by Marcelo, Tif
“So, I’m here,” Geneva said.
Her impatient tone smashed Brandon’s initial worry and turned on his defensiveness. “As far as I know it’s you who has something to tell me.”
She stuffed her hands in her back pockets, though she barely looked at him. “My list . . . it’s getting longer, and the days are passing quickly.”
He swallowed the continued reminder that they would both be going their separate ways. “But this is why we have to work more closely, right?”
“Right. But it’s also why perhaps we should make some decisions on our own. More a divide and conquer rather than a double defense on it, don’t you think?”
The strategy was logical, but it was the complete opposite of their initial agreement to keep each other in the loop in all decisions. It also didn’t explain her attitude. “And that’s all?”
“That’s all,” she said.
Brandon thought back to the photo shoot earlier that day. To how good it had felt to have her in his arms. Was the dance cheesy? Yes. It was probably the corniest thing he’d ever done. Whenever he watched a scene like that in a movie or read it in a book, he couldn’t bear it. In real life, with Geneva, it was natural and romantic.
But right then, it was as if the dance had never happened.
“Fine.” It was the only thing he could say, even if everything inside him was screaming otherwise. There was more to her indifference, but Brandon also knew that the more he pushed, the more she’d clam up. “I’ll send you my suggestions, then.”
“Sounds good.” She nodded. She hiked a thumb to the house. “I’ve got to go.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“See you at the meeting tomorrow?”
This meant she wasn’t planning on touching base the rest of the day. Brandon clenched his jaw at the whiplash. What else could he do? “See you.”
He watched her stride away, then turned toward the view, the ominous sky.
Brandon scooped a sleeping Kitty, limp and sweaty, out of her car seat. He fluffed her pink ballet tutu down, though unsuccessfully, and it popped up and slapped him in the face.
“God bless dance class, am I right?” Across the van, Gil carried Izzy in a teal tutu. With great precision, he bent down and plucked the monogrammed dance bag as well as her ballet slippers from the floorboards.
“Yeah, and who knew dance was so serious. Was it just me, or did those mamas give me dirty looks?” Brandon rearranged Kitty after he shut the van doors. His niece breathed hard against his ear.
“You called out someone else’s seven-year-old.”
“That kid was causing havoc, spinning clockwise versus counterclockwise. Izzy could have done better, and deserved the solo.”
Brandon clutched Kitty closer to him as they climbed the stairs. It had been a good break, to get off the resort to help Gil with dad duties, even if dance class was a whole other world he wasn’t ready for. While his intention had been to get his mind off Geneva for a couple of hours, he’d thought of Geneva the entire time—she would have had a field day sticking up for his nieces.
“Seems to me that someone was annoyed the whole class time,” Gil said, popping the hallway lights on.
Brandon grunted as he followed Gil into a bedroom with two twin beds with matching teal sheets and mimicked his brother as he pulled the sheet and laid Izzy down. As Gil tucked her in, Brandon noticed that she had a grin bursting from her lips.
The stinker wasn’t asleep at all.
Brandon half laughed to himself while pulling the sheets up to Kitty’s chin. He caught his brother’s eyes, and gestured toward his niece.
Gil caught the message straight away. “Bummer these two fell asleep in the van. Root beer floats sound so good right about now.”
A frown appeared on Izzy’s forehead. It took everything out of Brandon not to cackle.
“Maybe I can surprise them with floats tomorrow, so long as they have a good night’s rest,” Brandon added.
Izzy’s wrinkles flattened out.
“You’re such a sucker. All you do is spoil.”
“Fun uncle. That’s my name.”
Gil kissed Izzy on the forehead, came around to Kitty’s bed to do the same, then turned off the lamp, gesturing to the door. In the hallway, he said, “You are a fun uncle, and I wish you were with us all year long.”
“You won’t have them much longer, will you? Don’t they go back to Jessie in a couple of weeks, when school starts?”
“Yeah . . . well . . . normally . . .” He shrugged innocently.
