The Walsh Brothers

by Kate Canterbary

  If anyone asked, I was totally down for exploring the naughty schoolteacher thing.

  "Still running scenarios. Can you meet me tomorrow?" I toggled to my calendar. "Around five?"

  "Of course. At Saint Cosmas?"

  "No!" I cried, imagining the floor dissolving into splinters under our feet. "Can you make it to our Beacon Hill offices? Off Cambridge Street?"

  "Definitely. Thank you again for everything, Matt."

  A smile spread across my face as I sat back in my chair. "Goodnight, Lauren."

  She paused and I thought I heard her smile. Was that possible? To hear a smile? "Goodnight, Matt."

  I definitely heard a smile.

  She was contagious. It was viral, her juju, her mojo, her sparkle, her hip-swiveling swagger. Whatever it was, it was on me.

  I needed a little swagger for the deluge ahead.

  Seventeen messages from sub-contractors, all requiring immediate attention.

  Five budget updates from Shannon, plus a rundown on Angus's new Bunker Hill properties and the associated screaming match, but I knew those issues would keep for another day. He liked to disrupt our work with time intensive, expensive properties, but he usually managed a few drunken rounds of golf in between the surprise attacks.

  Eleven designs requiring structural analysis from my brother Sam, the sustainable design specialist. If that runt continued accepting new work without getting the entire team's approval first, I was drop-kicking his skinny ass into the harbor.

  Six frighteningly basic questions on restoration projects from my brother Riley, the youngest architect on the Walsh Associates team and Patrick's slave.

  Twelve one-line messages from my older brother Patrick, the senior architect and de facto chief executive, all bitching about progress on my Back Bay brownstone restorations. Bitching suited him. He liked freaking out over minute details.

  I spent two hours deep in calculations for Sam, and updated my partners on the brownstone issues.

  And that left one message from my little sister, Erin, with a photo album from her research trip to São Jorge Island, off the coast of Portugal, and its trio of volcanic complexes on the Azorean archipelago. I saved her for last.

  Me and Erin, we got each other. We were the youngest, in a way, and being at the bottom of our respective heaps always brought us together. Patrick, Shannon, and I were born one after another, inside three years. Sam came along about two years later, then Riley, and finally Erin.

  * * *

  From: Matthew Walsh

  To: Erin Walsh

  Date: September 23 at 22:43 EDT

  Subject: RE: Back from the Azores

  * * *

  E -

  Good to hear you're back on the mainland. The pictures of that lava flow are sick. How do you even get close enough to take those shots?

  * * *

  Crazy, crazy day here today. I just about dislocated a client's arm when she tried to take a header down some stone steps. I think I've seen you do the same.

  * * *

  Miss you. We need to Skype soon.

  * * *

  Find a way to get your ass back here for Thanksgiving or Christmas this year. Pick one and show up.

  * * *

  M

  I reread the message before clicking Send. I didn't know why I mentioned Lauren; I just knew I wanted to tell someone about her and Erin was my most trusted someone.

  3

  Lauren

  I sat cross-legged on my antique velvet sofa, staring at the cover of my latest book club selection. Another meeting with Matthew A. Walsh. Matt. I was more than happy to give him an hour of my day, especially if it involved good news. I needed good news, and sharing his company was no hardship.

  He was one of those guys you met and immediately thought, "Wow. Let me take off your pants. And yeah, the shirt too."

  Or, in my case, "Let me throw myself down some stairs and rub up against your chest."

  Given his kindness in keeping me from becoming a sidewalk stain, I was tempted to thank Matt with coffee after our meeting, but I'd hesitated, and the moment had slipped away.

  I was curious about him. He wasn't the type of architect I had expected—no tweed jacket, no suede elbow patches, no tortoiseshell glasses, no ill-fitting pleated khakis. Instead, he was an architectural superhero, all muscles and dark hair and throbbing annoyance at the building for failing to meet his expectations. His smile was scorching, but his intense gaze hit me hardest. When those blue eyes landed on me, serious and heavy, it was as if he was sifting through my every thought.

