“My God, how can I go down there now?” Brooke stared at her reflection in the mirror over her dresser, examining the tousled hair and pink, swollen lips.
“Like you said, your mom was probably pleased to find you in a man’s arms,” he reasoned. “Come on, let’s just get it over with.”
As Brooke slid off the bed, pausing to smooth out her top and shorts, she considered what her mother might be thinking: that Brooke and Ian might be falling in love, and could have a future together, babies and all. But Brooke knew there was no chance of her marrying Ian McCarthy and bearing his children; a future with him would be impossible, as long as she kept from him the truth of what she knew about his mother’s death.
The trouble was, if she told him, he’d surely never forgive her—and if she didn’t, she’d never forgive herself.
Chapter Four
It was after ten o’clock by the time the clean dishes were put away and the counters wiped. The rain had finally stopped, giving way to a dull, overcast evening.
“Join me for some tea?” Dana offered, as Brooke was leaving the kitchen, about to head upstairs to bed.
Brooke hesitated; though every muscle screamed with exhaustion, she felt pretty sure the muddled thoughts tumbling through her head would keep her lying awake for some time.
Accepting the offer, she sank into one of the oak kitchen chairs, while her mother brought a hot cup of chamomile to the table for each of them.
Ian had left a while ago, after which Brooke’s father had settled into his easy chair in the living room to watch the news on TV, leaving the two women alone. Brooke anticipated her mother’s line of questioning, but she supposed it was best to get it done now rather than wait for morning.
“I can’t believe we keep doing this every year,” Dana remarked, sagging dramatically against the tabletop. “I always tell myself it’s our last barbecue; then a year passes and we do it all again.”
“Everyone counts on it, Mom. You can’t disappoint the whole town. There isn’t a whole lot of excitement to look forward to around here, after all.”
Ignoring her daughter’s good-natured slight against Eastport, Dana stayed silent for a moment, tracing the rim of her cup with her fingertip. Finally her gaze flickered up, her dark eyes inquisitive. “So do you plan on talking to me about what happened in your bedroom with Ian, or would you rather pretend nothing was going on?”
Leaning back in her chair, Brooke released a sigh of resignation. “What is there to say?”
“For starters, are you in a relationship with him?” Dana asked, before lifting her teacup to her lips.
“Not really. Sort of,” Brooke offered vaguely, realizing she wasn’t really sure.
Her mother regarded her with a skeptical tilt of her head. “Are you planning on seeing him again?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can tell you like him.” Dana’s mouth curved upward as she set down her cup. “Your face glowed the minute I mentioned his name.”
“That was embarrassment, Mom.”
Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be silly. I’d be happy to see you and Ian together. He’s a fine catch. I think you were fond of him back in high school, too.”
“I was,” Brooke admitted. She stared down at her cup, absently studying the steaming amber liquid.
“I was, too. People didn’t think he’d amount to much, but he’s defied everyone’s expectations. These days he’s our little town’s most eligible bachelor. I know several young women who are dying to go out with him.”
Brooke’s eyes snapped up in time to catch Dana’s gaze sliding coyly away, as she lifted her teacup again. If her mother was trying to spur her with jealousy, it wasn’t going to work—even if the remark
did
stir the tiniest possessive twinge.
If only things were as simple as her mother believed they were, Brooke thought helplessly. She’d always been able to confide in her mom—most of the time, anyhow. But confessing her feelings for Ian would only make it harder to deny them to herself.
But there was one thing Brooke could tell Dana, now that Ross Kinley was safely in his grave. She took a long sip of her tea and then leaned forward.
“Mom,” she began tentatively, “do you remember the night Faith and I ran away to Toronto, when we were twelve?”
Dana’s expression darkened. “Don’t remind me. You scared me to death, disappearing like that. I never did quite forgive Faith for dragging you along with her. It took your father and me long enough to get over the fact that you’d do something so harebrained as to
hitchhike
at that age.”
“I know,” Brooke said patiently, “and I’ve apologized a thousand times. You know I only went along because I couldn’t stop Faith from going and I was afraid something would happen to her.”
“Yes, and I grant you she didn’t have an easy time in that house.”
Brooke paused before continuing. She hadn’t told her mother much about that night—only that she and Faith had nowhere to go when they arrived in the city and, frightened and overwhelmed, took the bus to Faith’s aunt’s house in the suburb of Scarborough. Less than compassionate to the girls’ plight, Aunt Rachel had called her brother immediately to pick them up.
Over the years Brooke had asked herself why she hadn’t simply refused to go with him; they had seen his unsteady gait and unfocused gaze, and recognized the slurring of his speech as he reprimanded them. Eager to get to bed, Rachel hadn’t seemed to notice, leaving the girls with few options.
Drawing a deep breath, Brooke let her next words tumble out, revealing to her mother something she’d never dared to before. “Did you know that Mr. Kinley had been drinking before he came to get us?”
Dana shifted in her chair, her brows deeply knitted. “I didn’t, but I can’t say I’m surprised, knowing the problems he had with alcohol. If he’d called your dad and me first to let us know he was going—as he should’ve done in any case, knowing how worried we were—we would’ve insisted on driving there ourselves to get you. Why didn’t you tell me then?”
Brooke lifted one shoulder. “I suppose I was afraid to. I didn’t want to get Faith into more trouble with her dad than she was already in.”
“Well, thank God you arrived home safely.” Reaching across the table, Dana gave her daughter’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “It’s a wonder the man didn’t kill anyone all those years he was on the road. Why are you bringing this up now?”
“No reason.” Feeling her stomach twist, Brooke curled both hands around her teacup, absorbing its warmth.
“There has to be a reason, Brooke.”
