Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
Carter
So much for my good intentions! I swear, my plans for the morning did not include needling Jo within minutes of setting eyes on her. But here we are. The two of us have always been exceptionally good at getting underneath each other’s skins and I guess her eleven-year absence hasn’t changed that.
It hasn’t changed a lot of other things either, unfortunately. Like how she looks and how I respond to her.
She still looks like home—which might not sound all that hot to you, but that’s how it struck me on my first trip home from college. She looked like everything familiar, comfortable, desirable, mine; like everything I’d been missing, without even realizing I’d been missing it. I’d been struck speechless, back then, by the realization. And, if anything, that feeling is even stronger now.
Perhaps because I’m older, or she’s older, or I have a bigger stock of memories to draw from. I know how she tastes now. I know how her skin feels, soft and warm beneath my palms. I know how her voice sounds, all husky and low, whispering secrets in the dark. I know the bite of her nails in my shoulder, the slide of her thighs as her legs wrap my hips, the look of surrender in her eyes…
But I also remember the pain of betrayal, the agony of loss. That sense of disbelief giving way to fury—at her, but also at my own stupidity—was fucking soul destroying. And I won’t go there again. I can’t.
Vi Barnes is in good spirits, not surprisingly since I’m sure she’s missed Jo even more than I have. But I also feel like she’s looking a little peaky today—although she denies it when I ask. Which is also not a surprise; she really is every bit as stubborn as her niece.
I’m wishing now that I could have had a moment alone with Jo (without the snark) so that I could’ve questioned her about her aunt’s condition; things like how she slept last night, whether or not she’s eaten anything yet today, if she’s been taking her meds like she’s supposed to. I’d also like to get a sense of what Jo’s take is on Vi’s current mental state. Has she noticed any unusual confusion? Is she blaming it all on the concussion?
On the other hand, maybe I don’t want to broach that subject. Because if Jo’s not back for good, if she’s truly planning on disappearing for another ten years, that changes what she ‘needs to know’ when it comes to Vi’s prognoses. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.
“Sit down, Carter,” Vi scolds, in fretful tones, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. “I’m getting a crick in my neck from trying to look up at you.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I answer meekly, seating myself gingerly on a venerable looking chair whose resale value I probably don’t want to know. I’ve always been slightly uncomfortable here. Everything inside the house—less Jo and myself—is an antique. Some are irreplaceable or expensive; others are delicate, fragile, or threadbare; but all of them are old. And, like Vi herself, perhaps not as sturdy as they once were.
Vi used to joke that the whole reason she opened Remnants and Relics (one of two competing antique stores that grace our downtown square) was so that she could divest herself of some of the excess furniture her husband’s family had been amassing for years.
There are only two things you need to know about that. Number one, I’ve never been altogether sure that she was joking. And, number two, given the sheer number of items currently crammed into the parlor, it doesn’t appear the scheme has worked.
“Oh, Jo; there you are,” Vi smiles at her niece who’s followed me into the room.
Jo murmurs assent, but she’s still glaring at me suspiciously, scowling like I’d been caught doing something heinous. Before I can inquire as to exactly what her problem is, what she thinks I’ve done wrong this time , Vi turns to me and asks, “Did you know Jo was back?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I answer quickly, before Jo can find it odd. Or before she can confuse Vi further by pointing out that we just saw each other at the door a moment ago. “Luis and I were discussing it at the restaurant just this morning.”
“I still don’t understand how you found out,” Jo grumbles. “ I didn’t even know I was coming until a couple of days ago.”
“Do I really have to explain the facts of small-town life to you?” I tease. “Or have you just been away so long that you forgot how the gossip grapevine works?”
“Jo, dear,” Vi says, taking control of the conversation—and not a moment too soon. “If you could get us some plates; and Carter, if you would be so kind as to set up the tray tables, perhaps we could all eat while the food’s still warm?”
Jo frowns in confusion. But rather than asking Vi for an explanation, her gaze finds mine. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel good to know that, even after all this time, I’m still the one she instinctively turns to when she needs something.
