Bliss and the Art of Forever (A Hope Springs Novel Book 4)

by Alison Kent

  “I’m not leaving for a week. Almost two.” And why was correcting the timing more important than what he’d just said?

  “Tomorrow . . . six months from now . . . it doesn’t matter when you go.” He looked up, looked at her, the emotion in his eyes cutting into her like daggers, like needles, like the tiniest pinpoints of pain. “What matters is that you’re going for him, instead of staying here for me.”

  “I don’t have a choice.” She sobbed out the words. “I promised him—”

  “You can ship the Bible,” he said, gesturing with one arm. “Ship the vase, whatever else you’re taking—”

  “But I can’t ship him,” she nearly whispered, the words breaking into pieces as she spoke.

  “What?” The question was a gasp of disbelief, of needing to understand, of fearing the answer.

  “His ashes,” she said slowly. “He wanted them scattered on the second anniversary of his death. In his family’s olive groves, or in the Gulf or the Guadalupe. The Mediterranean. The vineyards his grandfather owned.”

  “Why?” he asked as he reached up and rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t mean why there, but why the two years? Why not before now?”

  “Out of respect for the older members of the family. Some still follow antiquated mourning customs.”

  “And waiting to scatter his ashes is part of that?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I don’t really care,” she said, retrieving her wineglass from the table and emptying the bottle they’d opened with dinner into it. “And it doesn’t matter. All I know is that it’s what he wanted, so it’s what I’m doing.”

  “And then?” he asked, watching as she swallowed half the contents.

  She swallowed the rest before asking, “Then what?”

  His eyes grew dark, his frown deep, his emotions sharp and hurting. “Is that when you let him go?”

  She thought everything inside of her might explode. Her chest, her head, the core of who she was. “Excuse me?”

  “Are you going to let him go?” he asked, walking toward her, his steps heavy in his big leather boots. “Move on with your life? You’ve told me more than once that’s what he wanted—”

  The sound of glass shattering in the living room kept Callum from saying more, and kept Brooklyn from losing her mind over the echo of his words in her head. How dared he. How dared he! He had no idea what it was to love someone the way she’d loved Artie, then to lose that someone to a nightmare.

  Except, she realized as she looked at the remnants of their meal on the table, that wasn’t fair of her, was it? If Addy’s mother did indeed come after her and decide to challenge his custody, he could lose his daughter to a horror of another sort. Spousal love and parental love were different emotions: Both were powerful; both consumed. Both created heartache in the event of loss.

  But for him to be so demanding—

  “Adrianne Michelle! What did I tell you about visiting Ms. Harvey’s house? What are the rules?”

  Uh-oh. Dread slipping down her spine, Brooklyn found herself holding her breath as she finally followed Callum to the living room, stopping in the doorway with a gasp. The slivers of colored glass on the floor could have come from only one thing: the mouth-blown and hand-painted glass ball owls that Artie had given her their first Christmas.

  She’d never hung them on any of their trees for fear they’d fall and shatter. Instead she’d lined them up on the bottom shelf of the living room bookcase. The only time they were handled was when she dusted them maybe once a month. Or when Addy Drake decided they looked like toys. Which, Brooklyn mused, to a six-year-old they probably did.

  Callum scooped his daughter off the floor and deposited her in the closest chair. “Sit here. I’m going to clean this up, and I don’t want you getting cut on the glass. Do not even think about moving.”

  Addy was sniffling, wiping her nose on her sleeve, rubbing at her eyes. She was tired, and probably more upset over her father’s anger than what she’d actually done—which proved yet again the incredible bond the two shared. The respect Addy had for her father meant his being anything but happy with her was more punishment than a time-out chair could ever be.

  “No. No. It’s okay,” she said to Callum as he stopped beside her on his way to find a broom. The little girl crying her eyes out was so much more important than the broken glass; she didn’t need the ornaments to remember her first Christmas with Artie. “It really is. They’re just owls.”

