Fine and all, but… “Do I need to remind you that I am the responsible sister in this family, the one who makes sure things don’t fall apart? It’s who I am.”
“No, you don’t need to remind us. Believe me, we are all very aware,” Amelia said with a sly smile as she took Clara’s hand. “We’re lucky to have you to make sure everything runs so smoothly, but I think that this side of you became even more…um, prominent…after Sullivan left and you had Mason. Like, you’re so scared of things getting out of control, because the last time they were, you were left heartbroken.”
She wasn’t wrong. “So, what exactly are you getting at?” Clara asked, trying to understand.
“Stop pretending,” Maisie stated matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.
“Stop pretending?” Clara repeated.
Maisie gave a firm nod, taking Clara’s other hand. “Stop telling yourself you don’t need him and want him in your life. Stop pretending your heart doesn’t want him to stay, no matter how hard it gets. Stop pretending Sullivan isn’t your one and only. Just stop pretending, Clara, no matter the fallout.”
Clara stared at Maisie, absorbing those words until she realized they sounded all too familiar. “Oh, my God,” she breathed, wiggling out of her sister’s hold. She leaned over to reach into her nightstand and took out the letter from Pops.
“What’s that?” Maisie asked.
Clara unfolded the wrinkled letter that had been opened a thousand times before. “When Pops passed away, he left me a letter with a quote on it.” She glanced at her sisters. “I’m guessing you all got quotes too?” At their nods, Clara continued. “I never understood the quote he left me before. But now, I think I actually do.”
Amelia leaned forward, peeking at the paper. “What’s the quote?”
Clara read the note. “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.”
“Holy shit,” Maisie breathed.
Amelia’s eyes were huge, and her hands covered her mouth. “He knew…”
Clara stared down at the paper, a warmth sliding through her heart that felt like a tight hug from Pops. All this time, he had known what she could never see. “I—”
Maisie’s cell phone beeped, halting Clara. Maisie grabbed her cell off the nightstand and winced. “It’s another article.” Her gaze, full of pity, lifted to Clara. You don’t want to see this.”
“Yeah, right, like that’s going to happen.” Clara snatched up the phone, and her blood boiled at the article: Sullivan Keene, breaking hearts all over the country. How many more secret children does he have?
“These people are vicious,” Clara growled her frustrations. She tossed the phone onto the bed, staring into Amelia’s eyes and then Maisie’s, feeling like the world was slipping away from her. How dare these damn reporters? She’d had the love of her life ripped away from her once because of Sullivan’s father. And now, these strangers were doing the same damn thing?
“Uh oh,” Amelia breathed.
“Ah, Clara,” Maisie said, as Clara’s nostrils flared. “Are you okay?”
“Am I okay?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else. For years, she thought she was okay. She thought she had everything handled and had shoved all her feelings away to always put Mason first. She was sick and tired of shoving everything down. Now she let what she wanted…what her heart wanted to rise up. And with her heart’s needs ahead of her mind’s logic, she knew exactly what to do now, and with Pops’ final piece of advice in her heart, she didn’t even question herself as she headed for the bedroom door.
Amelia called after her. “Clara, wait, where are you going?”
Clara kept on walking, hot anger burning with each step. “To stop this damn cycle and take matters into my own hands.” She stopped at the doorway and glanced over her shoulder. “Maisie, can you stay and watch Mason?”
“Of course, yeah,” she said, cautiously. “I don’t need to worry though, right? You’re not going to get yourself arrested for punching anyone?”
Clara couldn’t stop the bubble of laughter that rose up. She did have a history of that. “No, I’m not going to punch anyone. Promise.” She set her gaze on Amelia, who grinned from ear to ear. “I need you to come with me.”
Her sister hopped off the bed and rubbed her hands together. “I love when you get like this.”
“Like what?” Clara asked, heading down the staircase.
Amelia snicked. “Pissed off.”