“Your aunt’s been eating her meals in here since she’s been back from the hospital,” I tell her. “Her doctor suggested she temporarily reduce physical activity.”
Jo nods in comprehension. “Thanks,” she murmurs. She flashes a smile that’s small and tight and contains as much guilt and shame as it does gratitude—which triggers another thought.
“Hey, don’t bother getting a plate for me,” I tell her. “I actually didn’t find out about you being here until after I’d ordered, so there’s probably not be enough for three.”
“Oh, pfft,” Violet flaps a dismissive hand in my direction. “Of course you’ll have a plate. You always bring more than enough anyway.”
This time the smile that curves Jo’s lips is wry and real and reaches her eyes. “Now who’s forgetting the ‘facts of small-town life’?” she asks, casting a mocking glance over her shoulder at me as she heads for the kitchen.
“No cap,” I agree, grinning after her, before I can stop myself.
Jo’s about the same age as my brother Cash—so basically three years my junior. In the grand scheme of things, that’s not a significant age gap. But she was a month shy of thirteen when I first made her acquaintance—which made her seem practically a toddler to my just-turned-sixteen-year-old self. And while in some (very obvious) ways we’ve changed enormously since then. In other ways? Not so much. I imagine a part of her will always be that sassy, big-mouthed brat with more chips on her shoulder than a shark has teeth.
Just like I’ll always be the disappointing Donahue brother. The underachiever who’s always had to work twice as hard for half the results. The overlooked middle child who’ll forever be cast into the shadows by his rock-solid, responsible older brother and continually upstaged by his fun-loving, easy-going younger brother.
My poor grades and difficulty with learning was what had prompted my parents to engage Ms. Vi, a retired teacher who still occasionally filled in as a substitute, to tutor me. Jo was new to Heartwood back then and, from what I’d gathered, she hadn’t hit it off with the kids at school. I don’t know which sparked my interest more—the fact that she didn’t seem enamored of my popular little brother, or the fact that she was always there, hanging around at her aunt’s house—lurking in corners, watching me from the shadows, glaring whenever our gazes tangled…
“What’s it gonna take to get you to smile?” I asked at one point. And yes, thank you. I am aware that that’s not the kind of thing a man should ask a woman—now. But, as I said, I was just sixteen and she was still years from being a woman; and anyway, she took no offense.
Her eyes narrowed, as though she were considering the question—far more seriously than I’d intended—and then she replied, “Well, I guess you could let me drive your truck. That might do it.”
I gazed at her in surprise. “Do you even know how to drive?”
And that’s when it happened, when her expression shifted—so subtly that if I hadn’t been watching I might have missed it. Her chin lifted, daring me to say no; her eyes gleamed excitedly. The tiniest curve reshaped her lips. “No—duh. That’s why you’d have to teach me.”
Okay so, that wasn’t gonna happen—I wasn’t stupid, after all. And she was years away from qualifying for a permit. But I paused for a moment just the same, thinking hard, unsure what to say, how to let her down gently.
I haven’t ever been known for my good judgment. Even by then, I’d screwed up more times than both of my brothers combined. But this? This had Bad Idea written all over it—in glittery, neon letters, so big, so bright even I couldn’t help but see them.
But, at the same time, I just couldn’t stand to see her disappointed. Young as we both were, I somehow knew that she’d been let down in the past. I didn’t want to be her next rejection.
I wanted to be the one to meet the challenge in her gaze. The one to say, “you’re on!” The one to see that smile come unstuck.
“One condition,” I found myself saying—and hell if I know which of us was more surprised. “Off-road only. Empty fields. The old drive-in. The church parking lot, when there’s no service. Oh, and only when we’re alone. If we do this, no one else can know.”
“That sounds like two conditions to me,” she pointed out.
But I had the upper hand and we both knew it. “Take it or leave it,” I said as I lifted my hand and extended my pinky. “Deal?”
