A crooked, half-sad smile twists on my lips. “I think my brother wanted me to learn something, I just wish…I wish he’d not been so cryptic. He was always a pain in the backside.”
“You sound very close.”
Her words hit me like a slap. Even my head snapped backward a little.
“What?” She asks, but I can’t make myself answer. “What’s wrong?” she tries again, this time rising up on her knees, her face full of concern.
Chapter Seventeen
Lessa
If I didn’t know better, I’d say Brandon was about to cry.
Why did I have to mention his brother? They clearly were very close, and he lost him only a few months ago; it’s obviously still a very raw wound.
Looking around the bare kitchen for something to make him feel better, my eyes land on the drinks’ cabinet. The cognac bottle is a quarter empty, and I don’t drink anymore, so he must have liked it, at least a bit. I get up, find a glass, and pour him a generous measure.
“I must look terrible.” He reaches up to take the glass from me.
He doesn’t look terrible at all. He looks handsome and tragic, and almost irresistible as he knocks the brandy back, his throat working to swallow.
I hadn’t lied when I told him I wasn’t interested. My heart belongs to Clive, of course it does. But that doesn’t make me blind.
“Another?” I hold the bottle down to him. He takes it from me and pours more into his glass, but this time drinks it more slowly.
I’ve never lost anyone in my immediate family, so I have no idea how to console him. Anyway, silence is probably the best thing in these situations, so I go back to my place, find another cushion to put behind my back, and settle into what I hope is companionable silence.
He pours himself another drink.
The brewers at Remy Martell, wherever they are, no doubt hoped people would sip their cognac and appreciate the loving care taken over it. Brandon, I suspect can’t even taste it right now.
“We weren’t close. Not as close as we should have been.” He finally speaks, his voice sounds rough as if he’s not used to talking. “The last time I saw him was Christmas three years ago. He’d come up to London for two weeks, but I could only spare the day. Concert commitments.” He scoffs on the last two words as if it was a betrayal. “So, we spent the day with my mother, her new husband, and my uncle’s family. Everyone was there for the day. Liam and I didn’t have a chance to talk much. The Christmas after that I was on tour in America,Handel’sMessiah.” He says as if playing music was a cheap excuse.
“And the year after that, my mother was recently divorced and had just fallen in love with a new man. I had no intention of going home to witness all the drama, so I spent the break skiing with a girlfriend.”
He sips a little cognac. “Liam and I exchanged emails and postcards. He wrote about his life here. I sent postcards from Vienna, Tokyo, Seoul, Leipzig, Dubai, Sydney… teasing him about wasting his life on a tiny island. Then, he left me his cottage and a list of deathbed wishes for me to fulfil. Things I would have laughed in his face if he’d asked me to do when he was alive.”
Brandon brings his knees up, rests his head back against the kitchen cupboard, and clasps his hands over his knees. He has nice hands with long fingers, a musician’s hands. Yet he’s been putting them through all kinds of abuse, sanding floorboards and digging up dead trees in the garden.
This is the longest, most revealing conversation I’ve ever had with him. Something tells me he normally doesn’t talk like that. I’m a speech writer, and I know how to use words and phrases. Brandon’s awkward clunky sentences, his unfinished thoughts, all of them are shorthand for something he can’t quite articulate.
“And you want to do what he asked because you feel guilty,” I say as gently as I can.
He glances at me, thinking. After a while, a surprising half-smile breaks on his face. “You must have been really something back in Westminster.”
My mouth opens and shuts a few times.
“Lessa?” He shifts a little closer. “I have a lot to learn about how to do the friendship thing. So, I’m not sure I have much to offer you. But if you are willing to take a risk on me, then I would like to try.”
I take a moment to answer because his offer deserves serious consideration. Since getting into politics, I’ve lost more friends than I made. Three weeks ago, when I met Millie in the village, I caught myself thinking she’s a friend even though I’ve only seen her three times. I’d say Brandon was ahead of the game. Besides, he made me a plate of – I glance down on the floor beside me – crackers, cheese, jam, and pesto.
“Anyone who can invent snacks that I actually want to eat is quite possibly my best friend.” I laugh. “The rest we can learn together.” I hold out my hand. “Deal?”
“Deal.” He takes my hand and shakes it.
For a Christmas-that-isn’t, it feels like I’ve just been offered one of the nicest presents I could have wished for.
Chapter Eighteen
