He’d been with her through it all. Through the fear, through the mistakes, through every obstacle. Nobody understood what she’d gone through to get here like Beckett did. And he’d sacrificed his own goal to help her. A celebration wouldn’t be complete without him. Still, inviting him to a family event implied a certain level of intimacy. How would he feel about that?
And would her dad behave himself? Would he lay down the rumors of the past long enough to see the person Beckett had become? They’d just have to work through any rough spots.
A light shone through the picture window, but she heard noises coming from the backyard. She followed the curve of the drive behind the house. The night was warm and humid, making her hair cling to the back of her neck. Pine and freshly mowed grass fragranced the air. A radio played softly, intermingling with the occasional whir of a drill.
An outbuilding came into view as she rounded the corner of the house. Just inside the overhead door, a shirtless Beckett stooped over the skeletal hull of a boat, frowning in concentration as he drilled.
Her movement must’ve caught his attention because he looked her way, a smile curving his lips as he shut off the drill.
“Hey.” The word conveyed a tone of surprise. He lowered the drill and dragged his forearm across his forehead.
Rigsby came to greet her.
Beckett glanced at the house. “Did you knock on the door?”
She remembered his dad was home from jail, remembered the scene last time she was here. “No, I heard you back here.”
He offered a smile. “Just working on a boat.”
Madison tsk-tsked as she approached. “No goggles, no mask . . . what am I going to do with you, O’Reilly?”
Something flickered in his eyes, and his lips twitched. He blew away a tiny pile of shavings from the wood.
The light draped over the ridges of his shoulders like a sculpted cape. She turned her attention to Rigsby, squatting down. “Hey there, fella. Is Daddy giving you your heartworm pill?”
“Yes, he is.” His eyes darted toward the house.
She gave the dog a final rub behind the ears and stood. “Brought you something.” She pulled the folded check from her pocket and handed it to Beckett.
He opened it, then his face went slack. He handed it back. “No. This is yours.”
She pocketed her hands. “I didn’t do it for the money, you know that.”
He came closer, extending the check. “Neither did I.”
Maybe he hadn’t helped her for the money, but it was the money he’d been after from the start, the money he’d sacrificed to help her win.
She shook her head. “I want you to have it.”
He tilted his head, frowning. “Madison.”
“Please. Invest it in your business. Nothing would make me happier.”
Slowly, his hand fell. He let out a sigh. “Split it with me then.”
“I don’t want it. You have a good thing going here. It’ll make me feel good to know I had a tiny part in it. Besides, we both know you would’ve won if you hadn’t been helping me.”
He considered her until she squirmed. Then he pocketed the check, pursing his lips, letting her know he wasn’t comfortable with it.
She ran her fingers along the skeleton of the boat. “Is this Drew’s?”
“No, I haven’t sold this one yet. Drew never called me back—guess the moral of the story is don’t beat up your customers.”
“Maybe you can make that your new slogan. Put it on those fancy business cards you order.”
“Funny.”
“Too bad I didn’t take a picture of you in action—would’ve made a nice visual for your new website.”
He gave her a look. “All right, now.”
Teasing him felt good. Suddenly, inviting him to the celebration Friday felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“What are you doing Friday night?”
His brows lifted at the shift in conversation. He set his palm on the rough-edged rim of the boat. “Why do you ask?”
“My folks are having a barbecue to celebrate the win. And you are half of the winning team.”
He shrugged. “Sure. I’ll come. What time?”
“Sixish. I’ll have to meet you there. You’re welcome to bring your dad if you want.”
His smile fell. “Oh. Thanks, but he—uh, he probably has plans. Can I bring anything?”
“Just your appetite. And your A game.”
He hiked a brow.
“Backyard ball.” She faked a free throw. It was only a couple weeks ago she’d seen him practicing layups in the park. “There’s always B-ball when we get together. You any good?”
“I’ve put up my share of blocks.”
She smiled. “You’re on my team then.”
“How do I know you’re any good?”
She pressed her fingertips to her chest. “I’m a McKinley. Of course I’m good.”
He smiled at that, a mesmerizing smile with teeth and everything. The light cast shadows over the planes of his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw.
She watched the smile fall from his face and forced her eyes away.
“Well,” she said, backing toward the door, “I should go. It’s a work night.”
He reached into his pocket. “Are you sure you won’t take—”
She gave a mock glare. “Stop.”
He mumbled something as she walked away.
“I heard that.”
“Good,” he said.
She was smiling as she returned to her car. She got in, started the engine, and pulled from the drive, casting a look at the house, watching the TV light flicker against the walls, and wondering about Beckett’s dad.
CHAPTER THIRTY
MADISON WOKE IN A COLD SWEAT, THE REMNANTS OF THE nightmare hanging on tight. She lay still, her heart pounding her ribs. Darkness pressed in around her, smothering her with its heaviness.
No. No, it couldn’t be. She shook her head, willing it to be untrue, trying to shake the lingering panic away. The nightmares were supposed to be gone. She’d won the regatta. Replaced the bad dream with the good one.
Only she hadn’t.
