“All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.”
—HAVELOCK ELLIS
Not quite what he’d wanted to hear, but perhaps there was hope. If he allowed it.
Brock exited the hospital, eager to be rid of its stifling air and smothering, life-altering prognoses, stepped out into the winter sun, and headed for the bar where Mitch was waiting.
Mitchell sat in a booth near the back of the dimly lit establishment, eyes glued to his iPhone.
He’d flown in from Zurich yesterday, at Brock’s request. Dressed in skinny jeans, brown Oxfords, and a white button-down, with a discarded leather jacket beside him, Mitch could easily pass for a twenty-five-year-old hipster rather than a high-powered international lawyer.
At thirty-seven, his brother had been to more countries than Brock could count. His ridiculously high-paying job took him all over the world into some of the most well-known boardrooms—and, often, bedrooms. Sadly, Mitch’s reputation among the crowd of rich and famous friends he seemed to attract like bees to honey was not exaggerated.
Brock had hoped to see his brother settled down by now. Still, when he called Mitch a few days ago to ask if he would meet him in New York, that it was important, he hadn’t hesitated.
Now Brock almost regretted asking him to come. He’d kept his diagnosis from Mitchell because he wasn’t sure how his brother would handle the news. So, for the past year, he’d made Clarice promise not to say a word and had kept things to himself, hoping the situation might improve. But last night he came clean. And Mitch had been furious. Understandably so. But his brother never stayed angry long.
Mitch hated hospitals. Refused to go anywhere near them since the day their mother died. Brock counted himself lucky that Mitch had agreed to be with him today. Still, Brock gave him an out and suggested meeting after his appointments.
“Hey.” He took off his jacket and lowered himself into the booth opposite his brother.
Mitchell pocketed his phone and looked up through worried eyes. “Well?”
Brock sighed, laced his fingers together. “Well. I could use a drink, and you’re gonna need one.”
Mitch needed more than one. He was on his second double Scotch before he finally spoke. “That’s it? This is the only option?”
“I guess.” Brock glared into his bourbon, tempted to chug it.
Mitch swore, his eyes glistening. “No. This is crap.”
Brock shrugged. “I sort of expected it. At this point I’m not sure it’s wise to hold out much hope.”
“You gonna do the operation?” Mitch’s eyes narrowed. “Brock. You have to have the operation.”
“Why? So I can be dead a few months earlier?” He finished his drink and signaled for another. The waitress brought menus with the next round. Brock wasn’t hungry but knew he needed food.
The crazy thing was, weeks ago he would have jumped at this option. A chance to live. But now he wasn’t so sure. It was a long shot at best. The specialist was honest at least. They’d only done the operation three or four times with a fifty-fifty success rate. Fifty-fifty. Only slightly better than his current odds.
“And what if it works?” Mitch drummed his fingers on the table, agitated. “What if—“
“That’s a heck of a big what-if, little brother. You’re the gambler in the family. Not me.”
Mitch gave a slow grin. He mussed his blond hair and trained his gaze on Brock. “Well, excuse me for pointing out the obvious, Captain Doom, but at this juncture it’s not like you have anything to lose.”
“Ooh. So true. Glad to see that law degree isn’t going to waste.” Brock scowled and flipped open the menu. “Think I’ll have a burger. Haven’t had a good cheeseburger in a long while.”
“Great.” Mitch’s grin faded. “You’ve just been told you’ve got six months, give or take, unless you have an operation that may or may not kill you, and you want to talk about food.”
“May as well go out fat and happy.” Brock tried to smile, but the sudden anguish on his brother’s face stopped him. “Look, I would have told you before now, but . . .” He didn’t really have a good excuse. He hadn’t told Mitchell for a few reasons, but mostly because he didn’t want to face the look he was seeing now. Didn’t want to have to tell his brother he was going to need to plan yet another funeral.
The waitress stopped by and took their lunch order.
“Yeah. You should have told me. But I know why you didn’t. And to be honest, part of me appreciates that.” Mitch shook his head and gulped from his glass. “Clarice knows, I gather.”
Brock nodded.
“And your agent? Your publisher?” Brock nodded again.
“Maysie?”
“No.” Brock shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Well. This sucks.” Mitch swore, peeled a bit of skin off his sunburned nose, and blew air through his lips. “Have the operation. At least leave it open for discussion. You have a daughter to consider.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Brock sat back, hoping the food would hurry up. The booze was giving him a buzz that wasn’t making him feel any better. “What do you think keeps me up at night? It’s not the thought of dying, Mitchell.”
“What will happen if . . . I mean, Clarice is pretty old. And I’m . . .” He looked away and blinked hard. “You’re not going to ask me to take her, are you?”
Brock couldn’t stop a chuckle. He’d thought about it. Once. At the beginning. Thought maybe Mitch might clean up his act. Might actually sort out his life and come through for his niece if push came to shove. But he’d quickly moved on.