  My phone vibrated across the table, and my heart leapt just as quickly. I rolled my eyes, laughing at myself and shaking free from my daydream. Time to shut down all thoughts of Matt Walsh's chiseled chest.

  I studied the readout and smiled. "If it isn't the road warriors!"

  "Hi, honey! It's your Mom and me, we're on the speakerphone," my father announced. For a guy who trained Navy SEALs for over twenty years, he sounded quite impressed with the capabilities of his cell phone.

  "Hi, Dad. Hi, Mom. Where are you today?"

  "We're in the Anza-Borrego Desert, in the mountains outside Palm Springs. Amazing country up here. You'd love the hiking."

  I snorted, imagining myself tumbling down the trail and landing in a bank of jumping cholla cactus. My brothers liked to say I tripped over dust. It wasn't that I was clumsy—ten years of gymnastics and competitive cheerleading proved I could control my body—it was that I managed to stumble at inopportune times, and those times were typically when I was nervous.

  Or distracted by the dress shirt pulled tight across Matt's chest, and the thought of peeling it away and tasting him just beneath his collar.

  "And the views for miles!" Mom added. "The natural landscape is gorgeous. I can't stop taking pictures."

  "How long are you staying there?"

  "Well…" Dad released a good-natured chuckle. "We've scrapped the itinerary for the moment. Your mother has persuaded me to follow the good weather."

  "That sounds reasonable," I said.

  "But we'll be spending some time in Palm Springs to visit with the Rosses. And then down to Mexico. I'd like to stop in Rosarito, and then Ensenada. Along Highway One. Probably ending in Cabo San Lucas around Thanksgiving. Maybe later. I want some sunny holidays this year."

  "You're welcome to join us anytime, honey," Dad said. "Just say the word, and we'll have a ticket waiting for you. I hope you're not worrying about money."

  He trusted me with firearms, yet doubted my ability to balance a checkbook. Was it a protective dad thing? An only daughter thing? Or was it that he truly doubted I had my shit together?

  Not that my shit was remotely together, but still.

  "I know, Dad," I sighed. "I'm doing fine. You don't need to worry about me—"

  "I know you can handle yourself, but I've seen more than enough evil out there. You're still carrying that pepper spray, correct?"

  It was always a matter of time until he went there. Commodore Halsted and his "the world is brimming with danger and therefore my daughter needs a thigh-holstered k-bar to walk around the corner" speech. He liked to spice it up with stories cherry-picked from his missions, although I was fairly certain he tossed in plotlines from spy novels and war movies.

  I also believed at least half of what he said, although it was more than likely the spy novel half.

  "Yes, Dad. Please remember I'm twenty-eight and I've lived in the city for—"

  "None of that matters. Predators strike the moment you drop your guard," he said. "Think about a Krav Maga refresher course. You need to keep those skills sharp. You never know what's lurking when you least expect it."

  "Bill, stop with the dramatics. What's new with you, sweetheart?" Mom asked.

  "We're having a party for Steph and Amanda this weekend, before they leave town. I've been busy finding a building, and meeting with an architect to get it ready for kids. I have meetings lined up for tomorrow with donors
interested in funding some of the classroom research we'll be conducting."

  "Be yourself, Lolo. They'd be fools not to donate," Dad said.

  "I know, Dad, but sometimes it's a little more complicated than being friendly."

  "You tell me if you want me to make some calls," he continued. "I have a lot of buddies from the service who want to see kids off the streets and getting a decent education. We've seen plenty of sailors who coulda used a teacher like you to set them straight."

  "Thanks, Dad. I don't want any favors, though—"

  "Not a favor, Lauren. That's how it's done. It's all about who you know and calling in the right contacts at the right time."

  "Bill, let me talk to my Lolo. Go play with your new binoculars," Mom said. The speakerphone connection clicked off. "He's outside now. Probably being a weirdo and spying on the other campers. Is everything okay?"

