Ian McCarthy’s broad form filled the doorway, the soft evening light filtering in around him. Since the funeral he’d shed his suit and tie in favour of jeans and a T-shirt that displayed a solid, athletic build, confirming her earlier impression of his physical development over the past twelve years.
What on Earth was he doing here? Since meeting in the cemetery they hadn’t spoken to each other, though she’d noticed him watching her at one point during the reception.
“You left your sweater at Mr. Kinley’s house,” Ian said in answer to her silent query, holding out the folded black cardigan she hadn’t noticed in his hand.
She took it from him, tucking it over her elbow. “Thanks.”
Sliding his hands into his back pockets, Ian paused to observe her a moment, his mouth tilting into a self-conscious grin. ”It’s the oldest excuse in the book, I admit.”
Returning a tentative smile, Brooke wondered if he expected her to confess that she’d left the sweater on purpose in the hope that he’d return it to her. She hadn’t; why would she? She’d wanted nothing more than to avoid him. But here he was, causing a flurry of emotions to sweep through her, making her heart batter furiously against the walls of her chest.
“Would you like to come in?” she felt compelled to ask. She drew a few deep breaths, calming herself. It would be all right; surely he wouldn’t stay long.
“If it’s not a bad time.”
“No, I’m just doing some baking,” Brooke said, adding airily, “There isn’t much else to do around here. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, thank you.” Ian followed her down the hall and into the kitchen. “I suppose Eastport is a little sleepy compared to Toronto.”
“But you came back,” she pointed out, snapping on the burner under the kettle. “Didn’t you ever feel like there must be more out there for you? You could practice law anywhere.”
Ian’s broad shoulders twitched upward. “Well, I articled in Ottawa for a year after I graduated, then I worked in London for a couple of years before I moved back here. I suppose I never felt at home anywhere else.” One edge of his mouth lifted as he met her gaze. “Not that I had an easy time growing up here, or anyone special to come back to.”
Brooke nodded vaguely, understanding that his teenage years had been difficult. Learning that he was single caused a peculiar spike in her pulse, and she frowned, annoyed at herself for caring about his relationship status. After all, regardless of how attractive and charming the grown-up Ian McCarthy might be, she could never get close enough to him for it to matter.
“I suppose big-city life didn’t quite meet my expectations, either,” she admitted, turning to open the heated oven. She bent to slide the strudel pan inside, then closed the door and set the timer on the stove.
“Did you ever make it to Italy?” Ian asked behind her.
She turned to face him, surprised that he recalled the burning desire to visit Italy that had preoccupied her through her last year of high school. She hadn’t given it serious thought in years.
Brooke untied her apron and lifted it over her head. “With my job, I was always too busy to plan a trip.”
“That’s too bad. I expected you’d have gone there by now. Ever since you watched that old British period drama set in Tuscany, you couldn’t talk about much else than your dream of spending a summer in Firenze.”
Slightly embarrassed that he remembered the details of her idealistic fantasy, Brooke felt herself smile nonetheless at the memory. “Well, I suppose I had to let go of the silly notion of settling into a quaint little villa in the Tuscan countryside, where I’d inevitably be swept off my feet by a dashing gentleman with billowy sleeves.”
“There’s nothing silly about a young girl’s romantic soul,” Ian said. “You should always hold onto that.”
Brooke uttered a short laugh as she rolled up her apron. “It’s not so easy when you’re thirty, single and unemployed. But I appreciate the encouragement.”
As she glanced up their gazes locked—and she let the moment linger, absorbed in the soft moss-green hue of his eyes. Ever since she met Ian, when he moved to town when they were just kids, those eyes had captivated her; they were keen and inquisitive, yet their depths revealed a startling vulnerability, exposing his pain as clearly as they did joy or longing. Though Ian was a grown man now, so transformed in appearance, his eyes remained unchanged—and what she saw in them now sparked a pleasant, warm sensation in the pit of her belly.
