“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”
—OSCAR WILDE
Brock stared at that one particular quote, one of the hundreds of quotes he’d amassed over the years, handwritten in his leather-bound journal, for quite some time before he finally fell asleep after returning from Savannah’s.
He didn’t know what time he’d pushed out of bed after hours of tossing and turning, solid slumber proving impossible. He sat in the laundry room awhile, watching the puppies. Willow gave him the once-over as if to say, “What’s your problem now?” He stroked her soft head and waited for his heart to quit pounding so hard, but it hadn’t yet. And every time he thought about the moment he’d taken Savannah Barrington into his arms, it thumped harder.
He wasn’t sure there’d ever been a time in his life when he’d reacted on pure physical instinct like that. The worst of it was, he didn’t regret it. The only thing he did regret was the look on Savannah’s face when she realized what she’d done. What they’d almost done.
Would he have?
He shook off the thought. He wouldn’t let his mind go there. The answer, the truth, was too damning.
Eventually he left the warm laundry room for the kitchen and made some attempts at fixing breakfast. Now he stood at the kitchen counter and chopped and diced until his eyes began to water. The sun crested over the trees some time ago and he was on his third cup of coffee.
“Good morning, dear.” Clarice shuffled into the kitchen promptly at seven, already dressed and wearing those abominable pink slippers Maysie insisted on purchasing for her on her last birthday.
“Coffee’s hot. I’m making pancakes and omelets.” Brock poured milk into the pancake mix and smashed an egg open. Yellow yolk slid into the white batter and he began to beat it mercilessly with a wooden spoon.
“Lovely.” His aunt fixed herself a cup and sidled up beside him as he reached for the chopping board. She gave a little sniff. “Brock?”
“What?”
“Does Maysie like onions in her pancakes?”
Brock’s hand stilled as he watched a few chopped onions slide into the bowl. Crap. “No, I don’t reckon she does.” He shook his head and marched across the kitchen to the garbage can.
“Mmm.” Clarice sat and watched him as he moved around, cleaning up the mess he’d made, and started over. “You were out late last night.”
“Was I?”
“After midnight. I looked at my clock when the hall light went out.”
“Was Maysie okay?” A pinch of guilt pricked him. He probably should have called.
“She was fine. She likes Savannah. I assume that’s where you were.”
Brock reached for an apple. Apples were safe. And highly choppable.
Clarice made a little singsong noise in her throat. “I imagine, given the way you’re decimating that unfortunate piece of fruit, you’re thinking the same thing I am.”
“Which would be?” He kept his back to her. His chest tightened and he knew what he was in for. Knew he deserved it too, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.
“This can’t happen.”
“Why?” He spun around and glared, ignoring her astonishment. “Why can’t it? What is so wrong with me wanting a little happiness? Tell me that, Aunt Clarice. Then tell me how I’m supposed to do this—deal with this—because I’m all out of answers here!”
“You might want to keep your voice down.” Clarice’s quiet but pointed words singed him.
Brock exhaled, picked up his mug, and joined her at the table. He sat for a long time with his head in his hands. Neither of them spoke. Birds sang their morning song like any other day. The clock in the hall chimed on the half hour. Martin squawked his annoyance at not having breakfast.
Everything happened in sequence the way it always did every morning. But today his heart was in turmoil. Entirely his own doing; he let himself get sucked in, let his fascination with the beautiful woman next door go too far, but he didn’t know how to rectify the problem. Couldn’t write his way out of this one.
“Brock.” The way his aunt said his name made him snap his head up. He knew what she was about to ask, but let her anyway. “Did you . . . sleep with her?”
“No.” He breathed out a curse and closed his eyes. “But God help me, I wanted to.”
“God will help you,” she replied in that soft-spoken tone he loved so well. “I suspect he’s the only one who can at this point.” Her poignant sigh simmered and burned a hole through his conscience. “Is Savannah all right?”
Brock drummed his fingers on the table and met her inquiring eyes. “She’s confused. Which makes two of us. On top of it, her lawyer told her that her husband hasn’t signed the divorce papers. That he might want to reconcile.”
“Yes.” Clarice took off her spectacles and wiped them with a paper napkin. “Yes, I suspect he does.”
This was getting tiresome.