  Malina’s Diner, a Hope Springs institution the locals knew closed at ten after breakfast and opened for supper at four, had recently added a dining room that seated three times the number of customers as their counter, tables, and red Naugahyde booths. Since it was a private dining room, it was used for large groups needing a meeting space and good food.

  Folks booked it for birthday parties and baby showers, for committee meetings, for wedding receptions—anything and everything under the sun. Today, four days after Tuesday’s wreck of an anniversary dinner, it was the site of Brooklyn’s going-away party, and not an inch of ceiling was visible for the dozens of helium-filled balloons bobbing against it, their ribbon tails dangling in a rainbow of Crayola crayon colors.

  Brooklyn had been teaching at Hope Springs Elementary for over a decade. It was the only teaching job she’d had. She’d seen other teachers retire, like Jean Dial, who today wore earrings that looked like fresh-cut red roses—the color, the shape, and the size—and she’d seen new hires, both seasoned professionals and new college grads, join the faculty’s ranks.

  She wasn’t the only one who’d been at the school for so long, meaning she had a lot of friends, some close, some less so, but all wanting to wish her a bon voyage as she started this new chapter of her life. The room was packed, the noise level deafening, the aroma of Max Malina’s chicken parmesan cutlets and garlic bread strong enough to seep into the fabric of her dress.

  It was hard to decide if she was happy or sad. Such a wealth of love and memories and friendship. Standing at the front of the room with a small group chatting about vacation plans, she let her mind drift and glanced from face to face: at those mingling, at those huddled over plates of cake at the tables, at those checking out the pile of gifts waiting for her to unwrap.

  Gifts. What was she going to do with more things when she’d just unburdened herself of all that she owned? Well, most of what she owned. What was left was with Callum. Meaning whatever happened during her year away, at least she’d have seeing him again to look forward to.

  Because no matter the ridiculous friction between them Tuesday night—and it was ridiculous, both of them on edge, both fearful, neither knowing what to do with this thing between them—nothing about her feelings for him had changed. All she could hope was that they had a chance to set things right before she left. The idea of leaving without doing so . . .

  “Excuse me a minute,” she said, taking her leave from the group, who had moved on to talking about summer camps for their kids, and making her way through the room to where Jean Dial sat with Dolly Pepper at the end of one long table. Jean huddled over a plate of Italian cream cake, while Dolly cradled a cup of coffee. Both were frowning, heads down.

  Frowning or not, their familiar faces were just what she needed right now. “Is this a private party, or is there room for one more?”

  Both women looked up. Both smiled. Jean was the one to push out the chair to her side, while Dolly said, “Of course.”

  Brooklyn hesitated. The tone of Dolly’s voice didn’t sound as welcoming as her invitation, and Jean was back to frowning again. “Are you sure?” she asked, tentative as she sat. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but you both looked like you might need a little cheering up.”

  “We’re not the ones needing the cheering,” Jean said, digging a fork into her cake. “That would be Vaughn Drake, though more than likely he’s just fine. We’re the ones doing the cheering.”

  “Vaughn Drake? Callum’s fath
er?” Brooklyn looked from Jean to Dolly, only to find the second woman with her face buried in her hands, mostly likely due to Jean’s outspokenness, which had Brooklyn wondering why her neighbor was cheering. And what it had to do with Vaughn. “Jean?”

  “Shirley Drake left her husband.” Another bite of cake, Jean’s earrings swinging against her neck as she chewed. “Packed up her clothes and flew to Connecticut to stay with her sister, who I gather from what Shirley has said over the years is just as miserable a woman as she is.”

  “To Connecticut.” Why hadn’t Callum said anything? “For a vacation?”

  Dolly was shaking her head. “She told him she wants a divorce.”

  Now Brooklyn was really confused. “I don’t understand. I saw them several times together. They seemed to have a good marriage.” And in all his complaining about his mother, Callum had never hinted otherwise.

  “I think Vaughn thought the same thing, though I understand he’s not terribly broken up over it. So obviously I don’t know what I’m talking about,” Jean said, sliding her fork through her cake for a bite of nothing but icing.

  Brooklyn looked from Jean to Dolly and back. “Why would she just leave like that? What about Callum and Addy?”

