His Darling Bride (Echoes of the Heart #3) (10 page)

“You and Dad turned my brother’s disease and his death into a crusade that consumed the last of his and my childhoods. You were at it even after he died, trying to orchestrate a press interview bedside. He was a twenty-five-year-old man. My brother.
Your
son. Not a photo op. And I’m not sacrificing any more of my life to your obsession.”

“We’re fighting for a cure.” His mother’s tone slipped closer to tears—or fury, with Livy it was impossible to tell the difference—as the fight she and Mike had had countless times took its nastiest turn. Her vowels had reclaimed the Brooklyn accent she’d shed when she married into her husband’s moneyed world. “We’re fighting just as hard as Jeremy did.”

“And I’ve supported you financially whenever you’ve asked.” Through JHTF, the Jeremy Harrison Taylor Foundation. “But this philanthropic carnival you and Dad have been on for decades isn’t right. Half the money you raise goes back out the door to pay for your next glitzy event. Not to fund research or testing trials or legislation that would stop cystic fibrosis from taking more kids and young men and women away from their families.”

His mother grew silent.

A different son—a younger him—might have worried he’d hurt her feelings. Mike knew better. Livy was an unrelenting, competitive survivor, wrapped up in the luxurious trappings of a socialite’s beauty and breeding. His disappointment in what JHTF had become couldn’t make a dent in her drive to do and have more than her contemporaries.

“So we’ll see you whenever we see you,” she finally said, “same
as always. Why did you call, then? Georgina could have contacted us about this year’s donation. She usually does, after you’ve disappeared
somewhere, lugging your cameras to godforsaken places where no
one can reach you. Or because you’re working odd jobs in a medi
cal specialty you insisted on pursuing but hardly ever practice. You spent three years earning a four-year degree and more time get
ting
your certification. But you can’t stay in one place long enough to even devote yourself to that seriously. It’s all so disappointing.
You
have so much potential, Michael. There’s no limit to what you could become if you’d stop blaming your father and me for everything and get on with living your life instead of avoiding it.”

“I don’t blame anyone.”

Not even his parents, for seeing him as a vagabond squandering his
potential
to give them a prestigious career or job title to brag about at parties.

“And I called because . . .” Mike wasn’t up to coming straight out and mentioning that today was the anniversary of Jeremy’s death. “I guess I wanted to hear your voice.”

There was no point in him returning to New York full-time. Forging an adult relationship with his parents had never been in the cards. But he’d missed them—or at least the family he wished he and his parents and brother had been—every day since Mike had left, the morning after Jeremy’s funeral.

“It’s good to hear your voice, too.” The real emotion behind Livy’s admission gutted Mike.

He looked around him as he drove, at the peaceful, everyday normalcy of Chandlerville. Jeremy, sick and all, would have loved growing up in a community like this.

“If your service got you to move to Podunk last minute,” his mother cajoled, “can’t they replace you? Come up here for a while if you need a break. You can always go back to this hobby of yours later.”

“Helping people rehab isn’t a hobby for me, Mom.”

Of all the things he’d done since moving away from his parents’ elite, superficial lives, he was most proud of becoming a physical therapist. Getting his PT degree, training for his certification in cardiovascular and pulmonary rehabilitation, had quite simply saved him after he’d helplessly watched his big brother suffer for so long. He only took a couple of clients a year, working a few months at a time. But each placement was a priceless opportunity. A reminder that he could make a difference, even if staying in one place for long had never worked out for him.

“I can do good things here,” he told his mother.

“Good things”—Livy’s voice grew cold, the way it did at some point during each call—“that keep you as far away from your father and me and your brother’s memory as you can get.”

“I keep Jeremy’s memory alive my way.” Grieving his brother was the one thing left that Mike and his parents had in common. “You and Dad focus on keeping the foundation going.”

“I hear you’re showing an interest in JHTF’s Developing Artist grant,” his mother said, confirming his suspicion that she would catch wind of the information he’d asked for. “I’m confused, though, about what George wants from the grant director.”