Finally she dropped her gaze.
“Come over to my house,” he said then.
She blinked at him, startled by the suggestion. “What?”
“I want to show you something. I live just down River Street, in the blue house by the marina. It won’t take long. I’ll make us tea there.”
Brooke hesitated, biting down on her lower lip. She knew she should refuse. She had a million plausible excuses; it had been a long day and she was tired, and besides, she hadn’t spent much time with her parents since arriving in Eastport. Even so, words to the contrary left her mouth before she was even aware of forming them in her brain.
“All right. I’ll come over after my strudel is done.”
Ian favoured her with a broad smile, and the warmth in her belly bloomed outward, reaching her heart and causing it to stutter. “Deal. See you soon.”
As he left the house, Brooke lowered herself onto one of the kitchen chairs, releasing a long breath. The kettle on the stove began to whistle, but she ignored it for a moment, pressing her hands together in her lap in an effort to quell the trembling in her fingers. What was she thinking?
The simple fact was that she hadn’t been thinking, only following her feelings. Being in Ian McCarthy’s company had always filled her with so many conflicting emotions, too agonizing to untangle, and apparently it still did. But somehow the pleasure of his presence usually won out, leading her headlong into places she knew she shouldn’t go.
* * *
She arrived at his door wearing a pale yellow sundress, a plate holding a large wedge of apple strudel balanced on her palm. With the dusky hue of twilight settling over the street behind her, the golden highlights in her hair and eyes gleamed under the pale light from his porch lamp. She offered a soft smile, and Ian returned it; her acceptance of his invitation had surprised him, as much as it pleased him to see her again.
He gestured for her to come inside, and she stepped over the threshold, handing him the plate.
“Thought you might like some.”
“You read my mind. It looks delicious.” Ian set the plate on the counter, before closing the door behind her. The strudel did look tasty, with soft chunks of apple spilling out from between layers of flaky pastry. But Brooke herself looked more delectable than the dessert, and he let his gaze linger on her face, taking in the pink-tinged cheeks, the girlish spray of freckles across her nose, and the dark-brown eyes observing him guardedly.
“I didn’t realize you had your law office in your house,” she remarked. “Must be convenient for you not to have to leave home to go to work. You never get stuck in traffic, for one thing.”
“Not that traffic congestion has ever been a problem here,” he said lightly, and she dipped her chin with a small shrug of one shoulder. He supposed she was no longer used to small-town conventions, having grown accustomed to life in the big city over the past decade.
“What is it you wanted to show me?” she asked, curious yet wary as she glanced around.
“Follow me.”
Ian led her around the corner into the living room, which he’d tidied up hastily as soon as he arrived home from her parents’ house an hour ago. Stopping by the leather sofa, he swept his arm up to indicate the series of framed photographs arranged on the wall above. His pulse jumped with sudden apprehension as he watched her study them, one by one. He’d invited her on the impulsive notion that she might like to see them, but now that she was here it seemed absurdly self-important to suppose she’d find his vacation sn
apshots worth the trek.
“Did you take these?” she asked, pausing at the last photo, which captured a vista of gently rolling hills, sloping down from an azure sky toward a lush valley dotted with farmhouses and cattle.
“Yup.” He shifted from one foot to the other as he peered over her shoulder. “I spent three weeks in Italy last summer. These were taken in the countryside just outside of Rome.”
Brooke’s pretty brown eyes widened as she looked at him, sudden enthusiasm infusing her voice. “You know I’m jealous. That must have been a fantastic trip. And these pictures are incredible. I didn’t know you were such a talented photographer.”
“Thanks.” Ian released a breath, relieved by her positive reaction. “I took a few courses years ago. Do you suppose I missed my calling?”
As she leaned in to study another of the photos—a row of villas lining a rugged coastline, gilded under the setting sun—he caught the faint scent of butter from her hair. “Well, I’m sure you’re an equally talented lawyer. You could still do photography part-time, right?”