She shook her head, unwilling to tell any more of what she knew. “I suppose because he just died, it’s on my mind. I guess I feel partially responsible for the fact that he was on the road that night, in his condition.”
Her mother offered an encouraging smile. “Brooke, no matter what you and Faith did, Ross Kinley was a grown man who should have known better. He made that choice all on his own. Anyhow, no one was hurt, so just forget about it, all right?”
* * *
Mid-afternoon, there were few customers wandering the aisles of Roderick’s Food Market. At the back of the store, Ian plucked a carton of cream from the cooler and set it next to the loaf of bread and dozen eggs in his basket. At least breakfast was taken care of; he had no idea what to make for dinner. Too often he grabbed a boxed meal from the frozen food section, years of throwing together dinners for one having left him scrambling for inspiration.
As he turned down the last aisle, in search of sugar, he caught sight of her. She stood on her tiptoes, her chin tilted up so she could scan the top shelf, appraising the scant selection of cake embellishments. His pulse jumped in anticipation. As he approached her, a slow smile curved his mouth; suddenly dinner for two struck him as a delightful prospect.
“More baking?” he asked over her shoulder.
Brooke sank back onto her heels, her hair fanning in a golden-brown arc as her head spun toward him. “Just a cake for my parents’ anniversary,” she told him, the edges of her wide mouth twitching upward. He could see her making an effort to look impassive, though the glow in her cheeks told him there was more going on inside her than she was willing to let on.
“I had hoped to hear from you.” Ian resisted an impulse to enfold her in his arms and kiss her deeply—maybe later, if he could puzzle out her baffling pattern of welcoming his embraces one minute and then keeping her distance the next. Instead he touched her hand at her side, stroking her fingers lightly. “You didn’t return my call the other day. You’re not still embarrassed about what happened in your room, I hope—or regretful.”
She shifted from one foot to the other, dropping her gaze. “No. I planned on calling you later today, to talk about it.”
“Here I am. Talk to me now.”
“It’s just … I didn’t mean for that to happen. Like I said, I’m probably going back to Toronto pretty soon. What would be the use of getting involved now?”
Of course she had told him that, and he’d accepted it, but nonetheless the suggestion of her leaving caused a tightening in his chest. He’d imagined, somehow, that her intentions may have shifted the last time they were together. He’d felt their old connection snap back into place as they fell into an easy rhythm of talking and washing dishes—and later, as they clung to one another on her childhood bed, the physical spark between them flaring into intoxicating passion.
Apparently he’d been presumptuous.
“You don’t have a job there anymore,” Ian pointed out, drawing back his hand to tuck it into the pocket of his jeans. “Is there any chance you don’t want to go back?”
Brooke shrugged listlessly. She tucked her hair behind her ear, exposing the delicate earlobe he’d tenderly nibbled the last time they were together; the memory brought a swell of warmth to his belly.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I can’t stay here.”
“Why can’t you?”
She looked taken aback by the question. “This isn’t my home anymore.”
“And Toronto is?” Ian challenged, more belligerently than he’d intended. It wasn’t fair of him to place demands on her, he knew that; yet he couldn’t quite suppress the resentment beginning to simmer within him. Brooke Eldridge had long ago claimed a special corner of his heart, and yet, whenever he thought he’d managed to reach her, she pushed him away. She’d made it clear time and again that Eastport wasn’t enough for her—and, he supposed, neither was he.
She shook her head slowly, and as she met his gaze, a striking sadness shimmered in her pretty dark eyes. “Not really. I don’t know where I’m going, Ian, but I won’t be able to figure it out if I get distracted by falling in love with you.” Startled by her own words, she blinked at him, her eyes widening in alarm. “I mean—you know what I mean. I have to go.”
Scooping up her basket, she hurried down the aisle toward the cash registers at the front of the store.
Clutching the handle of his own basket tightly, Ian simply watched her go, his pulse thundering in his ears.
Chapter Five
I’m such an idiot.
Brooke tipped a teaspoon of allspice into the bowl of dry ingredients
on the counter in front of her, then paused to scowl down at the spattering of brown powder, preoccupied with her own foolishness. The situation with Ian was complicated enough; why did she have to go and throw in the word
love
? She couldn’t be falling in love with the man—there may have been an attraction between them as teenagers, but really, as adults they hardly knew each other. After all, they were different people now, with different needs and desires.
Weren’t they?
Steering her focus back to the orange spice cake she needed to prepare, Brooke scanned the recipe book laid on the counter next to the bowl—
cinnamon, ginger, cloves
… had she already added the baking soda? Damn it; if she added it twice, the cake would be ruined.
When the chime of the doorbell jarred her from her efforts, she gave up. Wiping her hands hastily on her apron, she hurried to the front vestibule to answer the door.
She found Ian standing on the porch, his shoulder against the doorframe and his arms crossed over his chest. At the sight of him her stomach made a sharp dip, though she wasn’t particularly surprised to see him there. She smiled weakly, waiting for him to speak.
He observed her with a stern expression, his gaze raking over the apron covering her blouse and jeans. “I see I’ve interrupted you.”
Brooke shrugged noncommittally. “It’s all right. Something tells me this cake isn’t going to be one of my finest efforts, anyhow.”
“Can we talk?” he asked.
Though trepidation gripped her chest, she supposed she couldn’t keep running away from him. She owed him another conversation, at least. Nodding her agreement, she slipped her feet into her sandals before stepping out onto the porch. Enveloped in the sun-warmed afternoon air, where only the shrieks of starlings in a nearby maple pierced the quiet, she nonetheless wrapped her arms about herself to quell a sudden chill.
“What did you want to talk about?” she asked.