He had to leave. Had to leave.
Would he? Logic argued against. The Devon Inn and Spa was far bigger than anything I owned here. He could try to sell it. But that would take time. My cabin, on the other hand, would sell quickly. From a purely practical standpoint, if one of us left, it would be me.
The unfairness of that rankled. This was my road, my cabin, my town.
Pulling up beside said cabin, I killed the engine and sat for a minute. My body felt strange—used in new places, bone tired in others—but my mind was the problem. It had been through a wringer, and the wash was far from done.
Then I heard Jonah’s bark and felt a pang of guilt at having been gone so long. But he didn’t bolt for the woods when I opened the front door, simply joined Hex and Jinx crowding my legs.
They were my home. Warmed by that, I leaned against the door to shut it. Smiling at their antics, I set my bag aside and, pausing only to shrug off my wet coat, knelt to hug, rub, and scratch. If I had to move, these creatures would come. But why should any of us be forced from a place we loved?
A male voice answered. “Hey.”
My head flew up, and my heart stopped.
10
It took me several seconds. The man rising from the sofa looked so like my father that, at first, I feared he had come back from the grave to haunt me.
But no. Not my dad.
“Liam,” I breathed, pressing a hand to the thud of my reviving heart. “What—w-when—how did you get here?” I hadn’t seen a car, though I did now see the muddy boots that lay strewn beyond the cats.
“I was doing just fine”—he picked up where he might have left off had there not been four years of complete and utter silence between us—“until I started up your hill.” He approached with a scowl. “What kind of road is that anyway?”
The cats ran away. Keeping an arm around Jonah, I sank from my haunches to the floor. “Dirt.”
“Not dirt. Mud. I skidded off into the trees and couldn’t get back, so I hiked the last stretch. I’m assuming someone can tow me out in the morning. Hell, towing cars must be a way of life up here. I carried my backpack, but the rest of my stuff’s out there … wherever.” The last word trailed. He was studying my face. “Geez, Maggie. You look awful. Bad date?”
I might have laughed, if I wasn’t still so close to heart freeze. My eyes surely showed the wreck of my life, and what Edward’s hands had done to my hair, the rain made worse. But I wasn’t sharing any of that with Liam. It was none of his business. Nothing in my life was his business. He had made his choice.
My younger brother by five years, Liam had the red hair and freckled skin that our paternal great-grandfather had brought from Ireland in the early 1900s. Though I was the first-born, Liam had been raised the royal, loyal son. That made his appearance here troubling.
Guarded, I asked, “Is Mom okay?” I had often wondered whether I would be contacted if she was ill.
“She’s fine,” he said. “Bossy as ever.”
“Is something else wrong?” I held off Jonah when he tried to lick my face.
“Why does something have to be wrong?”
“Because you’re here,” I said, wary still. “Out of the blue, Liam. You haven’t called. You haven’t written. I send you birthday cards every year, but you never acknowledged a one.”
“Well, they accomplished their goal,” he said with a grin. “They gave me your address. I sure couldn’t ask Mom for it, but she’ll be guessing where I am.” He grimaced, yikes. “That won’t go over well.”
Seriously, I thought, but my sympathy was short-lived. He owed me an explanation for why he was here in my house—and yes, I was angry. With each year that had passed without any sign from him that I mattered, my hurt had deepened. Anger was what came of hurt that had simmered just a little too long.
Bracing my back against the door, I pushed myself up. Jonah sat apart from me now, regarding my brother as if he didn’t know what to make of him any more than I did.
“I like your dog,” Liam said. “He must have smelled family DNA on me, because he didn’t bark when I came in. By the way, thanks for tucking the key behind the wreath. I wasn’t sure you’d follow the custom, bad feelings for Mom and all, and I wasn’t sure you’d still have a wreath on the door so long after the holidays.”
“My friend makes seasonal ones.”
“Then thanks to her. All I could think when I was trudging up that road was that if you weren’t home, I’d be locked out. By the way, I have the best app on my phone. Your road was right there on the map.”