Sullivan had regrets piled on top of regrets. He’d done many things wrong in the past. He’d run away once from River Rock then spent years running from the memories of his life here. This time, while his reasoning for leaving was different, he was still running. Nothing about that sat right. Questions battered his mind. Is this the right thing to do? Should I stay and fight, or will that only hurt Clara and Mason? And that’s what it all came down to; he simply couldn’t risk either of them being hurt because of his past reckless behavior. His actions had put him on the paparazzi’s radar, and only he could get those reporters out of River Rock.
Needing a drink more than ever, Sullivan arrived at Kinky Spurs, where a young man, with rolled-up sleeves, who barely looked old enough to drink replaced Megan. The place was packed full of people playing darts, eating dinner, or kicking back with a drink. The tables and booths were crowded, full of patrons laughing with friends and enjoying the football game on the TV affixed to the wall. Sullivan’s stomach rumbled at the scent of grease coming from the kitchen, but what he needed more was a stiff drink. He headed for the bar, where two thirty-something men sat at the far end, arguing over a football game. He took the other end, sitting on the hard wooden stool butting up against a brass foot rail. He kept his head down, not wanting to make eye contact and invite anyone over for an autograph. Some would still come, but he hoped they could read his mood.
When Sullivan slid onto the stool, he said to the barkeep who’d made his way over to him, “Two shots of whiskey.”
“Coming right up,” the barkeep said, tossing a towel over his shoulder, leaving a trail of cloying cologne in his wake.
The country music was upbeat and much appreciated. The last thing Sullivan needed was some depressing song to make him forget the reason he had to leave. The bartender set his shots down in front of Sullivan right as his cell phone beeped in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said, then grabbed his phone, finding a text from Marco: Got you a private flight tonight out of Denver. Leaving at 8:00 p.m. It’ll be good to have you home.
Sullivan replied: Appreciate it. Talk soon.
With his gut twisting, he set his phone down to reach for the first shot when a familiar voice said from behind him, “So, you’re leaving again, huh?”
Sullivan polished off the shot then glanced over at Hayes, who slid onto the stool beside him while Beckett took the other side of Hayes. “How’d you even know I was here?” he asked.
“I’ll take a Foxy Diva,” Hayes said to the barkeep, a request echoed by Beckett. When Hayes glanced at Sullivan again, his mouth twitched. “Have you forgotten that this is a small town and everyone knows everyone’s business?”
Sullivan snorted. “Apparently, too much of people’s business.”
The barkeep delivered the beers, setting them in front of Hayes and Beckett. “Let me know if you want seconds.”
“Thanks,” Hayes told him.
A long moment passed while Sullivan stared down into the dark amber liquid of the whiskey in his shot. He appreciated the loud conversation, the clanking of glasses, the whirl of the blender, the noise. Silence would be the enemy now.
“Are we going to talk about the article?” Beckett asked. Sullivan looked his way, and Beckett grimly added, “It’s shitty, what that reporter printed.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” Sullivan countered, barely controlling the hot rage bubbling up. Only this time, he knew better. With two shots, he’d stay sober. He’d think clearly. Anything more than that would get him in tro
uble. “That article already hurt Clara and will hurt Mason too.”
“Maybe,” Hayes countered, with his wise eyes watching Sullivan all too closely. “But it’s not your fault these pricks found out about your past with Clara and twisted it all up.”
“It’s my fault for coming back,” Sullivan said, reaching for his other shot, ready to numb the unforgiving ache in his chest. “It’s my fault for stupidly holding a press conference at the brewery and getting them into the game. I thought I was helping…” He slammed back the shot, embracing the burning deep in his throat. “They’re going to twist the narrative on what happened with Mason. And he will be hurt.”
“Then, beat them to the punch and tell your story,” Beckett said, spinning his bottle between his fingers.
“It’s not that easy,” Sullivan said, wishing everything were different. Wishing his damn life were different. Simpler. “Nothing about any of this is easy. These reporters are vultures. They’ll invade this town, and you know the locals; they’ll talk. They’ll learn about my father…about it all, and in the end, Clara and Mason’s lives will be left in tatters because I brought these pricks around.”
Hayes sighed heavily and agreed, “It is a difficult situation, no doubt about that.”