And as she met my eyes and answered, “Deal,” and linked her pinky with mine, I somehow knew that it marked the beginning of a life-long friendship. But then again, like I said. I’ve often made mistakes…
When Jo returns with the dishes, I plate up two servings. “I have to get back to the restaurant anyway,” I say, gently brushing off Ms. Vi’s protests. “You know I’ve got that big dinner coming up; there’s a lot of work to do to get ready. Besides, I don’t want to leave y’all with nothing; you might get hungry later.” I’m tempted to say more, to tease Jo, who’s always had a legendary appetite. But she beats me to it.
“I dunno. That sounds pretty sus to me. Don’t they say that you should never trust a chef who won’t eat his own food?” she asks, batting her eyes innocently.
“No, I don’t believe I’ve heard that one,” I reply extending a plate out toward her and holding her gaze challengingly. “But, if you’re too afraid to eat, just say so.”
I’m proud of my restaurant and confident of the food we serve there, but I’m more than a little anxious as I watch Jo tuck into her meal. And I know how that sounds—as though I still have feelings for her that go beyond mere friendship, right?
But that’s not what it is. Jo’s opinion is important to me, yes. But there’s a valid reason for that. Most people will tell you what you want to hear. Which is nice and all, but you can’t fix a problem that you don’t know is there. And you won’t necessarily work as hard as you should to improve your craft if no one ever suggests that you might need to. I trust Jo’s judgment. I know she’ll tell me the unvarnished truth. And with so much on the line, that’s worth way more than pleasant platitudes.
Which is not to suggest that I don’t feel dismayed when Jo’s eyes go wide, and she claps a hand to her mouth and utters a startled, “mmph!”
“What?” I demand, scanning her plate to see which dish has elicited her reaction. I gave her a little bit of everything I’d brought—migas, biscuits and gravy, chicken fried chicken with pecan pancakes, Texas style eggs Benedict made with brisket and queso. All hill country classics made with locally grown-or-sourced ingredients and my own special twists. All solid dishes, or so I’d thought. “What’s wrong?”
“Bit her tongue, I imagine,” Vi suggests, without much emotion.
But Jo shakes her head at that. She holds up a finger and continues chewing for a moment longer then finally says, “Nothing’s wrong. Are you kidding? I just wasn’t expecting the massive foodgasm you just gave me.”
“Yeah?” I feel my spirits soar and I can’t keep from smiling. “It’s good? Really?”
“Fuck, yeah,” she replies—eliciting a gasp of outrage from her aunt. “No crumbs.”
“Jocelyn Marie! What did you just say?”
“Sorry, Auntie,” Jo replies. Then her gaze meets mine. “Seriously, Carter. This is sooo freaking good!”
She pauses for effect and then adds, “You know what? You should maybe think about opening a restaurant or something.”
“Ha-ha,” I say, rolling my eyes, nearly missing the distressed expression on Ms. Vi’s face.
“But…he does have a restaurant,” she says, her voice wavering a little. “You do, don’t you, Carter?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I say at the same time as Jo answers, “Jo was just joking.”
Vi doesn’t say anything for a moment. Her gaze shifts from one to the other of us, and then back again before finally settling on Jo. She gives a little nod, as though she’d come to a decision, then says, “I know what you’re really here for.”
Jocelyn
Oh, crapola. The one point that Ms. Bev had been most emphatic about was that I should not, under any circumstances reveal to my aunt who it was that had (in Bev’s words) ‘ratted her out’. “I’m here because I..because I missed you,” I say, nearly stumbling over the words.
Vi shakes her head. “No. That’s not why.”
“She’s here to give me a hard time—that’s what you mean, right?” Carter asks.
I eye him suspiciously. What does he know?
“Don’t be silly,” Aunt Vi says using what I always used to think of as her School-Marm voice—something I haven’t heard in a very long time. “She’s here to help you get the word out about your restaurant.”
“Hunh?” I’m surprised into saying.
“What?” Carter asks, sounding equally perplexed.
“You have that Valentine’s Day event you’re trying to put on,” Vi tells him. “And that’s what Jo does. She plans parties and events for people. Don’t you, dear?”