Brock gave a low growl of frustration. “Don’t you ever get tired of looking in that crystal ball of yours, Aunt Clarice?”
She stared straight at him and raised both eyebrows, her mouth pinched. “My dear boy, I have no crystal ball. I simply pay attention to what I see and hear and feel. It might serve you well to do the same.”
“This isn’t fair.” His eyes burned, but he didn’t care. There was too much emotion in him. It had been begging to be let out for so long, and now he couldn’t stop it. “None of this is fair. Not to me. Not to Maysie. Not to—”
“Since when do you get to make the rules, Brock Chandler? And since when is life fair? It isn’t, and you of all people know that. But we must accept the lot we are given, no matter how much it hurts.”
“What if I don’t want to accept it?” He leaned forward, paid no attention to the tears in her eyes, and barreled on. “What if there’s another way? What if I . . .” He flinched and put a hand to his head. After a year, he figured he’d be used to the white-hot pain, but it still took him by surprise and sent him sailing. “There has to be another way.”
“No. There does not have to be.” Clarice shook her head. “I pray there is, but . . . how many doctors do you have to see before you’ll accept the truth?”
“I’ll see them all until I find one who tells me something different.” He sank against the back of his chair and raked his fingers through his hair. “I have an appointment in New York next week. After New Year’s. A specialist at Sloan Kettering. He’s new.”
“I see. And you’ll leave Maysie with me, I gather.”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Have you told Savannah?”
“No.” Brock pushed back, the legs of his chair scraping against tile. “I think she has enough to deal with, don’t you?” He steadied his breathing, returned to the counter, and began to fix a fresh batter. Maysie would be up soon and she’d be hungry. Martin squawked again. “Your bird wants his breakfast.”
Clarice placed her empty mug in the sink, came to stand beside him, and put a hand on his arm. “Brock. You mean the world to me, and I’d do anything to take your pain away. But I don’t think we can. Go to New York if you must. But you won’t be able to hide the truth much longer. And you shouldn’t want to.”
“I know.” He could barely speak. Clarice nodded.
“Please be careful, Brock, for both your sakes. Remember you’re not the only one in this world with feelings. Attraction is a heady thing. And sometimes it can be dangerous. Don’t fall in love with her.”
Brock blew air through his mouth and winced as more white fire shot across his forehead.
Too late, Aunt Clarice. Too late.
Christmas Day gaiety reverberates through the entire house and bounces off the walls. Peg’s four kids and Maysie are charging around. I’d shoo them outside but the temperature has dropped and Maysie’s still got a bit of a cough. Graham, Peg’s seven-year-old, screeches like a banshee as he runs through the kitchen, a blur of denim and blond hair. I love my sister, but her parenting skills leave much to be desired.
From high school on, Peg spent a lot of years on the riding circuit, a hopeful Olympian equestrian at one point. She married later in life, and she and Hugh turned having babies into a recreational activity. I think they’re done now. I hope they’re done.
Dad and Adam are watching football, Zoe’s around somewhere, on her phone with Tim, and Peg, Mom, and I are scrambling to get dinner on the table. Much to my surprise, Clarice is having a rather lively discussion about racehorses with Peg’s husband. Paul and his family should be here any moment. And Brock is hanging out with us in the kitchen.
“Is it cooking? Shouldn’t it be darker than that?” I peer into the oven. Brock puts a hand on my shoulder and looks in. I try not to move. The longer I stand there staring at the turkey, his touch searing through my cashmere sweater, the easier it’ll be to pretend like this is okay. We’ve been sidestepping each other since they arrived two hours ago. Every time I look at him, all I can think about is . . . what I’m not supposed to think about.
I let the man kiss me.
I kissed him back.
And . . . if I must be honest, I enjoyed it.
The memory has kept me up nights, guilt gaining the upper hand over the self-righteous side of me that says I have every right to act on my feelings. Kevin did. Why shouldn’t I? But it’s not that simple. It will never be that simple. Not for me.
The kids make another noisy pass through and I jump.
Brock squeezes my shoulder. “I don’t suppose we can muzzle them?”
“I wish.” His expression makes me smile, so I turn back to the bird. “What do you think?”
“Where’s the bourbon?” He steps back and Peg hands him the bottle. Her eyes are positively gleeful as she sends me a knowing look.
