by Marie Carnay
Create a life.
At last, she sat back. “What do you think?”
Beckett stepped closer. The pot wasn’t just a vessel to hold a plant or stick some flowers in. She’d turned it into art. The shape of a tree trunk rose up from the wheel, branches twining around each other to form the sides. Leaves cut into the clay here and there.
Damn. He swallowed. “It’s beautiful. We can air dry it on the back porch. I don’t think they have a working kiln.”
She nodded, but something about the look on her face made Beckett pause. “Are you all right?”
Chelsea nodded as she rushed past him. “I just need some air.”
He watched her walk out the front door and wondered if he’d made the right decision after all.
Chapter Seventeen
BRONX
Ever since they had arrived at Sarabelle, Bronx knew Beckett was hiding something. He’d been so distant for so long, never coming back to New York unless Bronx dragged him there.
This last trip, something about him had changed. Beckett wasn’t just a beach bum with no plans. Instead of dawdling and pouting, he itched to get back to the island and complained about the trip taking so long.
With the vacation coming to a close, Bronx needed to figure out what his brother had been up to and what to do about Chelsea. The thought of parting ways at the end of the week churned his stomach, but he didn’t know how to solve it.
How could they hope to make something more work? Bronx lived in New York. Beckett lived on Sarabelle. And Chelsea? What would she do? Even after staying up all night running scenarios through his head, Bronx couldn’t come up with a workable solution.
Not unless they all made sacrifices. He stepped onto his balcony and inhaled the tropical air. So humid, so early. The sound of the ocean filled his ears and a bird called from up in the trees.
New York and Sarabelle couldn’t be more different. One so slow and languid, the other so fast and bustling. Each had their merits.
He’d have never fallen for Chelsea had they stayed in the city. There were many avenues out, so many escape hatches. He’d never needed to look a woman in the eye the morning after in New York.
The island gave him time and closeness. A chance at more. But the hustle of New York would always seem like home.
He leaned over the rail and peered down into the forest. The paths their family had cut years ago meandered through vegetation. Some overgrown, others trimmed back. Brown dirt snakes winding and disappearing only to emerge again at the entrance to a building or the ocean.
Bronx followed one trail with his eyes until it ended at the largest outbuilding on the property. The locked one.
What the hell? Instead of being locked and vacant, the door was wide open.
As Bronx stared, Chelsea walked out the front door and placed her hands on top of her head. She laced her fingers and looked up at the sky. Is she upset?
There could only be one explanation: Beckett.
Bronx grabbed a shirt and tugged it on before bolting out the bedroom door and down the stairs.
By the time he made it to the building, Chelsea was gone, but the door still stood open. He hurried inside.
Whoa. He’d expected a junk room full of old furniture and cardboard boxes. Not an… art studio?
He glanced up in time to catch Beckett on the way in from the back door. “What the hell is all this?”
His brother glanced up and his expression clouded. Without a word, he brushed past him to wash his hands in the sink.
Bronx spun to face him. “Damn it, Beckett. I asked you a question. What is this place?”
“It’s going to be an art studio.”
Bronx snorted. “For whom? I thought you gave that up years ago.”
“That’s what you wanted to think. I’ve never stopped wanting to be an artist.”
Bronx blinked. The first time Beckett mentioned art was his first summer home from college. He’d enrolled in a sculpting class and claimed to have found his calling. Their father had frowned on the idea. Thought Beckett needed to major in business or economics.
But their mother had encouraged him. She found Beckett a summer art intensive in the city and pushed him to major in fine arts in college. His interests had changed over the years. First it was sculpting, then painting, then glass blowing.
Bronx had assumed he’d keep at it forever. But when their parents died… Beckett’s art did too.
“You haven’t mentioned anything to do with art in years, Beckett. I thought you gave it up.”
Beckett’s shoulders slumped as he exhaled. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d react this way.”
Bronx frowned. “What way?”
“Like it’s a frivolity I should be over by now.”
Did he really think he’d react that way? Bronx stepped closer. “I don’t care if you’re getting back into art, Beckett. I’m glad you’re doing something.”
“It’s not just me.”
Bronx paused. “You mean Chelsea.” He remembered their conversation all those days ago. She’d mentioned sculpting in college. But did she like it so much she wanted to leave everything she knew? Abandon her home and her friends in the city to move to the middle of nowhere?
“No. I’m going to open an art school.”
Beckett’s words sliced through Bronx’s thoughts. “You’re going to what?”
His brother turned to face him. “Open an artist’s collective of sorts. A place for up-and-comers and old-timers to get together and learn from each other. It’ll be a chance to improve craft and get back to what matters.”
He couldn’t be serious. “You’re going to do this right here on Sarabelle?”
“Yes.”
“How are you going to pay for it? Are you going to charge tuition? Room and board?”
“No. It’s going to be a non-profit. I’ve got plenty of funds. Between the trust and my investments, I’ll be fine.”