“I… Well, yes,” I stammer. “I mean, sort of.” Vi’s not completely wrong. My most recent job—the one I was just let go from—was acting as personal assistant to one of Malibu’s most exclusive party planners. But, on the other hand, “It’s not like I have any contacts here, or anything. So, I?—”
Vi shoots a sidelong glance my way. “What are you talking about, child? Of course you have contacts. You grew up here, didn’t you?”
“Well, not really,” I mutter as my gaze swivels in Carter’s direction. And yes, I am falling back on bad habits, looking for him to bail me out. Which he usually does, either by cracking a joke, or deflecting my aunt in some other way. But Carter—who did grow up here, and who probably does have contacts—is looking poleaxed. Which, if I’m honest, kind of hurts. Not that there’s any reason why he should be any more eager for us to work together than I am, but still…
“You probably don’t need any help, anyway, do you?” I ask, giving us both an out.
“It’s not that,” he says, hedging in a way that’s so unlike his usual, self-assured manner that I find myself staring.
I’m on the brink of asking him what’s going on—we’ve always been honest with each other, so I’m reasonably sure he’ll tell me the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it makes him—when I hear the front door open and a cheery voice calls out, “Hello, Ms. Vi. It’s Evelyn. How are you feeling today?”
As my aunt calls back a greeting, I look to Carter for an explanation. “Evelyn?” I mouth quietly.
“Home care nurse,” he mouths quietly back. Apparently, I’m the only one who thinks it’s odd that all these strangers have access to the house, since neither Vi nor Carter seem even slightly surprised. Although Carter is giving total drowning-man-reaching-for-a-lifeline vibes as he greets her. “Hey, Evelyn. Good to see you. What’s up?”
“Not much, Carter. You?”
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old.”
I study “Evelyn” a little more closely, trying to determine if we’ve already met. She doesn’t look familiar; but then again, it’s been a while.
“Evelyn,” my aunt says. “Have you met my niece? This is Jo.”
“Jo,” Evelyn repeats. She’s smiling as she leans forward to shake my hand, but it’s a vague and genial smile that gives away nothing. I still have no idea whether or not we know each other.
“Evelyn,” I reply, equally vague.
“And this is her husband, Carter,” my aunt continues, which leaves me gaping in surprise.
I wait a beat, expecting someone to correct her, but no one does.
“Oh, yes. I know Carter,” Evelyn says, not missing a beat.
Carter, meanwhile, has gotten to his feet. “Well, ladies,” he says, already making tracks toward the door. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I do need to get back to work. So, I’ll just see myself out.”
I stare after him for a moment, unsettled and annoyed, with all the questions rattling around in my head. Then I scramble after him.
“Carter. Wait up,” I say, catching up with him in the hallway.
He pauses, hand on the doorknob, eyeing me warily. “What do you need?”
“What was that back there?” I ask. “Was that the concussion talking, or does Vi still think we’re married?”
Carter smiles. “Well, I don’t know. I guess it’s possible. I mean, we never got fake divorced, so…”
“Yeah, ’cause there isn’t any way to do that, remember? It’s not a thing—you told me that.”
Carter sighs. “Yes. I know that. I was just kidding.”
“Yeah but, why?—?”
“Why was I kidding?”
“No. Stop it.”
“Relax, okay? I think your aunt was kidding, too. I think she just wanted to bust our balls, a little.”
“Maybe,” I say, but I’m not convinced. “She didn’t sound like she was teasing.”
“Well, what do you think it was then? It could be that the concussion has made her forgetful. Or it could be that Vi thought Evelyn was coming on to me and she wanted to warn her off. After all, it would hardly be the first time someone has used our quote, unquote, marriage to do that.”
I wince a little because he’s not wrong. However, the person he’s talking about—the only person that I know of who routinely went out of her way to warn women to stay away from Carter—was me. “ Was she coming on to you?” I ask—proving that old habits never die. “I must’ve missed that.”
Carter shakes his head. “No. If Evelyn were going to come on to anyone, I think it would probably have been you.”
“Me? But— Oh.”
“Exactly. But I don’t think that’s likely either. She and her wife seem very happy together. For what it’s worth, they have tickets to my Valentine’s Day dinner. So, I think you and I can mark ourselves ‘safe from being picked up by Evelyn today’.”