Ian shrugged. “As a hobby, sure, but professionally? I don’t think I’m quite in that league.”
“You won’t know unless you try,” she pointed out lightly.
She then turned her attention to the painting hung above the stone fireplace. A watercolour landscape, it depicted a narrow stretch of the river behind Ian’s childhood home at the southern end of Eastport. Bright with autumn hues and diffused by filtered sunlight, the thickly wooded far shore reflected its mirror image in the glassy water. Nothing like Tuscany, but much dearer to his heart.
“This is pretty. Was it done by a local artist? Or are you a painter, too?” Brooke wondered, tucking her hair behind her ear as she turned her gaze on Ian.
He hadn’t expected her to notice it, but was gratified that she had. “My mother painted it, sometime before I was born. I never saw it until after she died, when I found it in a closet, along with a few others. I don’t think she thought her work was good enough.”
“It is, though,” Brooke said. “It’s quite eye-catching.”
He smiled, her approval pleasing him. “I’ve always thought so. Every day it reminds me of her, and the potential she had that most people wouldn’t have seen.”
His mother, in turn, had seen promise in Ian, and it saddened him to think of how she’d missed the chance to see him grow up successful, despite his troubled upbringing. Mary McCarthy had recognized her own shortcomings as a mother, and fretted over her son’s future—even as she couldn’t seem to resist the demons that drew her out of the house at night, leaving him alone while she walked up the road to pass her evenings at the local bar. Even as a young boy, Ian had worried more for her safety than his own—his fears being realized the night she died. But there were enough good memories to allow him to forgive her flaws.
A look of unease crossed Brooke’s features, but she said nothing.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No.” She paused, slanting him a cautious look. “Do you … do you still think about that night? I mean, do you wish you knew who the driver was that hit her?”
Though surprised by the question, Ian didn’t take long to answer. “Of course. I try not to spend too much time wondering about it—I don’t suppose I’ll never know, and I’ve accepted that. It was probably someone passing through town, who was long gone by the time her body was found.”
“Is that what the police thought?”
“I didn’t get the impression they cared that much. She’d been out drinking that night, and she must have wandered into the road, so naturally it was her own fault,” he added bitingly.
Brooke shook her head solemnly. “The driver … whoever it was should have called for help.”
Ian nodded slowly; he hadn’t talked about his mother’s death in years, and it felt both strange and cathartic to be discussing it now with Brooke. “I have wondered about that over the years—whether she might not have died right away, whether she was lying a while on the side of the road, still conscious, with no one to help her.”
Hearing Brooke draw a shaky breath, he glanced up to see a stricken expression cross her face—before she briskly turned her back to focus again on the painting. Immediately Ian regretted his words; Brooke had always had a great capacity for empathy, though he hadn’t expected his disconcerting thoughts to disturb her so deeply.
“I remember the day after it happened,” she said quietly, wrapping her hands about her forearms, though she kept her back to him. “You weren’t in school, but everyone was talking about it. When you came back, you weren’t the same boy. You were so sad. You wouldn’t talk to anyone.”
“You mean no one would talk to me,” Ian corrected, remembering all too well the agonizing weeks following the accident.
Brooke spun back to face him with a startled look. “What about your friends?”
“They didn’t know what to say to me. It was awkward. None of them understood what it meant to lose a parent. And my father, fresh out of prison, wasn’t exactly thrilled to have a twelve-year-old boy he barely acknowledged land on his doorstep.” Ian forced a smile, drawing his thoughts away from those memories. He’d invited her here meaning to reconnect as adults, and somehow he’d managed to steer the conversation back to the trauma of his childhood. “Brooke, I’m sure you didn’t come over here to talk about my mother’s death. That’s not what I intended. After all, there are much more pleasant memories to focus on.”
Her expression eased. “Yes, I suppose there are.”