Bronx saw red. Beckett was going to take the family fortune and blow it on hippies and failed artists who couldn’t grow up? He clenched his fist. “Those investments only exist because I manage them, Beckett.”
“And I appreciate that.”
“You’re serious?” Bronx reeled. “You’re just going to throw away everything our family’s worked for over the generations to build an artists’ commune like it’s the sixties?”
“If you would stop worrying about money for a change, you’d see the merits of the idea.” Beckett turned away from him and busied himself with cleaning what looked like an oversized lazy Susan.
Bronx threw up his hands. His brother was impossible. “Always the dreamer. That’s what Father said about you. Did you know that? His first-born son and you couldn’t even land a real job. Had to drop out of college senior year and become a surf instructor.”
He ran a hand over his hair. All these years, he’d kept Beckett afloat, managing his money while he frittered away on Sarabelle. Now the idiot was going to throw it all away on some dreamers who would never amount to anything.
And now he wanted to drag Chelsea down with him. Bronx wouldn’t let him. “I swear Father only gave you Sarabelle in the will because he felt sorry for you.”
Beckett turned and stalked toward him, stopping a foot in front of Bronx’s face. “No, Bronx. Mom gave me this place, not Dad.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mom made sure I got Sarabelle. Dad wanted to give it to both of us at first, but she said no. She knew I’d enjoy it and you… wouldn’t.”
Bronx stepped back. “How do you know any of this?”
Beckett ran a hand through his hair and looked away. “She wrote letters.”
“What?”
“You heard me. She wrote letters to be opened only if she died. That’s how I know.”
Bronx’s lips fell open. “I never got one.”
“That’s because she wasn’t sure you could handle it. Not yet, anyway.”
“Wha
t are you saying?”
Beckett exhaled and leaned against the counter. “There are letters for you, Bronx. But you’re not supposed to get them until you’re older. Or you fall in love.”
Bronx slid into the chair behind him. His mother had written letters. All these years, Beckett had letters from their mother to comfort him and Bronx had nothing.
He’d comforted himself with the knowledge that their father trusted him. That he gave Bronx control of the assets and the money. Beckett only got the island. But all this time…
Beckett had a piece of their mom and Bronx had been unworthy. The knowledge cut deep and Bronx lashed out at the pain. “So you’re going to open this artists’ studio and what? Chelsea’s going to give up New York for you?”
He struggled to his feet and pointed at Beckett’s chest. “You honestly think she’d give up New York, her friends, her job—her whole fucking life—for a third-rate studio on a postage stamp island in the middle of nowhere?”
“She might.”
Bronx rolled his eyes. “Right. She lives in an apartment in Tribeca, Beckett. It’s in the center of everything. This is just a vacation for her. Hell, it’s not even real life.”
“It could be.”
Bronx dropped the bomb. Beckett wanted to hurt him where it counted? He could hurt him right back. “Is that before or after she learns you’ve lied to her this entire time?”
His brother sagged. “I was wrong. Is that what you want me to say? Yes, we should have told her from the beginning. I admit it. But it’s too late now. All I can do is hope she gives me a chance.”
Bronx motioned at the studio. “You think this is the way to her heart? A bunch of paintbrushes and clay?”
“She’s a born artist. She could be happy here.”
Bronx shook his head. He knew from the start that this triangle of a relationship would never work. But he never thought it would end like this. Beckett the beach bum getting a studio, the girl, and the memories of parents long gone.
Bronx would get the crowded streets of New York and his empty apartment. “What about me, Beckett? Or was there never any room in your plans for me?”
“You’re welcome here anytime. You know that.”
Bronx snorted. “So you get to have her twenty-four-seven and I get a handful of trips a year. Gee, thanks. Let me go back home and manage that portfolio of yours.”
His brother shrugged. “You could do that here. There’s no reason you need to spend so much time in New York.”
And they were back to that again. “You wouldn’t like it if I suddenly stopped managing your assets.”
Beckett pushed off the counter. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me. All this—” Bronx waved at the fledgling studio, “It shows me you don’t give a damn about the Kingston name or what it means. Maybe it’s time you learned how to take care of yourself.”
“God. You are such an arrogant asshole. No wonder Father left you in charge of the business. You have a knack of talking down to everyone. You fit right in in New York.” Beckett pushed past him and headed toward the front door.
“I’m not giving up on Chelsea, Beckett. If you don’t tell her the truth, I will. Today.”
Beckett paused at the door, his palm flat against the doorframe. “You’d stoop that low?”
“I don’t have to stoop, according to you, I’m already there.”
“I feel sorry for you, little brother.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
Beckett dropped his hand and Bronx went for the kill. “I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she finds out this entire trip was a lie.”
As soon as the last word left his lips, Beckett froze. A chill rushed down Bronx’s spine despite the heat.
“What is he talking about, Beckett?” Chelsea’s voice carried through the open door.
Shit. He never meant for her to find out that way.
Beckett turned back to face him. “Guess you don’t have to wait to find out.”