  "Yeah, Mom, everything's fine."

  "Are you sure? You sound a little ruffled, Lolo, a little off. It must be rough on you, with Stephanie and Amanda moving away."

  My oldest friends, Amanda and Steph, were my home away from home. The sisters I never had. The bitches in my back pocket. We roomed together in college then moved to Boston over six years ago, where we shared the darkest, dampest subterranean apartment in town. It earned every ounce of its nickname, The Dungeon. Over the years, we celebrated successes big and small, and endured heartaches in careers and friendships and relationships. We grew up together—the growing up you did when it was time to figure out life.

  And now we were growing apart.

  Amanda was engaged, pregnant, and moving with her fiancé, Phil. We always knew Phil's job as lobbyist for a consortium of cutting-edge pharmaceutical firms took priority in their relationship, and that his work would eventually take him and Amanda to Washington, DC. Expecting it to happen didn't mean it wasn't leaving a cannonball-sized hole in me.

  We also knew Steph and her husband Dan intended to return home to Chicago when they started a family, and I was surprised they stayed so long after Madison's birth. Steph's pregnancy was difficult, her labor was complicated, and baby Madison struggled with reflux and colic and ear infections right from the start. We pitched in to provide Steph with meals, help around the house, and babysitting, but Steph and Dan needed their big families back in Chicago, and I wanted them to have that.

  But like I said: cannonballs.

  And if I was being honest with myself, we'd been growing apart by feet and inches since moving out of The Dungeon. Marriage, careers, babies—these things changed us, and our relationships with each other were evolving, too. It wasn't bad; it was just different.

  "No, it's not that," I said. "I mean, yes, it's going to be tough, but life is taking them on some new adventures. It's what they need to do and I shouldn't be sad about that."

  "Sounds like a new project would be good for you. Something to mix up your routine. You need a man in your life. Men are great distractions."

  I laughed at my mother's suggestive tone but couldn't ignore the image of Matt Walsh and his broad shoulders. Or that chest. Give me some dirty laundry and a shirtless Matt, and I'd happily spend my day testing out those washboard abs.

  My mother would love his dark, wavy hair and blue eyes, and she'd make plenty of naughty comments about his lean body. He'd meet her criteria for beefcake status. I used to turn seven shades of red when she'd thumb through People magazine, telling my friends she thought Brad Pitt and George Clooney were hunky, and that she wouldn't mind a weekend alone with either. Or both.

  I didn't understand the part about both until my twenties, and for everyone involved, that was probably best.

  "I'll keep that in mind," I murmured. "I do have a bunch of travel for conferences over the next few weeks, so I'll be busy and finally spending some time in classrooms again."

  "Enjoy it! When I was your age, I was pregnant with Wesley. All I knew was the base, and the other wives in the unit. Will was crawling, and your father was deployed on one of his missions. I had no idea when he'd be back. If he'd be back," she added, her voice turning somber. "You have so many options, so much freedom. Enjoy it."

  "I do, Mom."

  "Good. Now, if you do want to spend some time in Mexico, email us. Your father says we can't rely on cell service in Mexico, but what does he know?"

  I laughed. "Have you heard from Will or Wes recently?"

  "Yeah, your father spoke to them when we were leaving home. He has some theories about where they're stationed at the moment, but didn't mention specifics. Says they're both well, keeping their heads in the mission."

  "Okay," I murmured. I couldn't understand how my mother accepted the dangers my brothers confronted on a daily basis. I didn't truly, deeply, fully understand the nature of my father's work until after his retirement, and was shocked when my parents wholeheartedly supported Will and Wes when they joined the SEALs after graduating from UC-San Diego. "Let me know if you hear anything new."

  "Of course," Mom said. "I'll be updating our little website with photos from our journeys. I can't wait to hear what you think of my new posts!"

