Too many nights to count, she had lain awake under that bedspread, imagining how it would feel to hold and kiss the boy who now sat blithely upon it, a grown man. When they met they were only kids, but as they both matured a physical attraction had blossomed—as did the affection for him within Brooke’s heart. During classes she’d watched him secretly, and once in a while caught furtive looks from him that set her heart pounding in elation. Though she knew he liked her, she wouldn’t let herself pursue her feelings; denying herself had been her punishment for the terrible secret she kept. The guilt and shame only deepened as time went on, as she watched Ian not only struggle with the loss of his mother but be forced to live with his poor excuse for a father, who sent him to school without decent supplies or even a lunch. Day after day Brooke suffered an acute awareness that Ian had so little, while she had so much.
“So this is the box of memories,” he said eagerly. “Let’s see.”
She settled onto the bed next to him, setting the box on her lap. “I hope there’s nothing embarrassing in here. But heck, you’ve seen the unicorns. It can’t get much worse.”
“You dragged me up here. So come on, open it up.” As Ian leaned in to get a closer look, his shoulder bumped against Brooke’s; she bit down hard on her lip as the brief contact unleashed a sudden, warm quiver of awareness in her belly.
Realizing her fingers were trembling, she hesitated, pressing her hands to the sides of her shorts to steady them. What was wrong with her? Surely she was strong enough not to crumble the moment Ian McCarthy sat next to her, close enough to kiss with only a turn of her head.
After a moment she gathered her wits and pulled back the box flaps, then began lifting out the contents: a stack of old ticket stubs from movies she and Faith had seen together, tied up with a rubber band; beaded earrings she had made in the third grade; painted rocks and collections of sea shells saved from a school trip to Nova Scotia. Smiling to herself, she relaxed into the nostalgia of rediscovering this collection she’d all but forgotten about.
At last she found the small cherry-wood box, recognizing it at once. Lifting it out, she opened the lid to reveal the broad, oval-shaped silver band inside, adorned with an intricate Celtic knotwork design. Though badly tarnished, the bracelet was still striking, and as Brooke admired it she remembered her surprise and delight when she first opened it at her sixteenth birthday party.
She touched the cool metal with her fingertips. “It’s very pretty, Ian.”
“I only saw you wear it that one time, at that dance where—” he began, then paused. “Well, I suppose I misread the meaning of it.”
Realizing he was referring to the kiss she’d rebuffed, Brooke felt her chest constrict with regret.
She slipped the bracelet onto her wrist, remembering just how it had looked when she wore it with her burgundy dress, having painted her nails a matching shade. “It meant a lot that you gave it to me. As much as any of my other presents—maybe more.”
The corners of his mouth curved slowly upward. “Then it was worth it. The agony of making that box in shop class, as well.”
“You made the box? You didn’t tell me.”
Ian nodded. “I suppose I was embarrassed. It’s somewhat less than perfect.”
Picking up the small box, Brooke ran her fingertips over the smooth wood, examining the off-center lid and rough, uneven corners that she hadn’t noticed before. “It is perfect. It’s beautiful,” she said, as her heart swelled at the thought of him struggling to assemble it, just for her.
On impulse she leaned over and pressed her lips to his cheek. Closing her eyes only briefly, she breathed in the scent she recognized from the sweater he lent her during their walk by the marina. Masculine and comforting, the fragrance embodied his presence.
As she drew away from him, her stomach clenched with the understanding that she didn’t deserve any of it. She slid the bracelet off her wrist and set it back in the wooden box.
“Suppose your parents catch us up here together,” Ian remarked lightly, his mouth tilting into a roguish smile.
Swiftly packing everything back into the cardboard box, Brooke set it on the floor by her feet. “I think Mom would be happy to find me alone with a man.”
“Eager for grandchildren, is she?”
“I just turned thirty. She might not admit it, but I know she’s getting antsy.”
“And you?” he wondered.