“For instance,” Ian reflected, settling his hands in his pockets, “I’ll never forget the night, a few days before Christmas, when you found me wandering along the road in the middle of a snowstorm.” He’d been fourteen, and his father, enraged over some transgression, had locked him out of the house—but he would leave that detail out, to keep the memory a cheerful one. “You took me home and your family fed me supper. I don’t think you had any idea how much that meant to me, just sitting down to a home-cooked meal. And I couldn’t get enough of your house, decorated with a million coloured lights, and your parents were so friendly and relaxed—to me, it was nothing less than a Norman Rockwell painting brought to life.” His father’s house, after all, had few holiday decorations, save for the small tree Ian had cut down himself and adorned with a popcorn garland.
“I remember,” Brooke said quietly, and he saw her lip tremble ever so slightly.
“You were so sweet. You wanted to take care of me. Even though I think you were a little afraid of me. I get the sense that you still are.”
She let out a sharp breath, blinking at him. “Why would I be afraid of you?”
Ian lifted his shoulders. “I was a lot to handle in those days. My mother’s death sent me into a black hole that it took me a lot of years to climb out of. But I’m out of it now. I’m not the same as I was then.”
Brooke’s gaze softened as her supple mouth curved upward at the edges. “But you are the same. I mean, you always had this gentle side. Everyone could see that you were angry, but you were in so much pain—it wasn’t really you.”
Her words settled warmly in his chest. He hadn’t caused any serious trouble in his youth, beyond the occasional fistfight or skipped classes, but he certainly had allowed anger to guide his outlook along with his actions. He hadn’t realized how deeply she understood what he went through.
Ian held her luminous dark gaze with his own. “I’ve thought about you from time to time, Brooke. I’ve wondered why you never came back here to visit your family or your friends. Faith hasn’t seen you in years. Did something happen between the two of you?”
Her brows drew together slightly and her lips pressed tight as she shook her head. “Not really. Friends grow apart sometimes.”
“And your family?”
“They visit me in Toronto. I was so busy with my job, it seemed to work out better that way.” Her gaze flittered away, and Ian sensed there was something more to
her absence from Eastport than she was willing to say.
“Shall I make some tea now?” he asked, remembering his offer.
Brooke shook her head, her smile returning. “Why don’t we take a walk instead? It’s a gorgeous evening.”
“I’d love to.”
By the time they wandered past the marina the evening light had faded to a deep indigo. Brooke turned her head to scan the rows of pleasure boats moored at the docks, bobbing serenely, their slender masts merging with the darkening sky.
“I forgot how peaceful and lovely the river can be this time of the evening,” she remarked, gazing upward to admire the soft ribbons of cloud above, set aglow by pale moonlight and reflected on the still surface of the water.
“I walk along here almost every night,” Ian said. “You’re right, it is peaceful. Makes me feel like everything’s in place in the universe. Whenever something’s bothering me, I come out here and my thoughts seem to just sort themselves out. Sounds simplistic, I know, but it works.”
“I do the same thing on the downtown Toronto waterfront,” Brooke said. “Only there, even at night, there’s so much activity. You can get addicted to it.”
As they strolled side-by-side in an easy rhythm, she pulled the bulky wool cardigan he had lent her closer around her, grateful for its warmth against the cool breeze off the river. The collar held a faint scent of cologne—a comforting, masculine fragrance with notes of leather and sandalwood.
She snatched glances at Ian as she kept pace beside him, studying his strong profile and fitting it into her developing impression of the man he’d become. Though she’d heard occasional news of him from her parents over the years, she’d often wondered whether he’d been able to overcome his difficult youth and find success and happiness. It seemed he had, for the most part. Once they moved on from the topic of his mother’s death, his warm, engaging side emerged, and Brooke began to enjoy his company more than she’d meant to. It was tempting to imagine him as a stranger she was getting to know for the first time, with no history between them—but at the same time, she found herself reluctant to let go of the Ian she’d known. The boy she remembered still occupied a special place in her heart, despite the aching regret tied in with those memories.
Secret Vow Page 2