  When the two older women exchanged a quick glance, then Dolly went back to staring into her coffee and Jean at her cake, a frisson of dread crept its way up Brooklyn’s spine. “This has something to do with me, doesn’t it?”

  Dolly gave a dismissive wave of one hand. “Of course not, dear.”

  “If that woman has an issue with you,” Jean said, gesturing with her fork, “it’s all in her mind.”

  “Jean.” Dolly nearly bit off the word.

  “It’s okay,” Brooklyn said. “I’d rather hear the truth.”

  “The truth is that Vaughn Drake is a saint to have put up with that woman all these years,” Jean said, never one to hold anything back. “Good riddance, I say. And I mean it.”

  “Oh, Jean, no.” Dolly reached across the table and patted the back of Jean’s hand. “Yes, Shirley can be trying, but you know Vaughn’s got to be hurting. And think about Callum and his little girl.”

  But Jean wasn’t having any of it. “I saw Vaughn in HEB just yesterday. He’s not hurting at all. Or he’s doing a damn good job of hiding it.”

  “Not to take away from what Mr. Drake is going through,” Brooklyn said, “but would one of you tell me how this involves me?”

  Jean reached behind her for her monster-sized purse and pulled out a flask, doctoring her coffee with a big splash of bourbon. “Oh, some BS about how her son deprived her of having a grandbaby, since she didn’t meet Adrianne until the girl was already a year old. And now that you’ve caught his fancy, she might as well write off the idea of ever being a grandmother again, since you don’t want children.”

  Brooklyn waited for the reverberation of the sledgehammer to stop. Her head ached. Her heart ached. Poor Callum. Poor Addy. Poor Vaughn. “I never told him I didn’t want children. I told him Artie and I had decided not to have them. It’s the same thing I’ve told others when it’s come up in conversation. But I can’t imagine him telling his mother any of that.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe for a moment he did.” Jean pushed her empty plate to the side and lifted her coffee cup with both hands, breathing in the aroma of the added bourbon. “She either heard it elsewhere or she made it up. She’s obviously jealous of the time he’s been spending with you. It’s nothing more than her being her usual petty self.”

  “Jean!”

  “Oh, Dolly. You know I’m right. Pearl’s will be a much quieter place Friday mornings without Shirley moaning about every pothole put in the road just to ruin her brand-new tires.” She turned to Brooklyn. “You want a piece of cake, hon? A cup of coffee?”

  Brooklyn shook her head. “When did this happen? When did she leave?”

  Jean glanced at Dolly, and Dolly was the one who spoke. “I believe last Saturday morning. Or last Friday night. I didn’t hear about it until Sunday at church.”

  So Callum had known on Saturday when she’d gone to his house, and on Tuesday when he’d come to hers. He’d told her his mother was out of town, but said nothing about her leaving his father. And Vaughn . . . he’d sat there and eaten hamburgers and talked basketball and crawled around looking for 16d framing nails without so much as a hint of anything bothering him.

  Elbows on the table, Brooklyn rubbed at the pressure in her temples. “I saw them last Saturday night. I had dinner with them.”

  “With Callum?” Dolly asked. “And Vaughn?”

  “And Addy. He bought a house out on Three Wishes Road. They moved earlier this month. He cooked burgers. Addy stepped on a nail . . .” She shook her head. This wasn’t making sense. “I saw them on Tuesday, too. Callum and his daughter. They came over for dinner. I cooked lasagna.”

  “Artie’s lasagna?” asked Jean. When Brooklyn nodded, Jean muttered some choice words under her breath. “I can’t believe I forgot the date when I agreed to host that Bunco party with Pearl. I should’ve invited you to come.”

  “What date?” Dolly asked. “What am I missing?”

  Shaking her head solemnly, Jean set down her coffee cup. “Tuesday was Brooklyn and Artie’s anniversary.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Dolly reached over and took hold of Brooklyn’s hand with both of hers. “I’m so sorry. If I’d known, I would’ve been there with a gallon of ice cream and a pan of fresh brownies.”