“Not so much,” she admitted, releasing a sigh. “I’ve been too busy with my career to look for Mr. Right. Seems that everything in my life is pretty up in the air at the moment. Actually, I’m feeling rather directionless right now.”
Ian met her gaze, his soft green eyes regarding hers with gentle understanding. “I’m sorry to hear that. Even if it takes some time, you’ll find your way.”
Caught in his gaze, Brooke felt her heart trip and then find its footing, picking up its pace. “I hope so. You have no idea how happy I am to see you’re doing so well now, Ian. You seem settled—like you’ve made peace with everything you went through as a kid.”
He looked taken aback by her comment. “Why, Brooke Eldridge, you really do care.”
His reaction elicited a self-conscious smile from her. “Of course I care. I’ve never stopped caring.”
“What a coincidence; neither have I.” Ian’s hand rose to stroke her cheek with a soft, tender caress. Releasing a shaky breath, Brooke sat perfectly still, her nerves pulsing in anticipation as every cell in her body ached for his touch.
She let her lips part invitingly, as he lowered his mouth to hers. His lips explored hers only briefly, before gliding along her jaw in a series of slow, scalding kisses. Smoothing her hair back with his hand, he took her earlobe delicately between his lips, teasing the tender flesh with his tongue. A groan of pleasure escaped Brooke’s throat, and she gripped his arms tightly, beckoning his mouth back to hers; when it returned, his kisses were deep and raw, and urgent with need.
Molded against one another, they fell back against the bedspread. Above her, Ian kissed her relentlessly, while his hand slid under her tank top to skim her belly and then the crest of her ribcage, making its way upward to curl over the cup of her bra. Through the thin cotton fabric he leisurely caressed her breast, the pressure of his thumb on the sensitive tip igniting sudden, deep heat within her.
Brooke moaned softly against his lips as desire flared through her, pooling like liquid fire in the pit of her belly. She slid her palms up his chest, tracing the firm ridges of muscle through the fabric of his shirt, then upward over his broad shoulders to lace into his thick dark hair.
As her eyes fell closed, Brooke let her mind fly back to those nights as a girl when, her head against this very pillow, she’d envisioned Ian lying with her in the darkness, touching her as he was now. In this moment, the solid weight of him, the heat of his flesh and the cadence of his heart against hers far exceeded anything her young imagination could have supplied. She could no longer deny herself the exquisite pleasure of his kisses and caresses, or resist sliding her hands under his shirt to explore the taut, silken skin of his back, holding him close.
She stiffened as the subtle clack of the door latch reached her ears, but there was no time to react before the bedroom door swung open.
“Brooke, are you—oh, I’m sorry.”
Shoving Ian away from her, Brooke sat up abruptly, yanking her top down to cover herself. Standing in the doorway, Dana blinked twice at the pair on the bed. “I didn’t know you had company up here,” she said calmly. “I’ll talk to you later.”
As her mother backed out of the room, pulling the door closed, Brooke turned to Ian in alarm. She pressed her palms to her flaming cheeks, stunned by what had just happened—though every inch of her flesh still throbbed with yearning for him.
Clearing his throat, Ian swung his legs over the side of the bed. “That was awkward,” he muttered, adjusting his rumpled shirt over his torso.
Brooke released the lungful of air she ha
dn’t realized she’d been holding in. “It was humiliating. I’m thirty years old, and I’ve just been caught in my room making out with a boy.”
Ian patted her hand in reassurance, the edges of his mouth quirking upward in amusement. “Relax. We weren’t doing anything too scandalous.” He brushed her lips with a brief, consoling kiss. “But I suppose the mood is ruined. Anyway, your parents probably need us to get back to those dishes.”
“My God, how can I go down there now?” Brooke stared at her reflection in the mirror over her dresser, examining the tousled hair and pink, swollen lips.
“Like you said, your mom was probably pleased to find you in a man’s arms,” he reasoned. “Come on, let’s just get it over with.”
