“Right, of course.” They’d vowed to keep their secret to the grave, and Brooke had no intention of breaking that promise.
Reassured, Faith’s face brightened, and she dropped the tea cozy back onto the countertop. “Have something to eat. There’s sure to be more leftovers than my little family could manage to eat. Maybe tomorrow we can go for a walk together and catch up, just the two of us, without all these people around.”
Brooke nodded readily. “Sure. Sounds nice.” It did sound nice—though she wondered how easy it would be to fall back into discussions of kids and careers and block out uneasy thoughts of Mary and Ian McCarthy, and the secrets still held close.
***
Since childhood Brooke had loved the aroma of melted butter; it brought to mind her grandmother’s shortbread and fresh, hot popcorn. She smiled to herself as she breathed in the rich scent, happily brushing the warm, golden liquid over the top layer of filo pastry that she’d carefully wrapped around a generous mound of apple-cinnamon filling. Not having baked in her parents’ kitchen in more years than she could remember, or having had time to do so at her apartment in Toronto, she’d nearly forgotten how gratifying the process could be.
“Brooke, I’m going to gain twenty pounds while you’re here,” Dana Eldridge lemented, stopping beside the kitchen island to admire the glistening strudel her daughter had just created.
“I’m not staying
that
long.”
“Just how long do you plan on being with us?” her mother inquired, running a finger through a pool of butter that had dribbled onto the parchment paper.
“Have I overstayed my welcome?” Brooke asked lightly.
Licking her finger, Dana offered an indulgent smile. “My darling daughter, you’ve only been here two days. We hardly see you. Your father and I are overjoyed to have you here. We just wonder what your plans are, since you left your job so suddenly.”
Sweeping a further few unnecessary strokes of butter over the already glossy pastry, Brooke tried to disregard a twinge of unease at the question, reluctant to be drawn out of her contented mood. “Can’t I take a little time to think about it?”
“Of course.” Dana caught and held Brooke’s gaze, her dark-brown eyes a reflection of her daughter’s. All of Brooke’s life people had remarked on her resemblance to her mother, not only in the shape of their features but in their facial expressions and gestures, and the likeness became more apparent as they both grew older. But Dana had the more direct, tenacious personality. “If you don’t mind a little motherly advice, have you thought about going back to school?”
“To study what?” Brooke asked patiently, knowing her mother wouldn’t have a satisfactory answer. Her parents’ career path had been easy; they’d both known from an early age that they wanted to be physicians, and had happily followed that desire with a successful practice in Eastport.
“I don’t know. But I think we both know you’re not suited for finance. It just isn’t you. You’ve told me many times you were stressed out and miserable in that career.”
“I was,” Brooke admitted, resigning herself to discussing the subject she’d wanted to avoid thinking about. She’d risen quickly in her profession, but her success hadn’t brought her the satisfaction she’d expected, instead burdening her with long hours at the office and pressures that left her struggling to sleep most nights, despite her exhaustion. Still, leaving her job had been the most difficult choice she’d ever made. Thinking of the situation she now found herself in made her eyes sting with sudden tears, and she blinked them away. “But I really don’t know what else I’d be good at. I should’ve had this figured out long ago. I’m thirty years old.”
Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “So what? You think that’s over the hill? It’s far from too late to try a new direction.”
“Mom, it’s just—”
The doorbell chimed as Brooke began to reply, and she snapped her mouth shut, grateful for the interruption.
“Saved by the bell.” With a wry lift of her eyebrows, Dana headed for the front door, leaving Brooke to gather up the baking utensils scattered on the counter and set them in the sink for washing. But before she could turn on the tap her mother returned to the kitchen, flashing a curiously devilish smile.
“Someone’s here to see you, Brooke.”
“Who?”
“An old friend. Go see for yourself.”
It must be Faith
, Brooke supposed, though she hadn’t expected to see her old friend until tomorrow. Wiping her buttery fingers on her apron, she headed down the hall toward the front door—then froze just outside the vestibule, her heart leaping into her throat.
Ian McCarthy’s broad form filled the doorway, the soft evening light filtering in around him. Since the funeral he’d shed his suit and tie in favour of jeans and a T-shirt that displayed a solid, athletic build, confirming her earlier impression of his physical development over the past twelve years.
What on Earth was he doing here? Since meeting in the cemetery they hadn’t spoken to each other, though she’d noticed him watching her at one point during the reception.
“You left your sweater at Mr. Kinley’s house,” Ian said in answer to her silent query, holding out the folded black cardigan she hadn’t noticed in his hand.
She took it from him, tucking it over her elbow. “Thanks.”
Sliding his hands into his back pockets, Ian paused to observe her a moment, his mouth tilting into a self-conscious grin. ”It’s the oldest excuse in the book, I admit.”
Returning a tentative smile, Brooke wondered if he expected her to confess that she’d left the sweater on purpose in the hope that he’d return it to her. She hadn’t; why would she? She’d wanted nothing more than to avoid him. But here he was, causing a flurry of emotions to sweep through her, making her heart batter furiously against the walls of her chest.
“Would you like to come in?” she felt compelled to ask. She drew a few deep breaths, calming herself. It would be all right; surely he wouldn’t stay long.
“If it’s not a bad time.”
“No, I’m just doing some baking,” Brooke said, adding airily, “There isn’t much else to do around here. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, thank you.” Ian followed her down the hall and into the kitchen. “I suppose Eastport
is
a little sleepy compared to Toronto.”
“But
you
came back,” she pointed out, snapping on the burner under the kettle. “Didn’t you ever feel like there must be more out there for you? You could practice law anywhere.”
