One Good Thing
Page 11
Brady grabs my hand, winding his fingers through mine. The touch is so sudden and unexpected that it causes my heart to beat faster. Brady leans down slightly, so his mouth is close to my ear, and murmurs, “On the phone Paul told me Mr. Bendrop doesn’t have a car. He had his license revoked years ago.”
“Oh,” is the only response I can manage. My gaze flies to Paul.
He tucks his hands in his pockets and rocks back onto the heels of his black dress shoes. “He’s not well, obviously. But who is at that age?” For a quick second, I see the weight he carries around on his shoulders. The next second it’s gone, covered up and tucked away. The way we all do.
Paul thanks us again and leaves. Mr. Bendrop doesn’t look our way as they drive off. I wonder if he’s already forgotten us?
“Come on,” Brady says, tugging on my hand. Which makes me realize he’s still holding it. He leads me back through the store and doesn’t drop my hand until we reach the aisle where the old man first approached him. He gathers the items we dropped there in exchange for our secret mission and walks to the register to pay.
He drives us back to Sweet Escape. At long last, I add the butterscotch to the blondie batter and put it in the oven. While it bakes, I get out a deck of playing cards and Brady and I play War until the oven timer beeps.
When Brady sinks his teeth into the blondie, he doesn’t say a word. He closes his eyes and lets out a long, slow, pleased sigh. Then he finishes it and immediately eats a second.
“That,” he says, holding up his hand for a high-five, “was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. If you don’t win the baking competition, I’m pressing charges against all the judges.”
I laugh and smack my hand against his. When I go to pull my hand away, I find that I can’t. Brady’s fingers have slipped through mine and captured my hand. He flips it over, and for a moment I think maybe he’s going to kiss it.
But he doesn’t. He stares at it, then reluctantly lets me go. He meets my eyes, picks up a third brownie, and tells me he’ll see me in the morning.
13
Brady
I didn’t brush my teeth last night. Gross, I know, but I wanted to keep tasting those incredible brownies. Addison’s brownies.
Who knew the crazy woman who yelled at me in the airport is actually a sweet as hell, little bit sassy baker?
It’s morning now, and the delicious taste in my mouth from last night has turned into more of an unpleasant, cottony aftertaste. I’d love to lie in bed and think about Addison and how cute she looked in that apron, but the situation in my mouth has me hauling my ass from bed and into the bathroom for a thorough cleaning.
I’m wide awake now, and my mouth is bursting with invigorating peppermint. A run sounds like a good idea, and then I can go through my workout.
In Chicago, I made good use of the gym on the first floor of my building. Here, I have to get creative.
I change into running clothes and shoes, and tuck my phone and cabin key into my pocket.
The early morning air is cool and crisp. Trails zig-zag around the property, and I really don’t know where I’m going. The map Louisa gave me on my first day here sits on the dresser in my cabin, unused after that day I followed it to the lake.
It only takes a minute before I decide how much I prefer running here in Oregon to running on a treadmill in a stinky, four-walled room in Chicago. Gulping in the fresh scent of the fir trees, I run on, alternating my speed between sprinting and jogging.
The sun is higher now, sending its rays through the trees, the shadows from the tree branches creating odd shapes.
In the near distance, I see a clearing in the trees. I slow as I get closer, until I come to a full stop at the top of what looks to be some kind of stage, and rows of seats, like bleachers, but made of concrete. An amphitheater? I step down the concrete stairs and run my hand over a row, brushing aside the blanket of fir needles.
When I was a kid, I went to a summer camp in Northern California that had a space just like this. We’d write and perform skits and plays, and on the final night, we played Charades. For six years I looked forward to the week I knew I’d spend there, but it was always hard to leave Lennon and Finn. Lennon wasn’t allowed to go to any camp that wasn’t the Bible camp her stepdad’s church put on, and Finn didn’t have the money to go to any camp, especially not one that required airfare.