As Brooke slid off the bed, pausing to smooth out her top and shorts, she considered what her mother might be thinking: that Brooke and Ian might be falling in love, and could have a future together, babies and all. But Brooke knew there was no chance of her marrying Ian McCarthy and bearing his children; a future with him would be impossible, as long as she kept from him the truth of what she knew about his mother’s death.
The trouble was, if she told him, he’d surely never forgive her—and if she didn’t, she’d never forgive herself.
Chapter Four
It was after ten o’clock by the time the clean dishes were put away and the counters wiped. The rain had finally stopped, giving way to a dull, overcast evening.
“Join me for some tea?” Dana offered, as Brooke was leaving the kitchen, about to head upstairs to bed.
Brooke hesitated; though every muscle screamed with exhaustion, she felt pretty sure the muddled thoughts tumbling through her head would keep her lying awake for some time.
Accepting the offer, she sank into one of the oak kitchen chairs, while her mother brought a hot cup of chamomile to the table for each of them.
Ian had left a while ago, after which Brooke’s father had settled into his easy chair in the living room to watch the news on TV, leaving the two women alone. Brooke anticipated her mother’s line of questioning, but she supposed it was best to get it done now rather than wait for morning.
“I can’t believe we keep doing this every year,” Dana remarked, sagging dramatically against the tabletop. “I always tell myself it’s our last barbecue; then a year passes and we do it all again.”
“Everyone counts on it, Mom. You can’t disappoint the whole town. There isn’t a whole lot of excitement to look forward to around here, after all.”
Ignoring her daughter’s good-natured slight against Eastport, Dana stayed silent for a moment, tracing the rim of her cup with her fingertip. Finally her gaze flickered up, her dark eyes inquisitive. “So do you plan on talking to me about what happened in your bedroom with Ian, or would you rather pretend nothing was going on?”
Leaning back in her chair, Brooke released a sigh of resignation. “What is there to say?”
“For starters, are you in a relationship with him?” Dana asked, before lifting her teacup to her lips.
“Not really. Sort of,” Brooke offered vaguely, realizing she wasn’t really sure.
Her mother regarded her with a skeptical tilt of her head. “Are you planning on seeing him again?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can tell you like him.” Dana’s mouth curved upward as she set down her cup. “Your face glowed the minute I mentioned his name.”
“That was embarrassment, Mom.”
Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be silly. I’d be happy to see you and Ian together. He’s a fine catch. I think you were fond of him back in high school, too.”
“I was,” Brooke admitted. She stared down at her cup, absently studying the steaming amber liquid.
“I was, too. People didn’t think he’d amount to much, but he’s defied everyone’s expectations. These days he’s our little town’s most eligible bachelor. I know several young women who are dying to go out with him.”
Brooke’s eyes snapped up in time to catch Dana’s gaze sliding coyly away, as she lifted her teacup again. If her mother was trying to spur her with jealousy, it wasn’t going to work—even if the remark did stir the tiniest possessive twinge.
If only things were as simple as her mother believed they were, Brooke thought helplessly. She’d always been able to confide in her mom—most of the time, anyhow. But confessing her feelings for Ian would only make it harder to deny them to herself.
But there was one thing Brooke could tell Dana, now that Ross Kinley was safely in his grave. She took a long sip of her tea and then leaned forward.
“Mom,” she began tentatively, “do you remember the night Faith and I ran away to Toronto, when we were twelve?”
Dana’s expression darkened. “Don’t remind me. You scared me to death, disappearing like that. I never did quite forgive Faith for dragging you along with her. It took your father and me long enough to get over the fact that you’d do something so harebrained as to hitchhike at that age.”
“I know,” Brooke said patiently, “and I’ve apologized a thousand times. You know I only went along because I couldn’t stop Faith from going and I was afraid something would happen to her.”
“Yes, and I grant you she didn’t have an easy time in that house.”