I don’t use apps to guide me. Ever. They come with too many reminders, none of which, apparently, registered with my brother.
I folded my arms and waited.
“It’s a relief, actually,” he went on. “There may not be many streets around here, but I wouldn’t want to get lost in the woods—like I guess I pretty much, basically, already did.” Brightening, he glanced back at my tiny kitchen. “Got anything to eat? I stopped at a taco place right before Devon, but it was crazy—no organization, people talking between tables, servers zoned out. I have to say, they were doing a good business. I just didn’t care to give them mine.”
I said nothing, simply stood with my arms folded.
He stared. “Geez. Do you ever look like Mom. If you’ve turned into her, I’m outta here. Edward can find someone else to be his chef.”
That broke my freeze. My arms dropped. “You’re here for Edward?”
“I’m his new chef.”
“At the Inn?”
“At the restaurant he’s opening in town. It’s part of the resort consortium. Didn’t he tell you?”
“Why would he? We’re divorced.”
“But he moved here.”
“Yeah. We’re working on that,” I said, but I was sick. So it wasn’t only the Inn. It was a restaurant in town, maybe more, if a consortium was involved. If he had hired Liam and done God-knew-what-else to dig himself in, the chances he would leave were slimmer than ever. “Of all the chefs in the world, he picked you?”
“I’m good,” Liam argued, sounding offended, but I didn’t care.
“I thought you were working at a restaurant in West Hartford. What happened to that one?”
His phone dinged. He pulled it out, checked the screen, put it back. “I quit.”
“Before or after Edward hired you?”
“After. I’m not dumb, Maggie. I wouldn’t quit one if I didn’t have another. For what it’s worth, he asked me, not the other way around.”
“But how did he know what you were doing?”
“We kept in touch.”
Slap. “You kept in touch with him but not with me? Now, that makes me feel good.”
“Nuh-uh-uh. You know what Mom says about sarcasm.”
“Oh yes,” I sighed and toed off a boot. “Sarcasm is the language of the devil. Thomas Carlyle was one of her favorites. Know what else Carlyle said?” In my longest, darkest days, I had Googled the Scottish philosopher to try to understand what Mom had seen in his thoughts and maybe, just maybe find one to offer me solace. “A loving heart is the beginning of all knowledge,” I told Liam as I kicked the second boot aside. “And yet her ‘loving heart’ wasn’t interested in knowing the pain or torment or loneliness her only daughter was suffering.”
That silenced him. His eyes held mine for a minute before sliding away, which meant he did have shreds of a conscience. I wondered about courage. “Why didn’t you tell her you were coming?” I asked.
Liam wandered to the bookshelf and tilted his head to read titles. “We’ve been on the outs.”
I was half bent, scrubbing Hex’s head. “You and Mom?” That was a surprise. Liam was her golden boy.
“Yes, me and Mom.” He glowered. “She’s too controlling. She wants me married, wants me having kids, wants me putting less salt in my osso bucco. I took an apartment in town, but she made me feel so guilty deserting her that I was still spending hours at the house. Like I had
nothing else to do but fix leaky faucets or take out the trash? Like I had time to date? Like my job wasn’t demanding enough?” His voice had risen with each addition. “Speaking of which, do you know how different she is at work? I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. She’s way more creative than dogmatic, and she’s sweet. She’s gentle. Her assistant thinks she hung the moon. Know how she always said you get more with sugar than vinegar? Well, she uses up all the sugar at work—I mean, fuck it, literally and figuratively—so all we got at home was vinegar.” Seeming suddenly unsure, perhaps treasonous, he tucked his hands in the back of his jeans like Dad used to do, and said, “How did he stand it?”
“He loved her.”
“He loved that she made the decisions. He loved that she was the housekeeper and the menu planner and the disciplinarian. So who was he? Was he the king, or just a wuss? Did she crack the whip because he didn’t have the guts?”
“I don’t know.” Truly, I had stopped trying to guess. I had loved my father, but he went along with Mom. Then, when things got worse and worse for me, he’d had a stroke. Because he was so disappointed in me? Because he thought Mom was wrong? Because he missed me? Because Lily’s death broke his heart?
