by Jamie Beck
“They are part of my family.”
“Like I could forget. Jenna and Gentry always make sure I know I’m on the outer circle.” She glanced down at her clothes and then up at Colby. “I’ll need a new dress.”
Colby wouldn’t invest in the preposterous fence, but she would buy her mom something pretty to wear. It would be a nice thing to do, to assuage her mother’s discomfort about seeing the “other” Cabots. “I’ll take you shopping at Pioneer Place on Sunday. Sky’s the limit. A whole new ensemble just for the party.”
Her mother smiled and patted her cheek. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I think I’ll bring a date, too.” She twirled a lock of hair in her finger, as if the gesture alone could transform her into an innocent young girl.
“Who?” The question escaped as more of a demand. Had her mother been seeing someone? It had been more than a year since the last “love” affair.
“I met a man last week at the dog park.”
“You don’t own a dog.”
“He didn’t know that. I pretended I was checking out the park to see if I wanted to bring my dog.”
“Your imaginary dog?”
“I could own a dog. Maybe I’ll get one.” Her mom shrugged with a pout. “It is lonely around here.”
Ignoring the bait, Colby rejoined, “That’s why you have Stitch.”
“He’s a loner.” Her mom flitted her hands in the air. “Like all of you.”
Round and round. Colby smacked her hand to her forehead. “Let’s get back to this man you met.”
“Richard.” An extra twinkle lit her mom’s eyes. “He’s very distinguished and has a poet’s heart.”
An image of a man with long, slicked-back silver hair, a trimmed goatee, and coal-black eyes sprang to life. Did he have a dog, or was he also a poser like her mom? “Really? A poet’s heart?”
“Don’t judge, Colby. He has a very sweet manner and zest for life.” Her mother grasped Colby’s hand and fingered her wedding band. “Come to think of it, maybe you should go to the dog park. There are lots of younger men there.”
“You want me to pretend to have a dog, too? No, thanks. Besides, I’m not interested in all that.” Her throat tightened unexpectedly, almost as if at the idea of romance. Her mom must’ve heard her voice catch, because she released Colby’s ring finger. Her family thought she still wore the platinum band because Mark had been the one true love of her life. She’d once thought he was, too, until he wasn’t. In truth, she wore it because, having failed to save Mark from himself, she owed it to him to keep some part of him alive.
In order to avoid another conversation about Mark and moving on, Colby added, “But please do bring Richard to the party. I’m filled with curiosity now. Should we squeeze in a trip to the pound this week? Are you thinking teacup poodle or golden Lab?”
“Now you’re just making fun of me.”
“Playfully teasing, Mom. There’s a difference.” She smiled and squeezed her mom’s hand. “But honestly, I’ve really got to go.”
Colby turned to go back through the house.
“What about my fence, Colby?” Her mom held her hands out to her sides. “If your father had been more generous, I wouldn’t need to ask for your help. Are you sure you can’t spare a little of the dividends you get from his business so I can build the stone wall? I thought you’d be proud of my new hobby.”
Her father had been generous at the time of the divorce, although Cabot Tea Company had still been in its early years. Her mom had opted for a cash settlement and alimony over stock. Bad decision in hindsight, although no one—not even her dad—had predicted CTC would become one of the largest privately owned tea companies in the country.
“I’m always proud of how you try new things, but I need to conserve my extra income now so one day I can buy Dad out of the restaurant. Otherwise I’ll be answering to Hunter forever.” When her mother frowned, she added, “We’ll go to Home Depot together. But at the moment, you might be wiser to fence in Stitch rather than those vegetables.”
“Where is that wanderer, anyway?”
“I put him on the porch after I almost ran him over.”
“Would you please take him inside? I need to finish up out here, even if the rabbits are going to eat everything before we get a fence installed.” She fluffed the back of her hair again, like some old-fashioned TV housewife.
Miraculously, Colby didn’t roll her eyes or mention the fact that perhaps her mom should’ve constructed the fence prior to planting. “I’ll grab him, then I’m leaving.”
