He smiled. “Those are my favorite kind.”
Her gaze softened. “You keep being like this,” she said, “and I’m never going to find my rationality again.”
He leaned down and kissed her gently in the dusty sunlight, a promise rather than a diversion.
“They called this quiet aftermath,” he murmured against her mouth. “Feels more like the starting line to me.”
Chapter 17
Bree stood at the upstairs window and watched Jason’s truck pull away from the curb. Brian and Colby lingered on the sidewalk, still talking, their gestures big and animated. Hank leaned against the warehouse’s brick wall, arms folded, listening.
From this height, with the harbor spread out beyond them, they looked like pieces in a sketch she hadn’t finished.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Mom.
She hesitated only a second before answering. “Hey.”
“Hi, sweetheart,” her mom said. “We just left the cemetery. Your father insisted on telling your sister you’re talking about moving. As if she doesn’t already know.”
Bree’s throat tightened. “Thank you,” she said. “For telling her. I know…”
“I know it’s not how it works,” her mom finished. “We say it anyway.”
Bree leaned her shoulder against the window frame. The light was warm on her face, smelling faintly of dust and salt. “How are you?” she asked.
“Tired,” her mom said. “The good kind, where you’ve cried it out, and your husband made you sit on a bench and eat half his granola bar. Your father wishes me to inform you that the grounds crew needs to mow the north slope more often.”
Bree smiled. “Of course he does.”
“How are you?” her mom asked. “And don’t say ‘fine.’”
“I’m… hopeful,” Bree said slowly. “Scared. But hopeful.”
“Tell me about this place,” her mom said. “The building. I’ve been picturing some kind of haunted shack by the docks.”
“It’s not haunted,” Bree said. “It’s old. Brick warehouse on Bay Street, two blocks from the harbor. Ground floor’s going to be the performance shop. High ceilings, concrete floor, lots of space for lifts and whatever mechanical wizardry Hank and the guys need. Upstairs…” She turned, letting her gaze travel over the room. “Upstairs is big. Wood floors, tall windows facing the water. It’s rough right now, but you can see what it wants to be.”
“Which is?” her mom asked softly.
“A studio,” Bree said. “And a small gallery. I can see easels, canvases, and a big table in the middle for messy work. A corner where I can just sit and stare at things when I forget how to be a person.” Her throat got tight. “And a wall dedicated to Bryn.”
There was a quiet sound on the other end of the line; she knew that inhale, that small intake that meant her mom was holding back tears.
“She’d like that,” her mom said. “What kind of wall?”
“Not portraits,” Bree said. “Not just her face. Pieces of her. Her Doc Martens under a bench. The coffee mug she stole from that diner. The paint on her knuckles. The way she’d leave smudges on doorframes like little fingerprints of color everywhere she went.”
“She did make a mess,” her mom said, a watery laugh threading through the words.
“A beautiful one,” Bree said. “I want people who never knew her to stand here and feel like they’re meeting her anyway.”
“I can’t decide if that makes me want to cry or clap,” her mom said. “Maybe both.”
“Same,” Bree admitted.
“Do you have to decide about the money now?” her mom asked quietly. “The insurance.”