Mike braked at a stop sign and thumped his head against the back of his seat.

“Just some information about the scholarship program.” He pulled to the curb of a sprawling two-story home set back from the street beneath a cluster of live oaks. “It’s no big deal.”

Now,
this
yard—he looked around and smiled—this yard was a big deal. The trees’ limbs and leaves shaded the front yard and the home’s roof, dappling everything with drops of sunlight. Who would have thought that something as . . . charming as this and the other houses on the street could exist only twenty miles from bustling, ever-expanding Atlanta.

“Let me go,” he said. “I’m at my appointment.”

“I don’t suppose I have a choice.”

No, I don’t suppose you do.
“Once we have the prints for you, George’ll get a patron newsletter out to drive bidders to the auction. I’m sure the gala will be another fabulous page-six success.”

“Yes . . .” Livy said, her tone distant, lifeless. “Just promise me . . .”

Mike braced himself for more of her litany of complaints.

Promise me you won’t settle down somewhere away from us for good. Promise you’ll get all this nonsense you’re doing out of your system one day, and you’ll come back to your life here. Don’t make a mess of what you could become, because you can’t let go of your brother.

“Just promise me that you’re making yourself happy,” she said instead. “We haven’t heard you truly happy in so long, even after that last crazy trip of yours to photograph an active volcano.”

Mike gripped the steering wheel.

A parent’s concern wasn’t supposed to sting, because you couldn’t trust it to be genuine.

“I am happy, Mom,” he said out of habit. “Why don’t you and Dad plan to come down after the gala? For New Year’s, maybe. I’ll be done with this contract by then. You can see up close what I’ve started in the city. Understand what I do a little better. Maybe we can head out somewhere beautiful after that. There are a couple of spots in the North Georgia mountains Jeremy would have loved. We could—”

“Darling, your father and I couldn’t possibly. You know how it is. There are too many people depending on us here. Things get more hectic every year.”

Mike knew exactly how it was.

He rubbed at the pulse throbbing like an ice pick behind his temple.

“I’ll let George know she’ll be hearing back from the grant director,” he said as several kids raced through the front yard of the house he’d parked in front of.

They headed around the corner toward the back of the place—three boys and a girl, laughing and chasing one another, not a care in the world, effortlessly active in a way Mike’s brother had never known.

“Of course, darling,” his mother said. “We’re happy to give you whatever you need.”

Right.

“I love you, Mom. I’ll touch base once the pieces are ready to ship. I’m sorry I missed Dad. Tell him I love him, too.”

“I will.” The line dropped without Livy returning the sentiment.

Mike tossed his cell onto his Jeep’s dash.

The kids ran back around to the front yard, kicking a soccer ball now. The young slip of a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, stole the ball and then trapped it, darting away, giving the guys a run for their money, making them hustle before she passed it over. And then she stole it again.

Mike chuckled, feeling the tension of talking with his mother ease. The kids’ good-natured grudge match could likely be heard through open windows up and down the block, while parents and neighbors smiled at the happy sounds of childhood and sunshine and free time. The moment made him think of Bethany and her friends and family.

He’d bet the lot of them squabbled often, just like the kids playing on the lawn. Getting into one another’s way. Causing unfiltered mayhem and loving every second of it. Meanwhile, George was the closest thing to real family that Mike could call his own now.

He sincerely believed in the work his parents were doing—the parts of it that actually resulted in helping people. But he wouldn’t call their strained, long-distance connection or his brief pilgrimages back to New York each year a real relationship. He’d filled his life instead with the things and places he’d promised Jeremy he’d keep discovering. And he was lucky to have the chance. To have had his brother’s inspiration in his life for as long as he had.

Nodding, smiling at the idyllic scene beyond his windshield, he put New York out of his mind. He slipped off his hat and refocused on the rewarding afternoon of work ahead. Walking around to the curb side of his Jeep, he dragged out the duffel that was large enough to carry all he’d need for a preliminary site visit.