Make it go away, God!
She shoved off the covers and sat up, shaking. She ran her palms over her face, brushing her hair back at the temples where it was damp with sweat.
The clock read 4:17, but sleep was only a finger beckoning her to torture.
“I smell rain,” Grandpa said before he took the last bite of his burger.
“Maybe it’ll hold off,” Ryan said.
Madison smothered a yawn, the lack of sleep catching up with her. She leaned into Beckett’s arm, loving the solid feel of him next to her.
Grandpa engaged Ryan and Daniel in a conversation about weather patterns that Madison knew would probably lead to his story about the worst storm he’d ever lived through. The tornado of ’67. They’d heard it a hundred times.
They’d enjoyed an exciting game of three-on-three before supper. She, Beckett, and Ryan had beaten Dad, Daniel, and PJ, though it had been a close game. Her dad seemed to be giving Beckett a chance, though there was no missing the caution in his eyes.
“You could’ve told me it was your birthday,” Beckett whispered in Madison’s ear as he set his napkin on his empty plate.
“It’s really more a celebration of the regatta,” she whispered back after Mom excused herself to fetch the birthday cake.
“Uh-huh.”
Fact was, every year Madison wished they’d forget her birthday. She couldn’t celebrate it without remembering that her twin wasn’t here.
She’d hoped that with the regatta win, it would feel different this time. That she would feel happy and . . . released or something. But as birthday wishes flew across the backyard and gifts were shoved into her arms, she’d found herself feeling the same as always. Like she’d rather be in Dr. Gallagher’s office awaiting a root canal.
She’d hoped the celebration of the regat
ta win would overshadow her birthday, but her family was having none of that. Crepe paper was strung across the yard, balloons bobbed in colorful clusters here and there, and of course the cake awaited her.
She felt a drop of rain on the back of her hand, then another.
“We’d better move the party inside,” Dad said.
“Tried to tell you,” Grandpa said.
Madison and Beckett gathered the dishes. Dad grabbed the gifts, PJ and Daniel collected the balloons, and Ryan was pulling the tablecloth just as the rain turned to a deluge.
They ducked into the house, sliding off their shoes near the front door so they didn’t dirty Mom’s shiny wood floor or muddy her antique rugs.
They settled in the living room, loud and boisterous. Beckett was next to her on the sofa, his warm thigh stretched out next to hers the only comfort she felt. Knowing what was coming, the cake, the presents, the memories, she wanted nothing more than to go home and curl up on the couch with Lulu.
She tried to tell herself she was only missing Jade, but it was more than that. It was Michael. Why did she still feel this way? She’d won the regatta before their twenty-seventh birthday. She’d fulfilled his dream. She was supposed to feel better now. It’d been almost ten years. When would she be free of this? At peace? Her eyes found the regatta cup on the mantel, propping up a sign that read Congrats, Madison and Beckett! in PJ’s lovely script.
Someone turned out the lights and Mom approached, candles flickering atop the rectangular cake, casting a glow over her features.
Dad started the song, singing off-key, and everyone joined in as Mom set the cake on the coffee table. Happy 27th Birthday, Madison! the cake said in bold white script. Two flames wavered on white candles in the darkness. One for her, one for Michael. When they were kids, they’d each gotten a cake, their parents careful that neither child felt short-changed. Since Michael’s death, there’d been only one cake, but two candles, the meaning unspoken but understood.
The reminder of their loss always saddened her. It wasn’t that she wanted to forget him. No, never that. But shouldn’t there be some point when she could move forward without the dragging weight of sadness? Some point where it didn’t feel like half of her had died with him?
Everyone laughed as her parents finished the last notes of the song with their failed attempt at harmony. Madison’s smile felt as brittle as a November leaf.
“Make a wish!” PJ said.
“I wish Mom and Dad would stop trying to harmonize,” Ryan said.
“Save it for your birthday,” Mom said.
“I think Madison got her wish Saturday,” Daniel said, flipping his bangs from his blue eyes.
Ryan pushed the cake closer. “I’m sure she can come up with a new one, greedy girl.”
Madison leaned over, took a breath, and blew. The flames flickered out, and curly wisps of smoke winged upward.
“Yay!” PJ said. “I’ll get the plates. Dibs on the flowers.”
“You always get the flowers,” Daniel called.
“You don’t even like them.”
Mom pulled the candles and whisked the cake away with a wink.
“I want ice cream with mine,” Dad said, tagging along. “Jo, we got any vanilla?”
“Yes, dear.”
“I’ll scoop.” Ryan followed the gang into the kitchen, leaving Madison and Beckett alone.
“I hope it’s not that generic brand.” Grandpa’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Stuff tastes like cement powder.”
Madison traded a smile with Beckett. She wondered if her family overwhelmed him. He probably wasn’t used to chaos. She hoped he felt welcome despite her dad’s aloofness.
“Well,” he said, “this visit has certainly cleared up some things.”
She turned to him. “Like what?”
“Where Jade got her musical talent—clearly it was a gift from heaven.”
Madison smiled. “What? I think we sing pretty well.”