“Oh, I do like you, Mr. Chandler. Savannah, can you keep him?”
My mother looks up from where she’s putting together the biggest salad I’ve ever seen. Salads are her forte. “Land sakes, Peg. He’s not a stray animal!” She laughs. Like this is actually funny. Nothing about this strange and sad situation is funny. I glare at both of them and hope and pray they get the message and keep their mouths closed.
“I’d give it another hour.” Brock snaps the oven shut and swishes what’s left in the bottle, looks at me with a wicked grin, and slugs it back.
“You did not just do that.” I grab the bottle from him and shake my head. Good thing there’s none left because I’m tempted to do the same. “I thought southerners were supposed to be all refined and genteel like. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me, Mother?”
“Well, now, that depends, sug-ah.” She folds a dishtowel and slips an arm through Brock’s. “There are those refined southern gentlemen who have much to offer, to be sure, but then there are the bad boys . . . and I suspect you’re a little bit of both, aren’t you, Mr. Chandler?”
“I reckon so, ma’am.” And he actually winks at her.
“Yeah, he’s a regular Rhett Butler.” I roll my eyes and pitch the empty bottle into the trash. I knew they’d get along the minute my mother laid eyes on him. She knew who he was at once, of course. She’s also a fan. Unfortunately, she took one look at me and in less than ten minutes had pieced together the entire scenario without me saying a word. I am so not looking forward to the moment she hustles me off alone.
“Tim says hi.” Zoe wanders into the kitchen and resumes work on the vegetable platter. Maysie skips in and throws her arms around her daddy’s legs.
“I just love Christmas!” she declares with all the enthusiasm a child her age should have this time of year.
“Me too.” Zoe’s smile warms my heart. I can’t remember when I’ve last seen her so happy. She remembers Shelby, of course, and stared slack-jawed when I introduced Maysie to her earlier the afternoon she and Adam arrived. But I simply shrugged and she recovered, and I think she’s found a new best friend for life.
“Can I stay in here with you? Those boys are loud!” Maysie sticks her fingers in her ears.
Zoe laughs, pushes her dark curls over her shoulder, and nods. “Sure. Sit up here beside me and you can help me make this look pretty.”
Brock plops Maysie on a stool next to Zoe, and they’re soon busy setting out tomatoes and cucumbers, carrots and red and green peppers, and singing along to “Jingle Bells.” Brock pokes his finger in the dip to taste it before putting it in the middle of the platter.
“Ew.” Zoe rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. Brock Chandler has that effect on women. She’s watching me too carefully, though, and I do my best to avoid eye contact with him. I’m not sure if it’s just me or if everyone has picked up on the energy that seems to sizzle between us. If I could get rid of it, I would, but for now I’ve decided the best course of action is to pretend it’s not there.
“Want to check the potatoes, Brock?” Oops. I looked at him. Big mistake.
“Sure thing.” He’s staring back at me, and for a moment I can’t remember what I asked. His grin says he can’t either. “Um . . . what was that?”
“Check. Potatoes.” I think.
“Now?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” I want to get lost in those eyes. Seriously lost.
“You’re kind of in the way, darlin’.” I’m standing in front of the stove. He clears his throat and moves me aside.
“Mercy, it’s warm in here!” Peg crows.
Sometimes I really do not like my sister.
Time to set the table. I reach for the plates and do another mental head count. My mother is a big believer in owning more china and silverware than she will ever use, so we’re good to go.
“Can I help, Miss Savannah?” Maysie is done with the vegetables and jumps off her stool, sticks the landing, and throws her arms up like the professional gymnast she’s recently decided she wants to be.
“Sure.” There’s a commotion in the living room and I go to see what’s happening. Adam and the kids are at the long window, their noses pressed to the glass. “Is it Paul?”
“Sug-ah.” Mom comes up beside me, waves her cell phone in my face. “Paul’s flight was delayed. He says he’s sorry, but there’s a snowstorm and they won’t get in until tomorrow.”
“Oh.” I squint and try to make out the shadowy car coming up the drive. “Then who—“
“Ma.” Adam walks toward me, confusion stamped across his face. He scratches his chin and gives his lanky shoulders a shrug. “I don’t know what he’s doing here, but that’s Dad.”