He’s still chuckling about that as he slips out the door, leaving me frustrated and confused as I slowly retrace my steps back to the parlor. Had he brought up the dinner again on purpose? Could I help him with that? Should I? Does he even want me to? I wish I knew.
The truth is, when I left Heartwood behind me, I lost track of Carter on purpose .
I’d fucked up by leaving him. I’d made mistakes. Big ones. There had been no possible way to walk them back, and it was too painful to keep reliving them. But, now that I’m here, it’s embarrassing to realize how much I don’t know about his life anymore. Embarrassing, and more than a little sad.
We were friends before we were lovers and I hate that I wasn’t able to keep any of that alive.
I’m tempted to grill Vi for details, but she’s gone back to eating her breakfast with single-minded concentration—no surprise there, the food is amazing—and Carter’s abrupt, departure barely even seems to have registered with her.
“Why did he run out of here like that?” I mumble grumpily.
Vi pauses to look at me. “Who’s that, dear?”
“Carter.” I gesture toward the door. “Where do you think he’s going?”
“Back to work, I imagine,” my aunt replies. “Did Carter tell you about his restaurant?”
“Well, not exactly,” I admit, blushing a little as I remember the conclusions I jumped to when I first saw him today.
“It’s very good,” Vi assures me. “You should try his food.”
“I am,” I say gesturing at the plate I’d left sitting on the side table.
Vi frowns uncertainly. Her hand is shaking as she raises it to rub her forehead.
“Do you have a headache?” I ask, gently. “Can I get you something for it?”
Evelyn glances up. “I can do that for her,” she tells me. “Do you need one of your pills, Ms. Vi?”
“No, thank you both,” Vi replies, dropping her hand into her lap. Then she turns away slightly, so that she’s looking out the window.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“What’s that?” Vi turns to face me again. There’s a polite smile curving her lips, but it fades away as her gaze refocuses on my plate. “Eat your food. It won’t be as good if it’s cold, you know.”
But my appetite is gone and the food I’ve already eaten is sitting like a lead weight in my stomach. I feel like I’ve entered an alternate reality where things no longer make sense. And I guess most of that is due to Vi’s concussion, but it’s disturbing all the same.
It occurs to me that the person I always would have talked to about anything like this is the same man who just ghosted, dipping out of here as though this was all perfectly normal, making me feel like I’m the one who’s totally out of sync.
Which I might well be. I haven’t felt this confused and uncertain in a very long time—probably not since I first fell in love with Carter Donahue.
I was thirteen at the time, a quiet, awkward child, an unhappy loner with an overactive imagination, who’d taken to viewing her life through the lens of Gothic Romance. I wasn’t actually an orphan, you understand—my parents had left me, yes; they hadn’t died. But it was easier to think of myself as one. And this house—while not a castle, or an isolated manor, by any means—was still darker and older and more mysterious- seeming than any place I’d lived before. Or since, either, for that matter.
Carter was everything back then—tall, quiet and kind—totally unlike his arrogant, show-off of a brother, whose appeal I never did understand. I mean, I’m sure Cash has his good points, but I was always too angry with him (mostly on Carter’s behalf) to even notice.
I quickly plugged Carter, with his dark, good looks and brooding expression, into the Heathcliff-shaped space in my romantic inner narrative. I used to follow him around whenever he was here, watching from a distance, too shy to actually speak to him.
But, oh! The imaginary conversations we used to have, all the illnesses and injuries we nursed each other through, the heroic rescues we undertook to save each other’s lives; those were freaking epic.
Eventually, Carter broke the ice—by agreeing to let me drive his truck. And yes, it still pisses me off that he used that against me today, reminding me that whatever we had, back in the day, was long gone.
But what did we have, really? It was just a crush—what else could it have been at that young an age? It wasn’t anything to be taken seriously. Just puppy love brought on by circumstances, always doomed to fail. And if I’d remembered that, or realized it sooner, I might have saved us both a truckload of grief and hurt feelings.