“Anytime, Brodie, you know that.”
There had been many times when Brodie wished Uncle Joel had been his dad. Uncle Joel would do things like get his guitar out at a family gathering and, with no apology in the face of Emmett’s derision, agree with Brodie’s mom that it would be a good time for a song. Brodie would watch him and Aunt Eleanor singing so unselfconsciously together and marvel, almost wistfully, at the idea of two people aligning in such a way, while his dad rolled his eyes and sloped off outside. Just the idea of simple merriment was so alien to Emmett. The idea that his dad might laugh. Uncle Joel laughed all the time. He tapped his foot as he strummed his guitar and he closed his eyes when he felt the rhythm of the music. Brodie remembered the time when he was about thirteen and his mom said, “Brodie, sing Uncle Joel that song you wrote last week.” His dad had been in the room, too. Brodie had winced, felt the embarrassed shame of preferring to sit in his bedroom writing songs to riding out on the land. And yet also a shame deeper, that his mom would never say, “Brodie sing it to your dad.” But he sang Uncle Joel the song he wrote anyway, and even though his dad didn’t look up from his catalogue, afterwards Uncle Joel blew out a breath and said, “You’ve got some voice, kid. I can feel all the hairs on the back of my neck standing up on end.” Then he’d laughed, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “Some voice.”
Brodie sometimes wondered if his whole life’s ambition centered on those words—someone finally finding value in something he did.
Brodie’s Aston Martin wasn’t built for the dirt track that led to the cabin. It bumped along on the ruts in the earth and he heard the scrape of metal, but the view when he pulled up was worth it. The morning sun glinting on the glassy water, the reflections of the pines so clear, so perfect that it was hard to tell real from imaginary. Above him, the sky was the cobalt-blue of a child’s painting.
Twice he had picked up the phone to call and cancel the weekend, and twice he’d told himself not to. There was still time to leave and pretend he’d never known about Zoey, just live his life as normal. It was how he had dealt with most other things up to now. But then he would remember her smile when she ate the Cheerio off the floor, or when she appeared in the doorway in her pajamas with all her stuffed animals when he was babysitting and said with big hopeful eyes, “It’s more fun down here.” When he looked at her, he saw himself. That was hard to walk away from.
Brodie got out the car, took off his sunglasses, and stood for a moment just taking it in. The warm, reddish wood of the cabin, the old Adirondack chairs on the veranda, the curls of old leaves, the creak of the boards as he took the steps up to the front door. He put his hands in his back pockets and looked out over the river, remembered driving here with his younger brother Ethan every time they wanted to get away, write the songs for the new album. He could hear the echo of the easy laughter, the conversations that didn’t halt to take in the view, the idle pushing open of the door and dumping their bags, grabbing a cold beer, chucking themselves down on the Adirondacks, still without thought, without notice, maybe even yanking off their T-shirts and jeans and diving into the cool, clear water. They had taken it for granted, that time, that enjoyment, that purpose. And yet, what was happiness if not the times you were fully in the moment, taking life for granted?
“Brodie!” The sound of Zoey’s voice made him turn and smile as she careened down the path. “This is amazing! Can we swim in the river? Hey, look there’s a swing! Do you think it’s haunted? Wow, a canoe!”
Brodie blew out a breath, senses overwhelmed by her enthusiasm. “Slow down, kid. Where’s your mom?”
“Over there.” She waved absently behind her like her mom and the journey were already forgotten, pulling herCrocs off and dipping her toes in the cool water.
Brodie jumped down off the veranda and walked round the side of the cabin where he saw Maeve locking the car, which she’d parked further up the track to avoid the potholes, something he probably should have done. She hadn’t seen him, and he watched her unnoticed as she stopped, closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath in. Most people would be enjoying the fresh country air, but it looked more like she was steeling herself for what was to come. Eyes closed, she looked softer than he’d seen her before, her blonde hair in a braid over her shoulder, bangs swept either side of her face. Her skin was still pale, the circles under her eyes darker than they should be, and he wondered how many more emergencies she’d covered that week. She wore baggy brown cords cinched with a battered leather belt and a thin yellow T-shirt. He wouldn’t pick it for someone as an outfit, but it suited her. In her hand was a straw sunhat which she pulled on when she opened her eyes and started making her way down the slight slope. It was then that she saw him. He waved guiltily at having been caught watching her. “Hi.”