I sit in one of the spots I’ve cleared of needles, and look down at the stage. For one week out of the whole summer, I lived with a bunch of other boys my age, and we became brothers for the week. Maybe it was proximity that initiated the immediate closeness, or maybe it was sharing a bathroom and cafeteria. Whatever it was, we attached ourselves to one another in a life that didn’t include school or organized sports. It was a life separate from the real one we lived the other fifty-one weeks of the year, and that detachment made it easy to share secrets without consequence. My bunkmates knew all about Lennon and Finn, my desire to protect and care for them, and the weight of responsibility I felt to be the good kid for my parents.
I haven’t thought of camp, or the boys I shared those weeks with, in years, but this amphitheater brings it all back. Maybe on some level that’s why I chose Lonesome. My subconscious knew it resembled the place I spent idyllic weeks of my life, and it was searching for that time, yearning for the moments when I wasn’t Brady the star baseball player, Brady the perfect son, or Brady the caretaker.
With a last look at the stage, I stand and take the stairs two at a time, then jog at a steady pace back the way I came.
Except I’m pretty sure I don’t know where I’m going. When I get to the point where the trails intersect, I pause and pull out my phone.
Oh, wait. I’m in the woods. The internet won’t load, the little bar across the top stopping about one-third of the way across the page.
I let out a growl of frustration, then a laugh trickles into the air around me.
I know that laugh.
My head snaps up and swivels around. About ten yards away Addison bounces from foot to foot in running shoes, her blonde hair swinging in a ponytail. She wears soft-looking black shorts and a matching sports bra. A long sleeve shirt is tied around her waist, and she’s smirking at me.
“Don’t look so pleased,” I tell her, embarrassed at my lack of an innate sense of direction.
She laughs and walks closer. Her chest heaves with her previous exertion, a lifting and falling that makes it hard to look away. Using all the strength I can muster, I rip my gaze from her chest and back up to her eyes.
The smirk is still on her face, but her eyes narrow. I’ve totally been caught.
“Fine, I’m lost. I admit it.” I’m hoping the admittance will distract her from my obvious ogling.
Addison steps lightly onto one foot and pivots. She turns back to look at me, motioning with her hand. “From now on I’ll be known as Sweet Escape Search and Rescue. Follow me.” She bounds away before I can come up with a response that will reinstate my man card.
There are a lot worse things I could be doing than following a bouncing Addison through the trees. The path is wide enough for both of us, so I lengthen my strides and soon I’m beside her. She grins and says a breathy, “Hey you.”
I tip my chin in acknowledgment and smile back. Addison is still the leader of this run, so when we come to other places where the paths intersect, I fall back slightly and let her lead.
By the time we reach the central path, we’re both panting hard. We slow our pace and then stop completely when we reach the lawn in front of the main house. Both of us bend over, our hands on our knees as we slow down our breathing.
“You don’t take many breaks when you run, do you?” I ask her when I can breathe long enough to string together words.
Addison lifts her arms above her, then bends to one side to stretch her side-body. “Usually I do. But you didn’t seem like you wanted to stop, so I didn’t.”
I hang at my waist, stretching the back of my legs, and look u
p at her. “Next time, let’s take breaks.”
Addison pretends to salute me. She’s red-faced and out of this world gorgeous. She looks relaxed. Maybe it’s the endorphins. Whatever it is, it’s great to see her this way.
“Have you had breakfast yet?” she asks, a flattened palm shading her eyes from the sun.
I shake my head. “I woke up early and went out.” My stomach growls at the idea of food. “I’m starving now though.”
Addison makes a mock scared face. “Are you going to eat enough for two grown men again?”
I bark a laugh. This woman is funny. “Maybe I will,” I tell her, reaching out and poking her in the side. It’s only a fingertip to bare skin, but damn it does things to that place in my stomach where desire sleeps coiled like a snake.
She squeals and hops away, then whirls around and points a finger at me. “Watch it, mister. I’m embarrassingly ticklish.”
I return her salute. “I’ll be very careful from now on.”
She grins and turns, starting for the main house. “Let’s eat.”