I had stopped trying to guess that one, too.
Liam walked toward the kitchen, fingering a ceramic bowl along the way. It was the first thing I’d crafted when I could craft again. It was painfully primitive, like me back then. I kept it here as a reminder of how far I’d come.
“Well, I’d had enough,” he said. “I was interviewing for jobs on the West Coast when Edward called. I had to get away from Mom.”
“If that was what you wanted, you’d have been safer on the West Coast.”
“Yeah.” He eyed me straight-on. “But my being where you are makes a statement.”
Rising, I asked in dismay, “I’m your rebellion?”
He didn’t answer, but continued to the vase on the counter that marked the start of my kitchen. “Nice flowers.”
They were alstroemeria, which not only lasted forever but were one of the few flowers my cats wouldn’t eat.
Needing a comeback but not sure where to begin, I said, “Your hair is thinning.”
“Dad was bald at forty. I considered shaving off what I have, but that look is more techie than master chef. I like the wild, creative, flyaway look. Anyway, it’s under a hat when I work.”
I was still at the door, feeling tired all over but firm on my turf. I swallowed once, then said, “I don’t want to be your rebellion, Liam. I’ve built a life without family, and it works.”
“Too late. I signed a contract.”
“Contract? He made you? So much for trust.”
“It was to protect me as much as him. I’m relocating for the sake of his restaurant. I want certain assurances.”
“Like salary if it folds.”
“It won’t fold, Maggie. Why did you have to say that? See, there’s another Mom thing, pessimism when it comes to her kids. Someone else can make the same move, and it’d be great, a brilliant move, but if it’s one of us, she finds fault. The restaurant won’t fold. Edward studied every angle of the town before he agreed to the deal, including the feasibility of a restaurant.”
“But the Inn already has two restaurants,” I said, “and it’s not pessimism. It’s pragmatism.”
“Okay. Fine. Pragmatic, then. Of the two restaurants at the Inn, one is a family tavern serving comfort food, and the other serves high-end American cuisine. What else is there? Rasher and Yolk, which is an upscale diner and closes at 2 P.M.? A steak place that serves great steak and soggy salad? A pizza place that, frankly, sucks? I’m telling you, there’s a market here for something else. Edward and I talked about it for months before deciding on a French bistro with a Mediterranean feel. It’ll be trendy and healthy and affordable. I wouldn’t have come up here if I hadn’t thought it would succeed.”
I had never heard my brother sound as passionate or articulate or knowledgeable about anything before.
“The contract,” he went on when I had no comeback, “is in case of flood, fire, or Armageddon, and if it’s the last, I probably won’t care, but what the hell.” Opening the refrigerator door, he leaned in. “Seriously. I’m hungry. What do you have?”
“Leftover beef stew.”
“That’s it?”
“I’m not the chef.”
“I’ll shop tomorrow.” His phone dinged again. “After someone tows my car.” He checked the phone, put it away. “Actually, I can use your car.”
“Actually,” I said, “it’s a truck, and I need it myself. I’ll give you the name of a tow guy. So.” I took a tentative breath. “Where are you staying?”
He spread his hands, here, and skimmed my home with his eyes.
I laughed. “Uh, I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is my home, and it’s small.”
“You’d turn me out in the rain? With no car?”
“You can sleep here tonight, but if you’re staying in Devon, you’ll need your own space. There are some great places on the other side of town. This one’s mine.”
“Don’t you want me here?” he asked.
“No, Liam. I don’t. I’m not Mom.”
“But I’m family,” he reasoned.
I held his gaze hard. “So am I.”
It was a minute before he got it. “Ah. You’re holding a grudge.”
“I’m remembering when I told Mom that Edward and I were getting divorced, and she said I couldn’t live with her. You said nothing, Liam.”
“She couldn’t deal. Dad had just died. She was in mourning.”
My eyes went wide. “So. Was. I.”