She raised a hand. “Hi.”
“You find the place okay?”
“Fine.”
“Well, welcome.” He gestured to the cabin and the chocolate-box scenery and smiled; the sun broke through the pine trees dusting everything in glitter. He leaned against the cabin wall, folded his arms across his chest, felt a little flutter of pride at being able to bring her to a place of such beauty, maybe even wow her a little. He’d actually never brought a woman here and wondered suddenly why not. It was perfect.
But Maeve seemed unfazed by the majesty of the place. As she came and stood next to him, her attention was focused first and foremost on where Zoey was. Once she’d seen her paddling in the shallows, she turned his way, locked him with her serious gaze and said, “You can put that smile away, Brodie. I’m here for Zoey, that’s all.”
He was caught momentarily off-guard by the statement. Was he really that obvious? But then, as she raised a brow to make it clear that she could see straight through him, he felt the guilty-as-charged grin start to spread over his face and did his best to hold it in check. He tipped his head. “Understood.”
Part of him wondered if it was easier to flirt with her than remind himself that she hadn’t told him about his daughter. That every time he saw her something in his brain always knocked in warning to say,this isn’t your friend. But he hated having that kind of pressure in his life. And he hated having to feel that way about anyone, especially a woman, especially one as pretty and, despite the outfit, downright appealing as Maeve.
She leaned round him to look at the little wooden cabin. “This is very nice,” she said, as if now that was cleared up, she could acquiesce to the charm of the place.
“No one’s been here for a while so there might be lots of spiders inside.” He shuddered at the idea.
It was Maeve’s lips that twitched this time, her eyes lighting up in a way he’d never seen before. “You afraid of spiders, Brodie?”
He paused, sensed her goading and said, “Not in the slightest, I just thought you might want to know.”
She slipped her hands into the pockets of her pants. “I’m fine with spiders.”
“Good,” he said. “Me, too.”
Maeve kicked the dry leaves on the ground with a smile on her face. Brodie found himself grinning, too. Standing side by side, not looking at each other.
ChapterThirteen
“Brodie!” Zoey shouted, from the shoreline. “Come and see the fish!”
Brodie immediately loped away in the direction of the shoreline where Zoey waited expectantly.
Maeve watched him go and, kicking off his flip-flops, stand ankle-deep next to her daughter and look where she was pointing. He was wearing khaki shorts and a gray marl sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up, and beside Zoey in her cut-offs and red-and-white striped T-shirt they looked like something out of a fashion shoot, the epic scenery stretching out ahead of them. It was a good reminder after that unexpected weird almost-flirtation that had taken place, that things with Brodie were always too perfect. At school he’d had his pick of the best-looking girls. He was on all the first sports teams—she’d watched him sometimes in the Friday Night Lights polo games with Jack and Logan, whizzing up the pitch, loving it, grinning delightedly at the competition of it all. His words, his mannerisms, his clothes, it was all super slick and faultless but, as she’d discovered, he didn’t hang around when you woke up in the morning. He had the big lavish wedding but then the catastrophic divorce, he had the number-one solo career but then canned the third album and got sued by his record label; his mom was forever sighing about how he flitted into the ranch laden with gifts but was gone before anyone could have a conversation with him; his sister complained about how he’d seduce her friends and then leave her to pick up the pieces. He was like a magpie. He picked up anything shiny then dropped it when he got bored.
She watched her daughter lie down next to him on the end of the jetty, their noses almost touching the water so they could spot the giant fish, and felt a lump of concern in her throat. Zoey was ever-so-shiny.
Maeve put her hands on her hips and watched Brodie flick water in her face pretending to be a fish and Zoey screeching then laughing and giving him a shove.
