but had started talking about hiring someone for the summer season.
“It's not like I even have to work much,” he grumbled. “Have a goddamned retirement fund, and I wanna be off and spend time doing shit I enjoy.”
“Brody, baby, you like nothing better than being in your kitchen.”
“I like fucking you more.”
I grinned at him and leaned over the counter to give him a kiss.
“Horniest man alive,” I murmured.
“I’m right here,” Jag muttered and put a plate next to me. “Order up, table four,” he yelled.
“Of course, you are,” Brody said affably and moved back into the kitchen. “Where else would you be, I ask?”
“Timbuktu seems like a fantastic option,” Jag retorted. “Not hearing about my father’s urges.”
“My urges.”
“Itches,” Jag clarified and grinned at the woman picking her plate up. “Shauna, you’re looking good today,” he said with a wink.
“Jag,” she murmured and looked at him under her lashes as she sashayed back to her girlfriends.
“I wonder if it’s genetic,” I said.
“What?”
“Every other man I’ve ever met who winks looks sleazy. Greasy-sleazy. You don’t, Jag, and neither does Patrick.”
“Babe,” Brody snapped out from the frying board and used a spatula to point at himself.
“Babe,” I echoed, mimicking his deep voice but couldn’t hold a giggle back when his brows went up. “You are not a winking kind of man. Might strain a muscle if you tried.”
Jag barked out laughter and took the plate his father handed him. Watching them work was like watching a synchronized dance performance. They seemed to know each other’s every move, and even passed things behind their backs sometimes, often accompanied by a grunt or a muttered, “Yo.”
“I can wink,” Brody grumbled, and Jag laughed even louder. “Shut the fuck up, boy,” Brody muttered, although he did it smiling.
“Order up, table four again,” Jag called out, and another giggling woman approached the counter.
She took her food and departed after getting a compliment about her hair which apparently had been cut recently.
“John,” a hard voice said next to me.
Jag froze for a second, and then he turned slowly to look at the woman who had come up behind me. She was short and curvy, and pretty with waves of soft hair around a face that she’d put a little too much makeup on. Her skirt was just slightly too short for my taste, in particular since it looked like she wasn’t a member of her local gym, wherever that was. I wish I’d seen a lot less of her cleavage and looked away.
“Carrie-Ann,” Jag said. “Surprised to see you here.”
Carrie-Ann. Also known as ex-wife number one, although Jag’s and not Brody’s.
“I read about this place, and thought...”
Jag's face hardened in a way that made her trail off, and Brody straightened.
“You’re the greedy ex,” he muttered.
“Dad,” Jag barked. “I did not say that.”
“I am not a fool, so I can read between the lines. She cleaned you out, Jag. That does not make me happy, and I don't want her in here. Take thirty and go somewhere else to deal with her.”
“John,” Carrie-Ann said. “I thought we could talk, and see... We were good together.”
“We were awful together,” Jag stated, and put two plates on the counter. “Order up, table three,” he called out.
“Son,” Brody murmured. “She looks like the kind of woman who shrieks.”
“Yeah,” Jag said with a sigh.
“For your own sake, take her out of here. Listen to what she has to say. If you give her any cash, I’ll take back your college fund.”
Jag had stretched a hand out to grab his jacket but froze again and stared at his father.
“Take back?”
“It’s in your account. Told you yesterday.”
“Dad,” Jag snapped. “You said; Transferred your cash, boy. Go to Aruba for vacation.”
“Yeah.”
“Thought you meant my salary.”
“Jag, for fuck’s sake. I don’t pay you enough to go to Aruba.”
They looked at each other in silence for a beat, and Jag's face softened.
“Perhaps I could get a raise,” he said calmly and snagged his jacket off the hook.”
“You got the hefty sum your college fund grew into over the years. Be happy with that.”
“I am. Thanks, Dad.”
“Nothing to thank me for. It's your money. Thea got the same, and she burned it all on a degree in art history which landed her a job where she earns even less than you. Now go deal with your ex.”
“Will you manage?”
“Sure,” Brody grunted. “Marie will cover for you.”
I'd been in the process of covering up my mushy feelings by taking a sip of coffee and promptly choked on it.
“You can’t yell at me,” I said hoarsely when I’d recovered.
“I know,” he said. “Now get in here.”
I was uncertain at first, but the things he asked me to do were simple, and after a while, I thought I had it all under control.
“For fu –” Brody swallowed the roar he’d been about to unleash on me and clenched his jaws together, and pressed out, “What is that?”
I'd added some parsley on top of the fish, silently labeling it a touch of whimsy.
“Par –”
“Rhetorical fucking question,” Brody ground out. “I know what goddamned parsley looks like. What I want to know is why –”
He cut himself off, picked the apparently highly offensive green pieces off the plate, scrutinized it from several angles, and set it on the counter with a thud.
“Order up, table one,” he yelled.
“I just wanted to be creative.”
“Don’t,�
� he said and looked at a set of receipts next to the cash machine. “Two classic lobster rolls.” He turned to me and said in a voice I could tell he struggled to keep gentle, “Bread. Lobster. No garnish. Can you do that?”
“I can do that,” I said. “Some parsley would look nice though.” He growled, and I giggled. “Sorry, sorry, just kidding.”
“Don’t,” he repeated in a low growl and turned toward the frying board, but I saw the skin around his eyes crinkle, so I guessed he wasn’t too offended that I’d dared to make a small joke in his precious kitchen.
Then I made lobster rolls, bussed tables, and took a couple of orders. Brody didn't yell at me once, and I started to wonder if I should carve out some time to help him at the Café. I wasn't too keen on it, but he needed someone to do the grunt work over the summer, and it might be fun to work together.
“Hey,” Jag said with a sigh. “Jesus, I’m glad to say that she’s left.”
“Fuck, yeah,” Brody agreed with considerable emphasis.
“Dad. You barely met her.”
“Don’t give a fuck about your ex. Not enough room in here for three people, though, so...”
He glanced at me, and I got the hint, which had not been subtle.
“Leaving,” I chirped. “I’m going jogging with Shelly in half an hour, so I have to go home and change anyway.”
Since the remodel was done, I could focus more on my small business, and I'd picked up some freelance work from people I'd worked with over the years. I still had a lot of free time, so I went jogging with Shelly, and we knew Brody had laughed at the way we dragged our sorry asses around, but we’d both been seriously out of shape, so that had been expected. We were getting stronger though so I could see the five kilometers happening sometime in the future, albeit likely a distant one.
Before I closed the door, I heard Jag.
“How bad do you want to shout at someone right now?”
I also heard Brody.
“Enough to give you a raise if you let me do it for no fucking reason at all.”
Offering to help out at the Café would not be received well, it seemed.