  "I will, Mom," I laughed. My mother, the travel blogger. A few years ago, she kicked off their retirement road trip with a new camera, and hasn't stopped photographing since. What started as Wes's suggestion to post her shots to a blog rather than crashing our email accounts with a terabyte of attachments each week was now a thriving blog complete with voracious followers and advertisers.

  "I'll let you go, it's late. Sleep tight, sweetheart. Love you. Daddy says he loves you, too."

  "Love you both."

  "Find a distraction, Lolo. Men are the best kind."

  I leaned back and drummed my fingers against the book's cover, dismissing my mother's comments. No time for men. No time for distractions. Not even time to read this month's book.

  The book club was a throwback to our days in The Dungeon, and grew over time to include Phil and Dan's friends' girlfriends and an assortment of colleagues and acquaintances. We came together each month but spent most of the time guzzling wine and catching up.

  Was it crazy that I faithfully read the books—even if I hated them, even if I lurked in a few online forums to borrow insightful comments—or was it crazy that we didn't simply retitle the event?

  Hanging out and drinking wine without the pretense of literature sounded superb, but I doubted I'd continue going without Steph and Amanda. It was our thing, and without them it didn't hold the same appeal.

  And it wasn't as if I needed anyone else trying to fix me up.

  The old 'always a bridesmaid' adage wasn't lost on me. I dated plenty but finding The One was the least of my worries. I was as single as single could be: not seeing anyone, no compatibility matches from dating portals, no singles mixer booze cruises on my calendar, and I liked it that way.

  Regardless of sad-faced inquiries, the singleton life worked for me. It was my prerogative to shave—or not shave—my legs. I could go on last-minute trips to Martha's Vineyard or New York City or back home to San Diego without including anyone else in those decisions. Dinner often consisted of sliced cucumbers and carrots dipped in chipotle ranch dressing, and there was no one to complain about that.

  I was free to watch Pretty Little Liars and The Vampire Diaries and every other slightly ridiculous show. I was under no obligation to share the bed, closets, or bathroom. I decided how to spend my money, á la three hundred dollars on one incredible pair of shoes. If I wanted to dedicate my entire Saturday to researching elementary math programs or trying on every pair of peep-toes in Boston, I wasn't cramping anyone's style. And most importantly, I had the freedom to whip off my bra and pull on yoga pants the second I walked through the door of my apartment.

  There was the crux of it for me: I didn't like being told what to do or following anyone's rules, and it was that kind of rebelliousness that uniquely suited me for opening a radically new type of school. Without a healthy supply of oppositional defiance to challenge th
e status quo, I wouldn't be able to question long-held beliefs about teaching and learning, even if some of those questions were uncomfortable and disruptive.

  Don't get me wrong, I was a good girl at heart—I had the Type A personality straight from my father to prove it. I waited at red lights, even if it was two in the morning and the roads were deserted. I paid all of my bills on time. I never had one-night stands. I always sent handwritten thank-you notes. I religiously kept annual appointments for teeth cleaning and Pap smears—though never on the same day.

  I was a rule-follower…and a rebel.

  I wandered into my bedroom and gazed into my closet, waiting for inspiration to strike. The right look always kicked my confidence into high gear, and with the way tomorrow was shaping up, I needed the extra boost. The dry cleaner was holding all my favorite dresses hostage, and the go-to uniform of depressing skirt suits and statement necklaces was tired. Not even Jimmy Choo was changing that.

  A shock of red toward the back caught my eye and I drew the fit-and-flare dress off the rod. A substantial amount of peer pressure went into the purchase, and I struggled to find the right opportunity to wear it these days. The retro styling reminded me of June Cleaver, but modern touches edged it toward Michelle Obama.

  Hanging the dress on my closet door, I added a navy scarf with silver stars, my favorite stiletto Mary Janes, a funky little artisan necklace from a July trip to Provincetown, and those fancy new undies.

  No one would see my panties, but I'd know about their sheer silkiness. And that? That was exactly the armor I required to conquer the battles ahead.