They’d reached Gil’s kitchen, where all healthy foods lived. There was absolutely nothing on the kitchen counters, and Brandon bet that his cupboards didn’t have a lick of junk food. It was 100 percent the opposite of the rest of the family’s, with favorite savory snacks and crunchy bags of chips from the Asian market overflowing from their pantries.
But Gil’s pristine white marble countertops and state-of-the-art appliances didn’t distract Brandon from his shock. “Kuya?”
“We met up yesterday.”
“Who?”
“Me and Jessie.”
Brandon worked out the US map in his head. “But, um . . . she’s in California.”
He twisted the top of a bottle of kombucha and tipped it toward Brandon. “Want a sip?”
An acidic scent wafted toward him, and Brandon’s mouth watered, but not in a good way. “Ah, no thank you. But go on.”
His brother took a long pull. “She’s here a week early. Filming wrapped up, and she didn’t have much to do. She missed the girls—”
“And she missed you.”
Gil nodded and leaned back against his countertop. His chin dipped into his chest. “Look, I know what you must be thinking.”
“You’d better believe it. Kuya Gil—” Brandon said, exasperated. “The ink just dried. I meant what I said when I got here. You look really good now . . . because four months ago you were . . .”
He had been a mess. More than that: desolate.
“It’s complicated, Bran. Do you know how hard it is for Jessie and me to live away from one another and juggle the kids? I feel guilty not having them all year long, and so does she. With you, the girls are exhausted and happy. You help keep their minds off their mother. But before you got here, they were crying every night.”
Brandon’s shoulders dropped along with his pending lecture. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“Jessie says they’re that way when they’re away from me, so at least I know it’s not personal.” He took another sip. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Can I?” He laughed out loud. If the guy only knew. But at Gil’s serious expression, he backtracked. “Yes, I can.”
“She’s here this week to look for a small condo in Nags Head.”
Brandon opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out but air. Because if his and Geneva’s past relationship was a can of worms, Gil and Jessie’s was a crypt—previously nailed shut and buried six feet underground more than once—being resurrected.
It wasn’t just about the relationship between the two of them.
“The family—” Brandon started.
“I know . . .” Gil’s voice trailed off. “And speaking of the family . . . we notice. Or at least, I notice.”
Brandon’s brain had been squarely on the Gil-and-Jessie situation, on the vociferous objections that would surely come from Beatrice. “Notice what?”
“You and Geneva. I heard about this morning’s photo shoot, saw the looks across the table at Friday dinner. I can’t believe you waltzed to no music. Can you be more cheesy?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Brandon skirted his gaze. “You asked us to take pictures, and that’s what we did, and she was sitting across from me at dinner—how could I avoid looking at her?”
“You almost got sideswiped running across a four-lane road to see her.”
“She needed help.”
“Help? Sure.” He shoo
k his head. “You’re not fooling me, little brother. I see it in that face of yours. You always had a crush on Geneva. And while I was watching you almost die on that street, I remembered that you and Geneva spent quite a bit of time together at Chris’s reception. In fact, if memory serves me right, while we all stayed in Vegas, the both of you left within a day of one another—you much earlier than expected.”
“I don’t even know what you’re getting at.” Brandon went to the fridge to escape his brother’s interrogating gaze. Except nothing good was in there but kombucha and beet juice. “Damn, there isn’t one can of Coke in here. Are you even my brother?” Brandon took his time selecting just the perfect bottle of water and twisted it open.
“Bran.”
He turned.
Gil’s eyebrow rose in a dare. “I think you’re lying. Just come out and tell me.”
“Tell you what? Geneva and I are friends. That’s it.” His brother’s gaze didn’t flinch, so he kept on. “Sure, I had a crush on her. Everyone had a crush on Geneva. The whole school wanted to be Beatrice and Geneva. But Geneva now? Yes, she’s beautiful and smart and creative and all that, but she’s a flight risk.” He heard himself getting louder, but the message wasn’t only for Gil but for himself. Because something was up with Geneva today, and he wished he could break through her barriers. And yet, who else could he blame but himself? He knew who she was. “I can’t deal with games. I need a for-sure thing. I need someone who’ll be around. That’s not Geneva.”