Brooke paused before continuing. She hadn’t told her mother much about that night—only that she and Faith had nowhere to go when they arrived in the city and, frightened and overwhelmed, took the bus to Faith’s aunt’s house in the suburb of Scarborough. Less than compassionate to the girls’ plight, Aunt Rachel had called her brother immediately to pick them up.
Over the years Brooke had asked herself why she hadn’t simply refused to go with him; they had seen his unsteady gait and unfocused gaze, and recognized the slurring of his speech as he reprimanded them. Eager to get to bed, Rachel hadn’t seemed to notice, leaving the girls with few options.
Drawing a deep breath, Brooke let her next words tumble out, revealing to her mother something she’d never dared to before. “Did you know that Mr. Kinley had been drinking before he came to get us?”
Dana shifted in her chair, her brows deeply knitted. “I didn’t, but I can’t say I’m surprised, knowing the problems he had with alcohol. If he’d called your dad and me first to let us know he was going—as he should’ve done in any case, knowing how worried we were—we would’ve insisted on driving there ourselves to get you. Why didn’t you tell me then?”
Brooke lifted one shoulder. “I suppose I was afraid to. I didn’t want to get Faith into more trouble with her dad than she was already in.”
“Well, thank God you arrived home safely.” Reaching across the table, Dana gave her daughter’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “It’s a wonder the man didn’t kill anyone all those years he was on the road. Why are you bringing this up now?”
“No reason.” Feeling her stomach twist, Brooke curled both hands around her teacup, absorbing its warmth.
“There has to be a reason, Brooke.”
She shook her head, unwilling to tell any more of what she knew. “I suppose because he just died, it’s on my mind. I guess I feel partially responsible for the fact that he was on the road that night, in his condition.”
Her mother offered an encouraging smile. “Brooke, no matter what you and Faith did, Ross Kinley was a grown man who should have known better. He made that choice all on his own. Anyhow, no one was hurt, so just forget about it, all right?”
* * *
Mid-afternoon, there were few customers wandering the aisles of Roderick’s Food Market. At the back of the store, Ian plucked a carton of cream from the cooler and set it next to the loaf of bread and dozen eggs in his basket. At least breakfast was taken care of; he had no idea what to make for dinner. Too often he grabbed a boxed meal from the frozen food section, years of throwing together dinners for one having left him scrambling for inspiration.
As he turned down the last aisle, in search of sugar, he caught sight of he
r. She stood on her tiptoes, her chin tilted up so she could scan the top shelf, appraising the scant selection of cake embellishments. His pulse jumped in anticipation. As he approached her, a slow smile curved his mouth; suddenly dinner for two struck him as a delightful prospect.
“More baking?” he asked over her shoulder.
Brooke sank back onto her heels, her hair fanning in a golden-brown arc as her head spun toward him. “Just a cake for my parents’ anniversary,” she told him, the edges of her wide mouth twitching upward. He could see her making an effort to look impassive, though the glow in her cheeks told him there was more going on inside her than she was willing to let on.
“I had hoped to hear from you.” Ian resisted an impulse to enfold her in his arms and kiss her deeply—maybe later, if he could puzzle out her baffling pattern of welcoming his embraces one minute and then keeping her distance the next. Instead he touched her hand at her side, stroking her fingers lightly. “You didn’t return my call the other day. You’re not still embarrassed about what happened in your room, I hope—or regretful.”
She shifted from one foot to the other, dropping her gaze. “No. I planned on calling you later today, to talk about it.”
“Here I am. Talk to me now.”
“It’s just … I didn’t mean for that to happen. Like I said, I’m probably going back to Toronto pretty soon. What would be the use of getting involved now?”
Of course she had told him that, and he’d accepted it, but nonetheless the suggestion of her leaving caused a tightening in his chest. He’d imagined, somehow, that her intentions may have shifted the last time they were together. He’d felt their old connection snap back into place as they fell into an easy rhythm of talking and washing dishes—and later, as they clung to one another on her childhood bed, the physical spark between them flaring into intoxicating passion.
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