Colby trotted through the house, but Stitch was no longer lazing on the porch. “Stitch?”
She meandered around the driveway, calling out his name before spotting him in the Morgans’ front yard. As a kid, she’d probably spent as much time in the Morgan home as she had her own. Ever since Joe died, she hadn’t crossed the invisible line that now existed between the two.
It seemed difficult to reconcile Mr. Morgan with the man who had once been so helpful to her mom after her dad left them—helping put up Christmas trees and string lights on the house, mowing the lawn until Hunter was old enough to take over. He’d always liked Colby when she’d been Joe’s buddy. Now he couldn’t stand the sight of her.
As if crossing hot coals, she dashed across their driveway to grab Stitch, who sat there staring at her with a bored expression on his furry face. She hoisted him up and tickled him under his chin. “I’d love to know what you’re thinking, old boy.”
That question reminded her of when she and Mark had been cat sitting while Mark had been manic. He’d spent two full days “talking” to Stitch, then relaying the cat’s thoughts to Colby. He also hadn’t been able to stop petting the poor animal, having been fascinated by the soft texture of his fur. She’d worried the cat would be bald by the time her mom returned.
Sighing, she forced the memory aside and started to cross back over the driveway, but Mr. Morgan pulled in. She froze, having only spoken to him twice since Joe died. Neither time had been particularly pleasant.
He rolled down the window, expression grim. No wonder he could effectively terrify criminals. “Tell your mom I won’t be responsible for that furball’s fate if she doesn’t keep him out of my yard.”
The window rolled back up before she could say a single word, and then Mr. Morgan pulled into his garage. Stung by the abrupt “greeting,” Colby took Stitch home and then got in her car, thankful she hadn’t peed her pants from fright. Clearly Alec’s return hadn’t diminished his dad’s grief.
Alec leaned against the gazebo railing and stared across the lake at the distant tip of Mount Hood. Lake Sandy, like most of the greater Portland area, was lushly populated with enormous lodgepole pines and other trees, swaddling the town in various shades of green.
The eco-friendly neighborhood, its retail outlets adorned with stuffed flower containers, surrounded the gorgeous lake. A paddleboarder took advantage of the break in the weather, idly crossing the lake’s dark, glassy surface. Hypnotic ripples fanned out in his wake. Peacefulness: a status Alec rarely sustained. Maybe someday.
For now, he’d simply enjoy the view.
Mougins, France, an ancient town fifteen miles from Cannes and populated with pine, olive, and cypress trees, had been a picturesque place to live for several years—at least, for those rare free hours he escaped the kitchen—but it had never awakened his senses like home.
Home. The word—the concept—didn’t quite fit. Not yet. Too many ghosts whispering in his ear: his brother, his father, his conscience.
“Alec.” Colby’s voice called from behind.
He glanced at his watch. Forty-five minutes on the nose. He smiled before turning around to watch her stroll down the lawn. She wore a pencil skirt that skimmed her knees. Its silk-blend fabric—painted with navy-blue and gray watercolors—contained a splash of red to match her short-sleeve button-down shirt. Classic, like her. A sun ray broke through the clouds, gl
inting off the gold and red streaks in her light-brown hair, and she joined him in the shade of the gazebo.
“This is gorgeous.” He gestured toward the lake, although she was just as pretty. His finely trained nose detected a new citrus scent in the air. Maybe her shampoo or perfume? He kept himself from being too obvious about catching another whiff.
“Hard to beat, right?” She stood beside him and glanced toward Mount Hood, unaware of the way every muscle in his body tightened from being so close. “The weather around here makes planning outdoor events iffy, but I hope some people will take advantage of the grounds.”
Working with the Cabots had been a gamble. His mother tolerated the idea. His father hated it. But Hunter had been a true friend to Alec, in good times and bad. Colby had been . . . Colby. There, but not there. Friendly, but beyond his reach.