Gil pointed the tip of his bottle toward him. “The man doth protest too much.” His eyes sparkled in mischief. “Looks like you put a lot of thought into it too. Runners. That’s what the both of you are, and not even literally but figuratively. Because I don’t remember the last time you put on real running shoes. Perhaps that’s what you need. You and I should go for a run because the ocean air is so good for you. So . . . did she follow you back to Annapolis after Kuya Chris’s wedding?”
Brandon peered back at him, at his attempt at trickery. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
Gil’s front door creaked open.
“What are you two fools doing? I can hear you through the freaking walls.”
Kuya Chris.
“I’ve been interrogating Bunso,” Gil said.
“Oooh, this sounds fun. What about?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Brandon heaved a breath. The last thing he needed was Chris to be suspicious.
Gil shook his head. “It is something, but nothing he wants to admit.” With a quieter voice, he added, loud enough just for Brandon, “But I’ll get to the bottom of it. No worries. I have my secret, and you have yours.”
“Is this about the woman?” Chris asked.
Gil beamed with righteousness. “Interesting.”
“I’m out,” Brandon said. Being in Heart Resort was like 2020 all over again. Every day brought something unexpected, and he’d had enough for today.
“Before you go, can we talk?” Chris asked.
“Yeah, sure.” To Gil, Brandon said, “See you in the morning?”
“Yep.”
Brandon followed Chris out the door, onto the lit deck. Chris gestured toward the outdoor chairs.
Chris stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the railing. “Listen, this is totally overdue, and you’re likely settled in the guest room, but I had everything cleaned up for you to settle in upstairs.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. There’s furniture in there now. Just the basics, and you can add more as needed.”
“I . . .” Brandon was flummoxed at this distinct honor of being asked to live in his own apartment, because it was also ridiculous that he’d needed Chris’s permission.
“I know it took a while. I wasn’t sure how long you were really staying . . . we still have our town house . . . but the last few days, you’ve worked really hard, Brandon.”
“Thank you.” Except for those two words, Brandon was unsure what to say through his web of emotions. Pride that he’d somehow earned his way in? Irritation at the expectation that he wasn’t going to stick around to get the job done? Guilt because despite all this, he hadn’t said anything about Mulberry Road? Vindication that Mulberry Road was where he truly belonged?
Above that was the question of how long he would truly stay. Was he welcome, finally?
“Your apartment is on the side without a deck, if you remember, but it has quick access to the roof deck.” Chris looked side to side, then, as awkwardness began to settle, and said, “I’d better go. Eden and I . . . anyway, she wants me back right away. I’ve got duties.”
Brandon winced. “Aw, man, I don’t need to know that.”
“No!” He barked out a laugh. “She wants me to read pages. You know, for my thoughts.”
“You read her books?” The thought of it, of Chris reading romance, was far fetched.
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re pretty good.” He clapped his hands. “See you in the morning. And oh, I sent a text that the meeting is beachside tomorrow.”
Brandon nodded. He watched Chris disappear into his apartment without fanfare, leaving him with the question as to whether or not that was a reconciliation. For once, Brandon wished for a hug or something physical and tangible. Chris was like a text message without an emoji: all-commanding, and sometimes in all caps.
Gil’s front door opened an inch. An eye spied through. “All clear?”
“Were you listening all that time?”
“Of course I was. But I wasn’t going to get into it. I’ve got my own issues.”
Harkening back to dinner, Brandon’s mind flipped to a new page, back in the sudden groove of the family, where if one didn’t like the current situation, one only needed to wait a second before the next issue popped up. “Since you interrogated me earlier, it’s my turn: Why is Ate Bea so mad at Jessie?”
The door widened, and light spilled onto the deck. “That will require a nightcap.”
“Oh, you’re drinking now?”