I fall into step beside her and nudge her arm with my elbow. She nudges me back.
I’m well aware we’ve stepped into flirting territory now.
* * *
“Here you go,” Addison chirps, placing a plate on the table in front of me. I look up to tell her thank you, but the mischievous gleam in her eyes makes my eyebrows pinch with suspicion.
Looking back down at my plate, I see the reason for her impish expression.
“A carrot muffin,” I say slowly, swallowing my immediate revulsion. I don’t want to offend anybody whose palate might be very confused and actually likes vegetables in a muffin.
Addison claps her hands together and beams. She’s enjoying this too much.
“I made them this morning. Eat up.”
To make matters worse, she stays rooted in place across from me, standing beside Mr. Anderson. She has pulled on the long sleeve shirt that was tied around her waist, but she’s still in her running clothes. Her eyes stay glued to me, waiting for me to behave and eat the damn muffin no matter how much I hate it.
With a fake smile plastered on my face, I peel off the paper wrapper and lift it to my lips. The first thing I notice is the scent. It doesn’t smell like the carrot muffin from the other day. Warm, spicy cinnamon automatically kicks my salivary glands into working order.
I’m not so scared to take a bite now. And when I do, it’s so good I hurry up and take another one. And then a third, and just like that the muffin has disappeared.
“Addison.” I look at her with reverence and clutch my chest. “Will you marry me?”
Addison rolls her eyes, but the corners of her lips turn up into a pleased smile. Mr. Anderson cackles an old man laugh and Mrs. Anderson’s eyes widen.
“Don’t you go making any lasting decisions, Brady. I’ve got a granddaughter I want to introduce you to.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I nod at her. I’m not interested in meeting their granddaughter, and I’m not too worried about ever having to say that directly. The Anderson’s will only be at Sweet Escape for two more days.
Now that Addison has completed her mission of watching me eat the muffin, she leaves me with a wink and goes back to the kitchen. Louisa comes out a moment later to refill the mini-jams she keeps in a basket.
I watch her smile and laugh with the guests, chatting about their plans for the day and suggesting hikes or activities. She seems to be genuinely happy during breakfast when her home is open to all the guests. I wonder how she feels the rest of the day when the place is mostly quiet and the guests are all out enjoying their vacation?
Louisa pats another guest on the shoulder, and then the door opens and the family with the teenage boys comes in. She glances at the spread on the buffet table against the wall, then greets the newcomers and hustles toward the kitchen.
Pushing back from the table, I pick up my plate and cast a glance at the Anderson’s across from me. “I’m going to see if I can help the ladies in the kitchen. Enjoy your day, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.”
As I’m walking away, I hear Mrs. Anderson say, “Don’t tell me to stop meddling. He’d be perfect for Britt.”
Laughing softly to myself, I round the corner and come into the kitchen. Louisa’s holding a large bowl and Addison is spooning scrambled eggs into it. “Those boys eat like, well, just what they are. Teenage boys.” Louisa passes me, the steam from the hot eggs wafting around her, and says, “If only rice were a breakfast food.”
She keeps going and disappears around the corner.
“Need any help in here?” I ask Addison. She’s standing at a long griddle set up on the counter, flipping bacon.
“Please,” she says, nodding gratefully. “Watch this bacon and make sure it doesn’t burn.” She hands me a pair of tongs. “I need to get the muffins out of the oven.”
“Nice move with those muffins, by the way.” I push a slice of bacon with the edge of the tongs. I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to be doing here. When I offered to help, I’d hoped I’d be given the job of cleaning or carrying something.
Addison grins proudly while she slips her hands into big, black oven mitts and opens the oven. She pulls out two pans with fresh carrot muffins and slides them onto the cooktop.
The scent is phenomenal and overpowers the smell the scrambled eggs left behind. I turn my attention back to my task.
“How exactly do I avoid burning bacon?”
Addison gives me an exasperated look. “Brady, have you seriously never cooked bacon?”