Chapter Eighteen
CHELSEA
Panic pricked at her eyes. Beckett had lied? About what? She stepped past him and found Bronx in the studio. “What are you talking about?”
He pinched the back of his neck and focused on the floor. “Ask Beckett. He’s the one who insisted.”
A boulder lodged in her throat as Beckett made his way back inside. No easy smile or shrug of an explanation. He looked… stricken. Chelsea ran her tongue over lips, but it didn’t help. Nothing would until she asked the question she knew would change everything.
Just when she’d opened her heart. It always happened that way. Her gaze landed on Beckett and she waited until he acknowledged her. “Tell me.”
He tugged at his shirt collar. “Sarabelle isn’t an island we vacation on sometimes. It’s mine. I own it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right, and I’m a princess from Bulgaria.”
“He’s telling the truth.” Bronx’s tone didn’t falter.
The boulder in Chelsea’s throat slid to her stomach. It can’t be true.
Bronx continued. “It’s been in the Kingston family for generations. Our great-grandfather built the house. The island is named after our grandmother and her sister.”
“No.” Chelsea shook her head. “I would have known. I organized the charity for the MacIntosh Fund. I set up the display for the island.”
“We keep the ownership secret. Very few people know anything about Sarabelle.”
They were joking. They had to be. “So you what? Come here once in a while and rent it out the rest of the time?”
Beckett shook his head. “When we were young, we only spent the summers here. But now, Sarabelle is my home. I live here full-time.”
No. He’s lying. She turned to Bronx. “What about you?”
He looked like every word was a lance in his gut. “I haven’t been here in years, that much is true.”
She felt like she’d landed in a vat of molasses as she pieced it all together in her mind. The auction. The bidding. Everything they’d said to her. All the pressure she’d felt because it had been a vacation and they only had thirty days together.
A wave of bile edged up her throat, but she swallowed it down. “Do the MacIntoshes know?”
Bronx nodded. “Gage has wanted to develop the place for years.”
God. She remembered the night of the auction when Bronx and Beckett had walked up to her to claim the prize. She had glanced over at Gage MacIntosh, confused and unsure when they’d said her name.
He’d stared back, just as puzzled. At the time, she’d thought it was because of the gesture. Who spends that kind of money on a stranger? But now it made even less sense. “Why would you bid on your own island?”
Bronx exhaled. “After you and Beckett ran into each other, I came up with the idea. I thought if I bought the vacation for you, then the two of you could spend the month together. Maybe it would get him to open his eyes and do something with his life.”
Chelsea took a step back. Did he really think that little of her? She clutched at her stomach. “You bought me, like a present.”
“I didn’t think of it that way, no.”
Anger bubbled up through her confusion. “But that’s what you did. You just threw your money at me and I fell for it.” How could she have been so blind? All this time she thought they were falling in love, but it had been a lie.
They’d bought her. Paid for a month of her time so they could toy with her emotions and string her along and then send her on her way. God, I’ve been a fool.
“It wasn’t like that, Chelsea. Not at all. I didn’t know what Bronx had done until after the bidding.” Beckett reached out, but she stepped back again. “We put Sarabelle up for auction for the MacIntosh Fund. I’d planned to not even be here when the winner showed up.”
Chelsea dug her nails into her arm. “Plans changed, didn’t they?”
Bronx spoke up. “It’s my fault. If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me. I
thought you needed a vacation. When you talked about your job and your life, I thought a month at Sarabelle would be something special. The money would go to good cause, the vacation would go to someone who deserved it. It was supposed to be a win-win.”
“So when did the screwing around come into it? Before or after you placed the bid?”
He shook his head. “You’re not listening. I didn’t even plan to come on this trip. You insisted, remember? You asked us to come.”
“Because you bid two million dollars! Who does that!” She shoved her hair out her face and exhaled. “You should have told me right then.”
“I’m sorry. I thought if you knew, you wouldn’t come.”
“You’re damn straight, I wouldn’t have!”
Beckett came forward, his hands out in supplication. “Please, Chelsea. Try to see it from my point of view. I wanted you to come. I wanted to spend time with you. If you knew we’d spent the money just to get you here…”
“Then I’d realize I’m just a rented whore?”
Beckett braced himself on the table in front of him. “Never!”
“It’s true though, isn’t it?” She couldn’t believe she’d ever fallen for a single one of their lies. All those kisses in the dark. Their hands all over her. It didn’t mean anything.
She’d opened up her heart… almost thought… No. “I can’t do this.” She pushed at Beckett’s hands as he rushed around the table and tried to stop her. “I have to get out of here.”
“Don’t run away from us, Chelsea.” Bronx’s voice cut through the whooshing of the blood in her ears. “I’m sorry this trip started on a lie, but everything I’ve said to you since we’ve been here, everything I’ve felt when I’ve been with you has been true.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You should. Chelsea, I’m in—”
“No! Don’t you dare say it.” She couldn’t deal with a tortured confession. Not after he’d lied and strung her along and played her like a fiddle. She shook her head. “Don’t you dare say things you don’t mean.”