“Exactly,” Sullivan said. He paused as the barkeep dragged his damp rag across the bar, in front of him. Only when he moved away did Sullivan add, “I need to get these fucking reporters away from here, and the only way to do that is to leave.” At Beckett’s snort, Sullivan glared sideways. “You think I’m making a mistake?”
“I think you made a mistake when you left last time,” Beckett said without any hesitation, giving a flippant stare. “This time, I think you’re a damn fool.”
Sullivan arched a slow eyebrow. “A fool?”
“A damn fool,” Beckett shot back, fire in his eyes. “You’ve got a second chance here to right a serious wrong from the past. To make Clara happy. To give Mason the dad you once had then lost. If I were you, I’d fight like hell to make that happen, not run away. Again.”
Sullivan felt his jaw tighten, and he unclenched his jaw, not to lash out at a friend. A good friend, in fact. He held Beckett’s hard stare, and it occurred to Sullivan then that Beckett wasn’t only offering advice but speaking from his loss of Amelia. But they hadn’t seen Clara’s tears today, the hurt in her eyes that he’d put there, and her belief that, as Mason’s mother, she’d failed at protecting Mason from something that could deeply hurt him and leave a lasting imprint on his soul. Sullivan didn’t want to cause damage. He didn’t want to be a part of the problem. He wanted to watch her and Mason thrive, smile, laugh. “History is repeating itself all over again,” he said with a weight on his chest. “I hurt her, and it’s fucking killing me.”
A pause. A long, heavy pause.
Then, “I know you think all is lost,” Hayes said, cupping Sullivan’s shoulder with a strong hold. “But there’s got to be a way to fix all this that doesn’t involve you leaving.”
“Besides,” Beckett said with a smirk. “If River Rock does one thing well, it’s protecting the people who live here. We just need to get on top of this.”
They made it all seem so simple. Sullivan arched an eyebrow. “Any ideas on how to do that?”
Before anyone could come up with a response, the bar’s door opened and Clara headed in with Amelia in tow. Sullivan whirled around on his stool right as Clara closed the distance with a fast-paced speed and grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt. “Don’t go. Stay. Here in River Rock, with me and Mason. I want you in our lives. I want to be your wife. I want you to be Mason’s father. I want forever.”
Sullivan sensed the crowd go still around him. The music faded. The noise gone. Only Clara remained, and each demand she made hit him straight in the chest. “I want those things too, Clara, but how?”
Determination glowed in her pretty eyes. Her voice was steady, lower pitched. “Well, first, stop running away and face this. I heard one of the reporter’s from earlier is currently working at the coffee shop. So, let’s go talk to her. Let’s tell our story. Our way. Our truth.”
He cupped her warm cheek. “What if that hurts you and Mason?”
“It won’t,” she said, lifting her chin, adamant. “It can’t. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the past, and it no longer hurts me. We wouldn’t be us if we hadn’t been through what we’ve been through. I’m tired of pretending. All of it happened, the good, the bad, and the awful, but somehow we came out of it all better people. I’m really proud of that. Aren’t you?”
Damn. He loved this woman. “I am proud of us.”
“Good,” she said, firmly. “Then, let’s go tell our story. No more hiding. No more pretending. Let’s put it all out there so the only story out there is our story.”
Hayes, Beckett, and Amelia closed in around them—his chosen family—and he felt all the shame of his life melt away, surrounded by so much love. “Let’s tell our story. Our way. Our truth.”
15
When Clara and Sullivan entered the coffee shop, she found the space nearly empty, but she spotted the wives of the Blackshaw brothers—Harper, Megan, and Emma—chit-chatting over dessert in a booth by the large window overlooking downtown. The barista stood behind the counter stacked with chrome espresso and frothing machines. Freshly brewed coffee infused the air, alongside the tingle of spices. Clara gave the Blackshaw wives a quick wave, which they returned, but she stayed focused on the woman sitting at the booth near the window. She was a cute twenty-something girl with long brown hair, black glasses, and bright-colored lipstick. Clara remembered her from when the reporters had showed up at the house earlier.
“We got this,” Sullivan said, next to her, obviously sensing her slight hesitation.