Now she would be within reach. Every day, right there in front of him. It would be a fantasy come true if not for Mark’s note. That damn note he’d never shared with anyone.
“Getting the inside scoop on this property might be one of the best things to come from my old job,” she rambled on, blessedly oblivious to the conflict in his head and heart.
“I thought you enjoyed that work.” He leaned forward, redirecting his thoughts.
“I did at first. But lawyering is basically solving other people’s problems. No one comes to us when they’re happy. It can be draining.” She shrugged with a soft smile. “I needed a change. Here I’ll be working with people who are planning a wedding or celebrating another milestone. People who are already happy.”
Not for the first time, he noted a difference in her. Her former spunky attitude had been subdued. Did it lie dormant, or was it as dead as Joe and Mark?
“Just beware. Customers can be draining, too. Particular, demanding.” He leaned closer and murmured, “They don’t call some Bridezillas for nothing.”
She chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Her laughter seemed to brighten the sky. Of course, she usually had that effect on him.
“How’s Leslie?” Alec still remembered when Mrs. Cabot had insisted he call her by her first name. She’d always been a funny woman, so different from his more traditional mother.
“The same.” Colby grimaced. “Always looking for something new to fill the void. A cat, a garden, a dog, a poet . . .”
“A poet?” Alec could only imagine what that meant.
“Don’t ask.” She shook her head and grinned. “But I almost feel sorry for a stranger named Richard.”
Alec faced her. “Hunter used to call your mom the ‘black hole of neediness.’”
“One he had no interest in trying to fill.” She smirked.
“Unlike you.” He’d spent years watching Colby leap through hoops and over fences trying to keep her mother happy. To keep everyone happy, actually, including him. She’d sat with him, chatting away in the kitchen. He knew those visits had mostly been about sampling his food, but he suspected she’d also thought he’d needed company. Colby had never liked seeing anyone be lonely.
She glanced up, chagrined. “We both know Hunter was always smarter than me.”
“Not really. Just more focused, and less compassionate.” For a second he allowed himself to pretend that the warmth he saw in her eyes was more than a melancholy memory of faded friendship. “I always thought your mom was fun.”
“To think I thought you were smart, too.” She playfully punched his arm, like the old days.
He laughed. The foreign feeling caught in his chest, and for the first time in forever, a thread of real hope weaved through him. “You know, you’re a lot like your mom, or you used to be, anyway.”
“In what way?” She sounded horrified.
“Are you really going to pretend you were never outlandish?” When she raised her brows in question, he continued. “Remember when you wanted to be a hair stylist and asked me to let you cut my hair after you’d destroyed all your old doll heads?”
“And you let me.” She grinned, one brow raised. “You were brave.”
Or stupidly infatuated, which maybe was the same thing. Having her fingers running over his scalp had been worth every penny he’d spent later to fix the bad haircut.
“Or before that, when you were desperate to see the Seattle Space Needle, but your mom refused to drive you, so you decided you could bike there . . . at night.”
“Well, I did have that new ten-speed,” she teased. “Meanwhile, you crushed my dream. After you told on me, my mom locked up my bike for weeks.”
“I had to tell. If you and Joe had sneaked off like you’d threatened, it would’ve been a disaster.”
The mere mention of Joe—whose life had ended in disaster, anyway—soaked up every hint of humor like a dry sponge.
“I just ran into your dad . . . sort of.” Colby gripped the railing.
“Sort of?”
“Stitch was camped out in your yard. Your dad pulled into the driveway before I made my getaway. He paused long enough to warn me to keep Stitch off the property.” She twisted her wedding band. “He still blames me for bringing Mark into Joe’s life.”
Alec knew that to be true and wouldn’t lie—at least not about that much.
“Do you?” Her stiff demeanor informed him that she expected a yes. He’d suspected she believed that and had been dreading working with him, which made sense given that she had no idea why he’d retreated from her these past years.
