She held up one finger. "You tell me your story and then I'll tell you mine."
"My mom and sisters paid me a visit this afternoon. It was one of their usual 'we love you so we're going to say terrible things' shows. I rolled my eyes so hard, I burned calories."
"About what?" Brooke cried. "I want to know about these terrible things so I can dispute each one."
"They've heard rumors about me and Jackson," I said. "They don't feel we're well matched."
"And why the fuck not?" Brooke asked, her brow crinkled. "Aside from being jealous that you snagged the prime rib while they have to go home to their ground beef, what's the complaint?"
"They claim Jackson needs a wife to iron his shirts and make casseroles for dinner." I pointed at myself. "And I'm not qualified on either count."
Brooke waved a hand in front of her face as she blinked, processing my response. "I'm sorry, I'm so confused right now. Are we saying that Sheriff Lau, the former badass lieutenant from the New York State Police, is capable of neither dressing nor feeding himself? Is that a correct summation of the facts as presented?"
I held up my hands. "Apparently, yes. They want me to get out of the way of the women who can do that for him, and also, I'm pathetic and embarrassing because all I do is follow around guys who don't want me."
I'd tried to keep a cavalier attitude about this. Tried to shake those barbs off. But my voice caught on those last three words and tears surged to my eyes. I refused to cry, not because I couldn't be vulnerable with Brooke but because my sisters didn't deserve that much of a reaction from me.
"And they hate this dress," I added.
"Honest to god," Brooke said, holding up her hand. "I want to throw rocks at them. Can we go now? Please? At least let me slash their tires. I've always wanted to do that."
"Maybe then you'd get arrested and I could force an interaction with Jackson," I said, sniffle-laughing.
"I'd get arrested for you any day. Twice on a day when Jackson was doing the cuffing," she said. "Okay so you've told me about the evil stepsisters—"
"They're notstepsisters," I argued.
"I don't care," Brooke replied. "They act like evil stepsisters. You're their Cinderella. It's obnoxious and I want to go slash their tires after you explain why this means you're on the outs with Jackson."
I reached for the wine and topped off our glasses. "He overheard some of it. The part where I didn't object when my mother decided she was going to fix me up. Probably more. With my luck, I'm sure he heard the whole damn thing and tallied up all the times I let my sisters believe nothing was going on between us."
"Yeah, that was a brilliant move," she said.
"Thanks. Really, thank you. I needed someone to crystalize it for me."
Brooke leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. "I'm just wondering why you didn't tell them to get the fuck out of your business. Even if Jackson hadn't heard anything, it would've addressed the issue of your people being shit-stirrers drunk on their own stew."
"Because it's easier to ignore them than engage," I replied. "Every family has its issues. Mine is chronically miffed by everything I do. Does it mean I'm going to cut them off, never talk to them again? No. Does it mean they're going to listen if I raise hell and insist they knock their shit off? Also, no. I have to make peace with who I am and who they are, and stop letting their issues impact me. It doesn't matter what they think about my clothes or my work, and it doesn't matter whether they think I'm good enough for Jackson."
Brooke traced the rim of her glass before saying, "The only difference between you and Cinderella is that Cinderella actively tried to get the fuck out of the attic when the prince came around with the glass slipper. You're sitting here with me and the bucket of wine. Seems like you've chosen poorly."
I gave her a bland face. "You asked me here to talk. Have you forgotten that part?"
"Not at all," she said. "But if you'd mentioned that you were due to follow up on some pressing matters with Sheriff Prime Rib, I would've understood." She brought her hand to her chest. "I'ma good person. Unlike those sister bitches of yours,Iactually care about you. I'm also living vicariously through your adventures with the man meat but I'm still a good person."
"A good person who yelled at Jackson today," I added. "What was that all about?"
Brooke glanced away, picking at the cheese plate between us. She blew out a breath, sipped her wine, then turned her attention back to the plate. She was quiet for a minute or two, focused only on freeing the grapes from their stems.
"I yelled at Jackson because he told me my dad isn't okay," she said slowly. "He's right. That's why I yelled at him. Dad isn't okay and I don't know what to do."
I reached over and gripped her hand. "I know, but we'll figure it out."
The details were hazy but I knew enough to fill in many of the blanks. I used to see Judge Markham in the village every day, but over the past two years, he seemed to fade away.
He used to walk down, pick up a newspaper, and read it cover to cover at DiLorenzo's counter while eating his standard order of fried eggs and with a side of pancakes. He'd always attended the town council meetings, often piping up with minutes-long monologues about laws and regulations, local history, and the ways things used to be around here. But he'd retreated into his gardens, ate his breakfast at home, skipped meetings. And then Brooke returned to the Cove, leaving a big career and a big life in Manhattan. As close as we were, she had yet to mention the reason for her return.
But it didn't matter whether I had the full story or not. Brooke was my friend and I could support her without getting a complete accounting of the issues.