“Don’t worry, you’re off the hook. There’s a plan. It’s pretty wacked and I don’t fully understand it yet, but Aunt Clarice has been trying to convince me it’s what needs to be done.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that. What plan?” Mitch looked back at him, doubt marring his face. “I thought Gabby didn’t have any family.”
“She doesn’t. Didn’t.”
Gabrielle’s mother died when she was only ten. Her father couldn’t cope with the grief and turned to alcohol, practically ignoring his young daughter. She’d learned to fend for herself at an early age, but Brock suspected the pain of her father’s rejection had never quite dissipated. It had been what connected them, he supposed. He knew what it was like, having gone through his folks splitting up, missing a parent. Feeling like you got the short end of the stick somehow.
“There may be one or two cousins someplace, but no immediate family. After her dad died, she was pretty much on her own.”
Mitch scowled. “Well, whatever this plan is, it better be good. I love Clarice, but you know . . .” Mitch hummed Twilight Zone music and Brock grinned. If his brother only knew the half of it.
The food arrived and they got busy. After a few bites, nausea got the better of him and Brock pushed his plate to one side. His cell buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out.
Savannah. A smile moved across his face, unbidden. He glanced up to find Mitch watching him with interest. “You mind if I take this?”
“By all means.” Mitch continued to eat but kept one eye on him.
Brock swiveled in the booth, stretched out his legs, and put the phone to his ear. “City Morgue.”
Savannah’s giggle made him grin.
“Brock. Don’t be an idiot. How’d it go?”
“It went.” Brock arched a brow as Mitch leaned in a little closer, grinning like a kid. “I’m having lunch with my brother. Who is apparently dying to know all about the beautiful woman I’m talking to right now.”
“Well, I’d like to know about her too.” She laughed and his heart lurched. “So what happened? Are you okay? What did they say?”
“Um. I’ll fill you in when I get home. How’s Maysie?”
“She’s good. She misses you. So does Clarice, although she’d never admit it. When are you flying back?”
Brock drummed his fingers on the rough-hewn table and watched Mitch down the rest of his drink. He didn’t like the tremor in his brother’s hands. Maybe he should spend some time with him. While he could. “Not sure yet. I’ll let you know. Do you mind staying over there a few more nights?”
“Not at all.” Her pause was longer than he liked. “You’re not okay, are you?”
Brock pressed his lips together and stared at the floor. “I’ve had better days.”
“I wish there was something I could do.” She was tearful, and he knew he needed to let her go.
“You’re doing it. Give Maysie a hug from me, and tell Clarice I’ll call later, okay?”
“I will. Well, I just wanted to make sure you know . . .”
“I know.” He closed his eyes a moment. “Thanks.”
“You’re taking care of yourself?”
“Three square meals a day and in bed by six.”
“Liar. Brock, you promised you’d—”
“Darlin’, I’m fine. Quit worrying. I’ll call you back tonight and you can nag all you want.”
“Oh, goody. I’ll make a list.” Savannah laughed at his low growl. “All right. Ack, Hope just peed on the floor. I’d better go.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling.” Brock hung up and faced his brother’s inquiring gaze. “Don’t ask.”
“Oh, no sir!” Mitch shook his head and let out a low whistle. “You’re not getting away that easy. Spill it.”
Brock groaned and took another bite of his burger. Mitch would only hound him until the truth came out. May as well get it over with. “Her name is Savannah. Her family owns the house next door to Clarice. We’re friends. Just. Friends.”
“Sav-an-nah.” Mitch sat back, muscles flexing beneath his shirt. “Just friends, my rear. I’ve said that enough times to know what it means.”
“She’s married, Mitch.”
His brother stared, slack-jawed. And then he erupted. Mitch’s laughter rang around the room and caused several heads to turn in their direction. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to know I’m no longer the only nefarious Chandler.”
Brock slunk a little lower in his chair and glared. “Would you keep your voice down? It’s not like that. It’s . . . I don’t know what it is. And I refuse to discuss it here.” Or anywhere, for that matter.
Mitch was still laughing. “Whatever you say, big guy. Well, I’ll be a pig on a spit. After that revelation I need another drink.”
“No.” Brock pressed his hands onto the table and pinned his brother with a scathing look. “Mitchell. You do not need another drink. I’ve got things I need taken care of, and I need you to do that for me. I need your head in the game, man. Please.”
“Don’t get your blood pressure up.” Mitch sobered and signaled the waitress for the check. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He sighed, ran a hand down his face, and gave a sad smile. “I know I haven’t always been there for you. Haven’t been someone you could count on, and I’m sorry for that. But I’m here now. You have my word. Whatever you need, just ask.”
Brock nodded, relief untying the knot in his stomach. For all his faults, Mitchell never went back on his word. “Thank you. So, if you’re free the rest of the week, what do you think about flying to Atlanta? Spend a few days in our old stomping grounds. Go see Dad.”
“Heaven help us.” Mitch rolled his eyes and chuckled as he counted out a few bills and slipped them into the leather binder that held their check. “Figured that was coming. What’s the point? He won’t know we’re there, Brock.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Brock stood and pulled on his jacket. “I’ll know.”