“Yeah, we do,” she said, taking his outreached hand. She was taking Pops’ advice to heart, and now that she knew what he meant, it all seemed very simple. The truth had to end this. They got lucky that they’d found any of the reporters, but small towns were good for keeping tabs on people. One visit to the local B&B, and Clara had learned the reporters came to the coffee shop often. The reporter’s head was down, her fingers flying over her keyboard, likely writing a story on Clara and Sullivan’s life. Determined to put a stop to this for good, Clara sidled up to the booth. “Hi,” she said by way of greeting. “I’m Clara Carter, but I’m guessing you already know that.”
The reporter glanced up, her eyes going wide, her face losing some color.
Clara heard Amelia ordering dessert behind them, as she gestured at Sullivan, “And as you know, this is Sullivan Keene.”
The reporter finally blinked. “Um, hello, yes, I do know who you both are.” She drew in a sharp breath then seemed to collect herself. “I’m Mindy Sommers.”
Sullivan stepped in closer, wrapping a protective arm around Clara’s waist. “Well, Mindy Sommers, we’ve got a story for you. Do you mind if we sit to tell it to you?”
Mindy’s gaze suddenly scanned the area, obviously looking for some sign that this was a joke or a mistake. When she settled her gaze on Clara again, she said, “Er, no, I don’t mind.”
“Great.” Clara slid into the booth, Sullivan next to her. The radio station played soft rock in the background as Clara drew in a big deep breath and blew it out slowly. Pops was right—she was sick of pretending. Her past, no matter how messy and complicated, was hers, and that past had shaped her into who she was today. “Yes, Sullivan left me, but I was the one who never told him he had a son.”
Someone’s fork clanged against a plate. Clara glanced up to see the Blackshaw wives sitting statue-still. She waited for the instant regret of speaking her biggest moment of shame aloud, but it never came. “I’d like to tell you our story, and I’d like you to print it. This will be an exclusive.”
Mindy looked as frozen as everyone else seemed in the coffee shop. “Okay,” she eventually said, after she clearly processed what she’d heard. “An
d what do you want from me in exchange?”
Clara had considered this from every angle. “I want to make sure the story reflects that our son, Mason, is loved, not a dark secret from Sullivan’s past.” Because in all this, Mason still mattered above all else. His mental health. His happiness. She didn’t want him to face the heartbreak that she and Sullivan endured. She wanted better for him.
Before Mindy could reply, Sullivan grabbed Clara’s hand under the table, bringing it onto his thigh. His palm was clammy, cold. To Mindy, he added, “I trust you’ll tell this story exactly as we say it, but in case you don’t.” He reached into his pocket, took out his cell and opened the Voice Memos, and hit record. “You don’t want a lawsuit from me.”
Mindy didn’t even give the recorder a second look. She reached for her laptop, her fingers hovering over her keyboard. “I’m ready when you are.”
The long lump in Clara’s throat shifted, the words she never thought she could say aloud, spilling free. “Our son’s name is Mason. He’s six years old. As you already know, Sullivan and I were high school sweethearts.” She sent a smile his way.
His warm smile erased the ache in her heart.
Focusing back on Mindy, she continued, “Thing is, back then, our lives were very complicated. Sullivan’s mother died of cancer. It was a long terrible death, which impacted his family. Most importantly, his father. Before her death, his dad was loving, warm, and affectionate. After her death, he struggled with alcoholism. Later, his kidneys shut down.” Her gaze fell to Sullivan again, who watched her closely with adoration glowing in his expression. “But we all knew he died the day Sullivan’s mom did. It’s just his body took longer to go.”
Sullivan swallowed. Hard. His fingers tightened around hers, though his gaze was all for her. Only for her.
The words fell easily from her lips because this was her narrative. Her way to tell their story. “Sullivan’s father became physically and emotionally abusive. So much so, that Sullivan was taken out of his father’s home when he was sixteen years old.” Sullivan’s jaw muscles clenched and unclenched, but Clara pressed on. “To escape the abuse, he moved away from River Rock to chase his dreams like his mother would have wanted.”
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