I shake my head. “I’ve hardly cooked at all.”
She sets one hand, still encased in an oven mitt, on her hip. “Who did the cooking at your house?”
“My mom and dad both cook now, but when I was a kid, we had someone come in and prepare meals.”
Addison gapes. I don’t blame her. I know how posh it sounds. “My dad worked all the time, and my mom was constantly busy doing charity work and whatever else it was she did.” Come to think of it, I didn’t pay much attention to what she spent her time on. I was too busy getting good grades and staying out of any and all trouble.
“What did your dad do for work?” Addison asks as she uses a fork to gingerly lift each muffin from the tin and place it on the tray.
“He was a federal judge until recently. He’s retired now.”
Addison pauses to glance at me, her eyes wide. “Your dad was a federal judge? That’s a really big job.”
I nod. “Yep.”
Addison’s mischievous smirk is back. “Did he ever use his pull to get you out of trouble?”
I press my lips together, thinking about a situation with Lennon’s stepdad.
“Once, yeah.”
Addison’s face lights up. She sets the last of the fresh muffins on the tray and lifts it.
“Hold that thought. I want to hear all about it.” She hustles out and I look back down, remembering I had a job to do.
Oh shit. I think the bacon might be burned. The sides are tinged a darker brown than they should be, and the smell is more bitter than mouth-watering.
I use the tongs to gather all the strips at once and drop the bacon onto a plate. Pushing aside the pieces, I inspect them. They might be salvageable. I was a teenage boy once, I don’t think I would’ve been deterred by too-crispy bacon.
Addison comes back in, scoops up the plate with the bacon, gives me a ‘one-minute’ sign with a single finger, then leaves again. She’s back quickly, throwing herself into a chair at the island and setting two carrot muffins onto the counter.
“They won’t miss two,” she tells me, pushing one over into the counter space in front of the open seat beside her. “And they aren’t carrot muffins.” She peels off the wrapper and takes a bite. “Not really, anyway. They’re carrot cake muffins. More cake-y than muffin-y.” She bobs her head from side to side as she says it.
She’s so damn cute.
“So,” she says, swallowing her bite.
“Come eat a muffin and tell me your story.”
Pulling out the seat beside her, I sink down into it and inhale the muffin.
“You’re going to make me gain weight,” I tell her, wiping my hands on a napkin.
“I hear getting lost on long runs is an excellent antidote to calories consumed.” Addison smiles and drinks from a glass of water that was on the counter.
“That was my water,” I tell her, even though it wasn’t.
“I don’t care about your germs.” She takes another sip just to make her point. “And it was mine. Quit stalling and tell me how your dad bailed you out of jail.”
Alarm widens my eyes. “How did you know—”
Addison’s mouth drops open in astonishment. “I was right?”
I shake my head. “Not totally. I was questioned at a police station when I was eighteen. So were Lennon and Finn, but none of us were booked. Technically, it was my dad’s reputation that kept us out of jail. That and a lack of evidence.” I think back to that night. “And our family lawyer.”
“What?” Addison’s voice is an assertive whisper. “Why were you questioned?”
“Lennon’s stepdad died and they thought something about it was odd. Her mom overheard us talking and reported it to the police.”
“Her mother?” Addison hisses, eyes even wider now.
“I know.” I nod in agreement. “But she’s dead now too.”
“Oh.” Addison’s face falls. “That’s sad that Lennon lost both her parents.”
My head shakes, thinking of Lennon’s childhood. “You wouldn’t think that way if you knew them. They weren’t good people.”
Addison shifts in her seat so she’s facing me. “Suddenly I’m really feeling that sheltered life I told you about.” Her face darkens. “Other than, well, you know.”
Without thinking, I reach for her hand and give it a light squeeze. “We all have our own troubles, Addison.”
She seems to recover, because the light comes back into her eyes. “I seriously cannot believe you’ve been questioned at a police station. And for a suspicious death, too.” Her eyes narrow as her words hit home. “You’re not a murderer, are you?”