We stared at each other for a long, awkward time, but I wasn’t letting him off the hook. He had been an adult back then, no child, and he had been wrong. I could appreciate his loyalty to Mom, but when it was misplaced? With Dad gone and him her prince, he should have stepped up and tried to reason with her. If anyone had a chance of succeeding, it was Liam. And if he failed, he should have risen above and kept in touch with me whether she liked it or not.
He hadn’t risen above. And yet, here he was, bringing a visceral familiarity into my home.
Truth be told, it wasn’t an entirely, completely, totally bad feeling.
Startled by that little insight, I had another on its heels. No, he hadn’t risen above. But I could. He was my brother. If feeling better about myself was a goal, I could house him for now.
He must have sensed my softening, because he slid me a teasing smile. “This place is small, Maggie, but it’s sweet. I like your bedroom.”
Ah. Still king of the castle.
Only, this wasn’t his castle.
“So do I,” I said. “That’s why I sleep there.”
“But I’m the guest.”
My smile was serene. “Guests take the loft.”
* * *
I don’t know how I managed that smile. It might have been that I was tired. Or that Liam was a distraction from my having had sex with Edward. Visceral familiarity or not, he certainly couldn’t stay here long. The place was too small. It did occur to me, shortly before I fell asleep, that he could have it—could buy it from me—if I left town.
When I woke up the next morning to the warmth of two cats on my legs and the most unbelievable smells coming from the kitchen, though, I wouldn’t have been anywhere else. Sliding my feet free of the duvet, I wrapped myself in a thick robe and followed my nose down the stairs. My kitchen counter, not large to begin with, was covered with an assortment of open boxes, tins, and utensils. Liam was bent at the oven, with a cautious Jonah watching nearby.
“What did you make?” I asked, intrigued, pleased, even touched. It had been a long time since anyone had made anything for me, and never in my own home. Granted, he would be wanting breakfast for himself. Still.
“Quiche,” he said and straightened. “I thought I lost your dog this morning. I opened the door to
let him pee, and he ran so far I thought he’d never come back. What kind of animals are out there?”
“Nothing lethal unless you’re a cat, in which case your life expectancy is a total of twenty minutes, so do not ever let either of my cats out of this house,” I said, but distractedly. Liam’s hands held my potholders, which held a pie plate with a circle of golden crust and a dappled top. A fruit compote simmered on the stove. Something green sat on plates. “Wow.” I slid onto a stool. “Did you go out early, or did you actually find all this here?”
“Here. I like the challenge. Kitchen Dregs for the Gourmand. Could be a book.”
“Could be. You should think about that. I’ll bet you have other cookbooks in you, too. Chef cookbooks are all the rage. You could take up residency in a writers’ colony in New Mexico or wherever, and write.”
Having set down the pie plate, he reached for the compote. “Nice try, but no dice. I signed a contract, remember? I got my guarantee, but so did Edward.” Skillfully, he ladled compote on the plates shaping each mound just so with the flick of his wrist. “Restaurants in places like this have a hard time keeping chefs. Spring, summer, and fall are great, but winter they want to be somewhere warm. Me, I just want dry. Does it rain like this a lot?”
“In March? All the time. And it stays cold,” I added, looking him over, “so your clothes are all wrong.” Thin socks. Thin shirt. Jeans were jeans, but even the rain jacket on the back of the chair wasn’t lined. “You need clothes. Start at Stoner’s. It’s the general store in town.”
“Do you have an account there?”
“They take credit cards.” When he frowned, I said, “Liam, you’re thirty-three. You can pay for your own clothes.” When he still seemed annoyed, I reminded him, “I’m not Mom.”
“Are the prices sky high?”
“Some, but a local family owns it, so you’d be doing good for them and helping yourself if you want them to know who you are. Introduce yourself as the new chef at … at … does the restaurant have a name?”
“La Bisque. I actually wanted to call it Chocolat Noir,” he added with a perfect accent, “but two syllables work better than four, and I mean, this town may be upscale, but ce n’est pas Paris. And anyway, the name is still a work in progress. So what do I tell the people at Stoner’s?”
Before and Again Page 15