“No.” He didn’t blame Colby. If anything, she suffered as much as anyone. She’d loved Joe, and she’d loved and lost her husband, too. The irony of it all was how much Alec blamed himself for the entire mess.
“Thank you.”
“Saying goodbye to Joe wasn’t easy for any of us. My dad can’t seem to get over missing all the day-to-day things they’ll never do. It’s almost like he resents the future.” Alec rested his hip against the railing. “Maybe you do, too, having lost Mark before you had kids.”
Colby looked away, but not before he saw pain cross her eyes. He should’ve kept quiet. Now all he wanted to do was hold her, although that desire persisted regardless of a reason.
Mark. Like always, the name summoned the memory of the man’s bold signature. Alec’s stomach churned. He didn’t remember every word of the three-page handwritten letter, which had skipped from thought to thought. All he did recall was the part he should’ve told someone.
“I can’t eat. I can’t keep living this way, Alec. You and your family have to forgive me, please.”
Only words, he’d told himself back then, when he’d been too caught up in his own remorse to care about forgiving anyone else. Mark had always been prone to exaggeration. Moody. Sometimes entertaining, with his big ideas and energy, other times sullen and lethargic.
Alec had never for one second actually believed the guy was suicidal, so he’d tossed the note and ignored him. Said nothing. Warned no one. A week later, Mark dived off their balcony right in front of Colby.
The familiar pang of guilt wedged itself inside his chest now as he imagined her horror at that moment. Did it haunt her? Did she have nightmares?
She must. He did.
Maybe working together was too big of a gamble, after all.
“And what about you?” she asked. “Are your parents more clingy now?”
He snickered, God help him. “I think we both know my dad would rather it’d been me who took that dare.”
Accustomed to his father’s disdain, it barely even hurt to admit that aloud. Barely. He wished that he didn’t care at all. That he didn’t need to reunite his family. That the nonsensical, childlike part of him wouldn’t still like his dad’s approval. Approval he’d never win if his dad knew about his fight with Joe.
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Colby sighed. “I’m sorry for so much . . .”
She glanced at Mount Hood, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Her preoccupation gave his bleak thoughts another chance to rise. For two years he’d stewed in hi
s own guilt until his skin hurt as if torn open like a tomato dropped into boiling water.
Perhaps if he’d come clean back then—about Mark’s plea, about his fight with Joe—he wouldn’t have lost his way, his reputation, his restaurant. Colby might not have lost a husband and the future she’d been planning. She’d still be warm and carefree. His parents would still have both of their kids.
With no way to go back and fix those mistakes, he could only atone for them now. If he confessed, she might fire him, and then he’d never be able to help her reclaim the life she was meant to have.
Colby wanted a fresh start and second chance at happiness. She might still grieve the death of her husband, but Alec would make her dream for A CertainTea a reality.
Ironically, doing so might make her see him as something more than the shy geek who liked to play in the kitchen. Years of slaving under the supervision of egocentric perfectionists had taught him about command. He’d honed those skills in a relentless pursuit of perfection to prove to his dad and Joe that he wasn’t a joke.
And then everything fell apart. Now he’d have to work twice as hard to reclaim his reputation and make his father see him as a “man’s man” like Joe.
Colby might see him that way, too. He smiled then, even as he knew his were futile dreams. “Let’s go inside and talk.”
Once they were seated at a table, he led the conversation. “I’m planning to rotate the menu on a weekly basis, selecting seasonally appropriate options. Hunter said it’ll be a dinner-only restaurant, open Wednesday through Sunday, excepting special bookings for weddings or other parties.”
“That’s the plan. Well, that and the Saturday-afternoon tea service.”
Tea service?
“I’ll come back to that in a second. First, you might consider making Sunday a brunch and closing early. Brunches can often draw a bigger crowd than dinner on Sundays. With Monday and Tuesday off, the early dismissal also extends the staff’s ‘weekend.’ Given that during normal days, they’ll be clocking twelve or more hours on their feet, that can be a much-appreciated break.”