Beyond taking a blood pressure reading and checking basic vital signs, a lot of what he’d do today would be asking questions and getting the lay of the land. Deciding where it would be best to hold sessions. Getting to know the patient and his environment and immediate family enough to be sure Mike was a fit, and for him to formulate a high-level rehab plan before his next visit. Next time they’d delve more deeply into analyzing the patient’s physical and mental state, beyond the medical history Mike had received from MedCare. This was a get-to-know-you visit, a baseline that every other session would build on.

The kids’ roving scrimmage blocked his path to the house. He dropped his duffel, content to watch. Instinct had him digging the cell he’d reclaimed from the dash out of the pocket of the loose exercise pants he’d worn instead of jeans. He snapped a picture or two or ten. He made a mental note to ask for permission from the adults inside and to offer to share his shots. Then he framed and reframed the evolving scene some more, capturing the carefree childhood spectacle, the shady front porch behind the kids, the changing leaves overhead that were egging fall on, while refusing to relinquish the last of summer.

He adjusted angles and focus, the capacity of his latest smartphone’s camera ridiculously advanced compared with what had been available even a year ago. The kids kept playing. He continued to shoot, maxing out the features of the photo app, lost in the richness and innocence of their world. He finally looked up, blown away anew.

He’d been walking the streets of Chandlerville for days, capturing random images, visiting local businesses, and striking up conversations with people who’d been more than welcoming. While he enjoyed the urban vibe of the Midtown Atlanta area where he’d lived for the last several years, he preferred open spaces. Nature. Beauty in all its complex simplicity. Chandlerville seemed to exist in rarified limbo between the homespun farmland being worked not five miles away, and the urban bustle of the South’s most industrial city.

“Whatcha doin’?” a young voice asked.

A girl with bright green eyes, an infectious smile, and a head of dark curls gazed up at him. She was maybe six or seven and wore pink jeans and a Hello Kitty T-shirt, clearly not dressed for soccer.

“Where did you come from?” he asked.

“Next door.”

She pointed at the bushy hedge covered in massive pink and purple blooms that made him think of cotton candy. The yard beyond looked like a cameo of a botanical garden.

“Because my sisters just got here,” she explained. “Well, my other sisters, the ones that don’t live with my grandparents anymore. Well, my other grandparents, not the Grammy I live with next door.”

She looked a little lost as she stopped speaking, as if her rambling details had confused even her.

“Well”—she shrugged—“my mom and me used to live next door with Grammy. Now we have a house down the street. And a dog. Bud. After flowers, because Blossom would have made him sound like a girl. But I’m here almost every day. And I still have my own room. My grammy says I always will as long as she lives there. And my mommy said it was okay if I came down while my sisters and my other grammy talk . . .”

The little magpie flashed a megawatt smile while she gulped in air. One of her eyeteeth was missing. Her attention shifted to his phone.

“Whatcha doin’?” she asked again.

“Making memories.” He knelt and showed her his last photo.

“Of my grandparents’ house?”

She swiped through his recent images, manipulating the gallery app with the ease of a millennial who’d been using smart devices since she was in diapers.

“You make it look so pretty,” she praised. “How did you do that?”

“I just played with what the camera saw, until it saw what I wanted it to.”

She scrolled her way back through the photos he’d taken in town. “They’re all so pretty!”

“Want to try?”

She snatched the phone out of his hands, nodding. “Can I do it on my mom and dad’s phones, too?”

“Anyone can do it.” He helped her take her first shot, showed her how to turn the phone to get a landscape view, how to zoom in for the next snap. Then he stood while she continued playing on her own.

She finally looked up, wonder in her expression. “Wow.”

He couldn’t have said it better himself.

“Let’s see what you got.” He crouched beside her and switched back to the gallery, selecting the first of her shots from the thumbnails.

She frowned as he studied more of what she’d done. “My pictures aren’t the same as yours.”

“It just takes a little practice. Every camera’s different. Get used to the one on your mom or dad’s phone, and you’ll be a pro in no time.”