“I could hear Rigsby howling from here.”
She swatted him. “We’re not that bad.”
“Whatever you say.”
She listened a moment to the commotion in the kitchen, the laughter and teasing, the clang of silver, suddenly feeling removed from it—removed from her family, like an outsider. Why had everyone else moved on when she couldn’t seem to? What was wrong with her?
Not even after the regatta. All that time and effort—she thought it would change things. Would change her. Her eyes found the cup again, a familiar pressure building inside.
Go away. Go away.
“You okay?” Beckett was studying her with those all-seeing eyes. She wondered if he could see right through her, to that ugly thing building up inside.
“I’m fine.” She tried for a smile. “Let’s have some cake.” The sooner they ate and opened presents, the sooner she could go home and pretend it wasn’t her birthday. She just had to push these feelings down awhile longer.
The kitchen was a mass of moving, talking bodies. When everyone had a piece of cake, they settled in the living room, where conversation flew at the speed of lightning. If her family noticed Madison’s silence, no one mentioned it.
At one point she was so lost in thought that she jumped when Beckett squeezed her hand.
“You’re awful quiet, birthday girl,” he whispered.
She had to stop dwelling on it. Think of something else. “Hard to get a word in edgewise.”
“Present time!” PJ declared, setting the gifts on the coffee table.
Madison did her best to fake joy as she opened presents, even managing a real smile when she opened Ryan’s card.
Beckett tweaked a brow at the colorful scrawling on the inside.
“I got Ryan this card when he turned—what was it, Ryan? Twenty-two?”
“Something like that.”
“The next year for my birthday, he scratched out my name and regifted it.”
“That’s how cheap he is,” Daniel said.
“It’s been going back and forth ever since,” PJ said.
“Except that one year Ryan couldn’t find it,” Mom said.
“Thanks, Ryan,” Madison said, holding up the greeting card and gift card to the Coachlight Coffeehouse. “Until next year.”
She tore into her presents, eager to be finished. Daniel and PJ had gotten her season one of Gilmore Girls. Grandpa gave her a tool kit—she was always borrowing his.
Her parents’ gift looked and felt like a book. She tore open the floral paper to find a leather-bound journal.
“It’s a prayer journal,” Mom said.
Madison ran her hands along the smooth cover inscribed with her name. “It’s beautiful. Thanks, Mom and Dad.” She remembered the one Michael had. He’d always left it lying around, and one time she’d taken a peek.
Michael had caught her, snatching it from her hands. “Hey, that’s personal!” But he wore his good-natured smile.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t leave it lying around the living room,” she’d said, walking away. She turned at the threshold, wearing an innocent smile. “And by the way, Lacey or Tricia . . . God probably doesn’t care either way.”
Michael threw a pillow that caught her in the stomach.
“Madison?” She realized Mom had tried to get her attention twice.
“Sorry. What was that?”
“Momma Jo was saying she’d noticed my journal and asked where I got it,” Daniel said.
“We ordered it from the same place in Chicago,” Mom said.
“The cover was handmade in Italy.”
“I know how you love good leather. You used to journal when you were a teenager, remember?”
Madison ran her fingers over the journal again, nodding. “Feels like butter. Thank you.” She held it out to Beckett.
“Good stuff,” he said.
She placed the journal back in the box and helped gather trash. She needed to leave, and soon. The pressure was building, bubbling up.
When
the room was picked up, Madison announced she was calling it a night.
“Already?” PJ asked. “I thought we could play Catch Phrase or something.”
“I’m really tired,” Madison said. “Maybe tomorrow . . . you can spend the night. We’ll watch Gilmore Girls and share a tub of butter pecan.” Madison didn’t know if she’d be up for company, but she had to get out of there.
“Take some cake with you.” Mom started toward the kitchen.
“That’s okay, Mom. You guys can finish it.” She tried for a smile when a crease marred Mom’s forehead. “It was delicious though. Thank you.”
She hugged Mom and Dad, then the others, trying to hurry without appearing to rush.
As she was slipping on her shoes, Dad asked Beckett a question about pistons. Any other time she would’ve been thrilled at her dad’s softening, but now, she only wanted to go. She knew she should wait on Beckett—he was her guest. But she had to leave. Thank goodness they’d driven separately. She didn’t think she could hold it together much longer. She thanked Beckett for coming and ducked through the drizzle, slipping into the quiet of her car.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MADISON TURNED ON THE RADIO, CRANKING UP THE OLDIES station. The haunting melody of “It Must’ve Been Love” filled the car, the bittersweet words making her ache. She turned the station and accelerated down her parents’ drive. Maybe if she could turn it up loudly enough, it would drown out the awful pressure building inside.
She breathed deeply, holding it in as she flipped on her wipers and turned onto the road. She just needed to keep it inside. Push it down. There was no reason to let it out now, all these years later. It would go away if she just pushed it down far enough.
Really, Madison? Isn’t that what you’ve been telling yourself for years?
No matter how long she pushed, how hard, it always seemed to surface again. The nightmares, this terrible disquiet inside.
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