“Yeah. I meant it about the root beer float. Let me make one for you.”
He followed his brother inside. “And all this time, I thought you’d gone cold turkey. You and your sweet tooth.”
“Puso is what Puso does. I’m just warming you up so you can spill finally.”
“Spill about what?”
Gil pulled out the ice cream from the back of the freezer. “You can keep at it, Bran. I’m patient.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Seven years ago
Washington, DC
Weather: heavy rain, 57°F
Flood warning in the National Capital Region
Brandon entered his apartment on R and Sixteenth, soaked after running through the rain from his Metro stop. At the front door, he paused at the hallway table and unloaded his pockets, including his now-dripping phone and his Fisher Construction ID attached to a lanyard, and kicked off his steel-toed boots.
“Garrett?” He called out for his housemate.
The apartment was quiet, which meant Garrett was at work or at his girlfriend’s place. Sweet. He had been craving rest and silence, two rare things for the youngest of four kids.
What a day. His spirits were flying high even if his wet clothing was weighing him down. With a grin, he peeled off his shirt and his pants and threw them into the laundry room and strutted through the house in triumph even if no one could see him.
It was then, and only then, that he hooted.
He’d completed his first residential renovation as a junior contractor.
In his boxers, he went to the kitchen first to stick a beer in the freezer. Then he padded over to the bathroom and turned on the shower. To celebrate, he was going to turn on HBO, drink a beer, and put his feet up. Not exactly sexy, but his body was bone tired from early-morning classes and work straight after. The real partying would have to wait.
He was a step into his shower when his phone rang from the hallway table. Brandon g
rowled but got under the warm, soothing water and let the stream hit him in the face when the ringing stopped.
As he soaped up, the ringing began again. Then the landline trilled.
Damn, when it rained, it poured. Literally.
So, he rinsed and toweled off haphazardly. The landline quit, and his cell rang once more. Water dripped as he made his way to the hallway, the towel wrapped around his waist.
“I’m coming,” he yelled to the empty room. Brandon hated phone calls with a passion and avoided them at all costs, especially if it was off hours. Anybody he knew and loved left a text.
Reluctantly, he picked up his cell phone; it was Beatrice. Brandon pressed the button to answer, a sarcastic remark on his tongue.
He was met with his sister screaming. It was a guttural sound, where there were no beginnings or ends to words or sentences. No punctuation marks to be discerned. It was a series of sounds of high and low pitches.
Brandon, a solid 170 pounds on a five-foot-eleven-inch frame, dropped to his knees. His heart was tearing in half, though he wasn’t sure what had happened. He had begun to cry, though he didn’t know why. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong, Ate?” Brandon’s voice shook.
“Mom . . . Dad . . . home . . . Brandon. Come home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Day 7
Morning weather: cloudy, 20% chance of rain, 80°F
Afternoon weather: thunderstorm, 100% chance of rain, 70°F
Tropical Depression Oscar approaching the Outer Banks
“I’ve got to say, I have never had a bona fide meeting on the beach. You guys are spoiling me.” Geneva dug her toes into the sand while leaning back on the reclining beach chair. Under a raised tent in front of Tiwala, the cold iced coffee in her hand counterbalanced the rest of her surroundings. “What a way to wake up.”
“I thought it would be a good change.” Chris passed out bottles of water and soda from the cooler. “To wash down the coffee.” He then checked his phone. “We have to hold on for Tammy and Bran, and we can get started.”
Geneva closed her eyes. She focused on the sounds of the active waves, the murmurs of the people around her, and the shuffle of bodies. Her thoughts meandered to the list of houses on Heart Resort needing her attention, then to the yellow house behind them, the perfect color to exude faith. All night and this morning she’d been besieged by her thoughts on what she should do about Foster’s Group. Maybe, working in Tiwala—depending on how the weather held up, she would be installing a new ocean-blue-tile kitchen backsplash—she would find her answer. Or, perhaps, finishing up the wooden patio for Yakap would shine a light on her decision.