  Tears welled in Brooklyn’s eyes and her throat ached with emotion. She was so very lucky to have such very dear friends. “Thank you both. I’m fine, really. I’m not so sure Callum is.” She shuddered. “I still can’t believe I thought it a good idea to have him for dinner.”

  “And did you?” Jean asked, her lips pursed against a grin. “Have him for dinner?”

  “Jean!” Dolly and Brooklyn gasped the other woman’s name at the same time.

  Jean waved off their shock. “Just trying to lighten the mood. And wondering if he’s as good in bed as he looks like he’d be.”

  Brooklyn blushed, and Jean said, “Aha,” and then Dolly shook her head, saying, “I don’t want to know. I don’t even want to know.”

  “Well, I do want to know why he didn’t tell me about his mother leaving,” Brooklyn said. “Though for all I know he planned to. Until he found out I needed his company to get through my anniversary with another man.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Jean said. “And knowing the kind of man he is, I have no doubt he’ll take it as the very real compliment it was.”

  “And you’re still leaving next week?” Dolly asked, before Brooklyn could respond to Jean.

  She nodded. “I think so. I fly out Friday evening.”

  Dolly and Jean exchanged a glance, then Dolly was the one to say, “That doesn’t sound like you’re sure about this trip you’re taking.”

  “It’s complicated. I need to go. I have to go.”

  “But you don’t want to leave Callum.”

  Hearing the words come out of Jean’s mouth . . . Brooklyn shook her head slowly, her stupid eyes filling with tears again. She was so tired of the tears. So tired of being torn between duty and honor and love, and not even knowing which emotion belonged to the past, which to the present.

  Or which to which man.

  MAX MALINA’S MAMA MIA! ITALIAN CREAM CAKE

  For the cake:

  1½ cups sweetened shredded coconut, toasted

  1 cup buttermilk, room temperature

  2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

  2½ cups cake flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  12 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces and softened

  4 tablespoons vegetable shortening, cut into pieces

  1¾ cups granulated sugar

  5 large eggs, room temperature

  2 cups
pecans, toasted and chopped

  Preheat oven to 350° (F).

  Grease two 9-inch round cake pans and line with parchment paper, coating with nonstick spray.

  Process the coconut in a food processor until finely ground. Combine the coconut, the buttermilk, and the vanilla in a bowl and let sit until coconut is slightly softened.

  In a large mixing bowl, combine the flour, the baking powder, the salt, and the baking soda. Using a stand mixer fitted with a paddle, or an electric mixer, beat the butter, the shortening, and the sugar on medium-high speed until pale and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, and beat until combined. Reduce the mixer speed to low and add the flour mixture, alternating with additions of the reserved coconut-buttermilk mixture, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed. Fold in ¾ cup of pecans.

  Pour equal amounts of the batter into the prepared pans and bake for 28–32 minutes, or until a tester inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean. Cool the cakes in the pans on wire racks for 10 minutes. Remove the cakes from the pans and cool completely.

  For the frosting:

  12 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

  2¼ cups powdered sugar

  ½ cup cream of coconut

  ½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract

  16 ounces cream cheese, cut into pieces and softened

  pinch of salt

  Using an electric mixer or a stand mixer fitted with a paddle, mix the butter and the sugar on low speed until combined. Increase the speed to medium-high and beat until pale and fluffy. Add the cream of coconut, the vanilla, and the salt, and beat until smooth. Add the cream cheese, one piece at a time, and beat until incorporated. Frost the cake and press the remaining pecans onto the sides.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sunday night following Tuesday’s disastrous dinner at Brooklyn’s, when Callum had cleaned up the owls Addy had broken, then cleaned up the rest of the dishes while Brooklyn had held his daughter on her lap and read her a book on her Kindle, Callum met his dad at the back door of his parents’ home, climbing the three concrete steps into the kitchen with Addy asleep on his shoulder. He’d hated getting her out of bed, but it couldn’t be helped. Well, it could have been, but only if he’d decided to do this before she’d gone to sleep.