Ian’s broad shoulders twitched upward. “Well, I articled in Ottawa for a year after I graduated, then I worked in London for a couple of years before I moved back here. I suppose I never felt at home anywhere else.” One edge of his mouth lifted as he met her gaze. “Not that I had an easy time growing up here, or anyone special to come back to.”
Brooke nodded vaguely, understanding that his teenage years had been difficult. Learning that he was single caused a peculiar spike in her pulse, and she frowned, annoyed at herself for caring about his relationship status. After all, regardless of how attractive and charming the grown-up Ian McCarthy might be, she could never get close enough to him for it to matter.
“I suppose big-city life didn’t quite meet my expectations, either,” she admitted, turning to open the heated oven. She bent to slide the strudel pan inside, then closed the door and set the timer on the stove.
“Did you ever make it to Italy?” Ian asked behind her.
She turned to face him, surprised that he recalled the burning desire to visit Italy that had preoccupied her through her last year of high school. She hadn’t given it serious thought in years.
Brooke untied her apron and lifted it over her head. “With my job, I was always too busy to plan a trip.”
“That’s too bad. I expected you’d have gone there by now. Ever since you watched that old British period drama set in Tuscany, you couldn’t talk about much else than your dream of spending a summer in
Firenze
.”
Slightly embarrassed that he remembered the details of her idealistic fantasy, Brooke felt herself smile nonetheless at the memory. “Well, I suppose I had to let go of the silly notion of settling into a quaint little villa in the Tuscan countryside, where I’d inevitably be swept off my feet by a dashing gentleman with billowy sleeves.”
“There’s nothing silly about a young girl’s romantic soul,” Ian said. “You should always hold onto that.”
Brooke uttered a short laugh as she rolled up her apron. “It’s not so easy when you’re thirty, single and unemployed. But I appreciate the encouragement.”
As she glanced up their gazes locked—and she let the moment linger, absorbed in the soft moss-green hue of his eyes. Ever since she met Ian, when he moved to town when they were just kids, those eyes had captivated her; they were keen and inquisitive, yet their depths revealed a startling vulnerability, exposing his pain as clearly as they did joy or longing. Though Ian was a grown man now, so transformed in appearance, his eyes remained unchanged—and what she saw in them now sparked a pleasant, warm sensation in the pit of her belly.
Finally she dropped her gaze.
“Come over to my house,” he said then.
She blinked at him, startled by the suggestion. “What?”
“I want to show you something. I live just down River Street, in the blue house by the marina. It won’t take long. I’ll make us tea there.”
Brooke hesitated, biting down on her lower lip. She knew she should refuse. She had a million plausible excuses; it had been a long day and she was tired, and besides, she hadn’t spent much time with her parents since arriving in Eastport. Even so, words to the contrary left her mouth before she was even aware of forming them in her brain.
“All right. I’ll come over after my strudel is done.”
Ian favoured her with a broad smile, and the warmth in her belly bloomed outward, reaching her heart and causing it to stutter. “Deal. See you soon.”
As he left the house, Brooke lowered herself onto one of the kitchen chairs, releasing a long breath. The kettle on the stove began to whistle, but she ignored it for a moment, pressing her hands together in her lap in an effort to quell the trembling in her fingers. What was she thinking?
The simple fact was that she hadn’t been thinking, only following her feelings. Being in Ian McCarthy’s company had always filled her with so many conflicting emotions, too agonizing to untangle, and apparently it still did. But somehow the pleasure of his presence usually won out, leading her headlong into places she knew she shouldn’t go.
* * *
She arrived at his door wearing a pale yellow sundress, a plate holding a large wedge of apple strudel balanced on her palm. With the dusky hue of twilight settling over the street behind her, the golden highlights in her hair and eyes gleamed under the pale light from his porch lamp. She offered a soft smile, and Ian returned it; her acceptance of his invitation had surprised him, as much as it pleased him to see her again.
He gestured for her to come inside, and she stepped over the threshold, handing him the plate.
“Thought you might like some.”
“You read my mind. It looks delicious.” Ian set the plate on the counter, before closing the door behind her. The strudel did look tasty, with soft chunks of apple spilling out from between layers of flaky pastry. But Brooke herself looked more delectable than the dessert, and he let his gaze linger on her face, taking in the pink-tinged cheeks, the girlish spray of freckles across her nose, and the dark-brown eyes observing him guardedly.
“I didn’t realize you had your law office in your house,” she remarked. “Must be convenient for you not to have to leave home to go to work. You never get stuck in traffic, for one thing.”
“Not that traffic congestion has ever been a problem here,” he said lightly, and she dipped her chin with a small shrug of one shoulder. He supposed she was no longer used to small-town conventions, having grown accustomed to life in the big city over the past decade.
“What is it you wanted to show me?” she asked, curious yet wary as she glanced around.
“Follow me.”
Ian led her around the corner into the living room, which he’d tidied up hastily as soon as he arrived home from her parents’ house an hour ago. Stopping by the leather sofa, he swept his arm up to indicate the series of framed photographs arranged on the wall above. His pulse jumped with sudden apprehension as he watched her study them, one by one. He’d invited her on the impulsive notion that she might like to see them, but now that she was here it seemed absurdly self-important to suppose she’d find his vacation snapshots worth the trek.
“Did you take these?” she asked, pausing at the last photo, which captured a vista of gently rolling hills, sloping down from an azure sky toward a lush valley dotted with farmhouses and cattle.
“Yup.” He shifted from one foot to the other as he peered over her shoulder. “I spent three weeks in Italy last summer. These were taken in the countryside just outside of Rome.”
Brooke’s pretty brown eyes widened as she looked at him, sudden enthusiasm infusing her voice. “You
know
I’m jealous. That must have been a fantastic trip. And these pictures are incredible. I didn’t know you were such a talented photographer.”