Chapter 10
Brock sat at the table and read over his checklist from multiple projects while Yaya hummed to herself and pulled chocolate chip cookies from the oven.
Juliette had gone shopping for the beach house, and all morning she’d been texting him ideas and colorways.
White cabinets with jungle-green subway tiles for the kitchen.
Rustic hardwood floors and pale, misty blue walls.
Accents of deep teal and gold. Black iron fixtures.
Each picture came with a paragraph-long message about what she loved and what could be changed, as though she was thinking out loud and talking to herself.
She sent images of granite slabs paired with wood samples and bohemian lighting fixtures with her notes scrawled in hot pink ink.
It was a strange thing, letting go of control.
It was harder for him to just let her do her thing, to trust her to make the best calls based on her own judgment.
He didn’t want to scare her off like her mother had done.
It was probably a good thing she planned on leaving as soon as she had enough money saved.
The last thing he wanted was to become too attached, to get accustomed to her being a part of his life again.
He already knew it would be difficult enough once she decided to leave, especially after seeing her and working with her every day.
For now, he would take what he could get.
He would enjoy a few wholesome weeks with a girl he used to love.
Passing years were a fickle thing, and he found it interesting to see how much she’d changed from a girl of seventeen to the woman she was now.
There were some similarities. Her eyes were still the same shade of wintry blue and framed with thick, dark lashes.
She still had that heart-staggering smile.
Her hair was longer now and, more often than not, piled up high on top of her head in a lopsided bun.
But the differences were far more noticeable.
She was all soft curves and full lips. Shapely legs with hips that were perfect for holding.
And those kinds of thoughts were definitely off-limits.
Especially in his grandmother’s house.
Yaya handed him a cup of hot coffee and set a plate of warm cookies in front of him. He’d come to talk to her about the beach house, to convince her not to sell, but jumping into a discussion about it wasn’t as easy as he expected. She settled in beside him and took a sip of her coffee.
He laid out the plans before her, the drawn-up outline that he, Anders, and Juliette created. “This is what we’re going to do with the beach house.”
Her heavily lined brow furrowed, the wrinkles growing deeper with every skim of her shrewd eyes. She squinted, read through the proposal once more with her glasses perched on the tip of her nose, then gave her head the lightest shake.
“Kelly,” she sighed, but it was tired, “I’m too old to run a wedding venue.”
“Yaya, you wouldn’t have to run it.” He reached out and clasped her frail hand with his own. “Juliette is already working on finding someone to alleviate the pressure from you.”
“But there’s the cost of repairs,” she countered. “And then the upkeep.”
“We’re taking care of all that.” Brock grabbed a warm chocolate chip cookie and took a bite. “I’m handling the repairs. Anders will keep an eye on maintenance. And Juliette is in charge of the interior updates and making sure it’s a profitable venture. She’s got a decent plan, Yaya. A good one.”
Her lips pursed, and the tiny wrinkles there caused her bright pink lipstick to crinkle and crack. “Juliette, huh?”
Brock tensed and instantly went on the defensive. He shuffled their proposal back into the slim black binder. “It’s not like that.”
“It used to be.” She hummed to herself again and grabbed a cookie.
“Those were pipe dreams.” He sat back and stared into the abysmal swirling darkness of his coffee, not wanting to hear how perfect they were together, trying to forget it was all his fault. “She chose her own path, Yaya. And I chose mine.”
“And yet now your paths have crossed once again.” Yaya stood and grabbed the carafe from the counter to refill his cup. “You don’t think it’s by any strand of fate she’s back here? In Mystic Cove? Working with you?”
“No.” His voice had an edge, a bit too firm, and Yaya’s gaze sharpened. “I don’t.”
Juliette had suffered a bout of bad luck, a setback of misfortune.
Her choices led her to where she was today, just as his own had done the same.
Truth be told, he refused to let himself get wrapped up in those kinds of thoughts anymore.
It was easier to adhere to a strict set of rules.
Don’t form attachments. Keep people at arm’s length.
Then the pain wasn’t too severe when they were taken away from you, which they would eventually be, either by death or by choice.
The military and his father had taught him that much.
Fate hadn’t brought Juliette back to Mystic Cove. She’d returned out of desperation.
For an elderly woman with thin, papery skin, Yaya was certainly an expert at holding an air of disdain. Age lines crinkled her face with skepticism.
“Anyway, a wedding venue will make keeping the beach house worth it,” he continued, determined to change the subject. “If we keep it exclusive—”
“Kelly.”
“I know you’re tempted to sell.” If he could just get the words out, just convince her not to make the biggest mistake of her life. Of his life. “But Aidan doesn’t love the beach house as much as I do. If you left me the property, I could—”
“Kelly. Listen to me.” Something about the tone of her voice caused his mouth to snap shut.
“I can leave you the beach house if it means that much to you.” She lowered herself into the chair next to him and slowly folded her arms. Her flowery cardigan cradled her tired, weakened body.
“But you have to get along with your father. Otherwise I’m going to will it to Mystic Cove upon my death. It’s what Garrett would’ve wanted.”
“No, Yaya.” Confusion muddled Brock’s thoughts. Donating the property to the town wasn’t at all what his grandfather wanted. They’d talked about it. They had plans. “Pop wanted to fix it up, to make it someplace special. And my father wants to ruin it.”
“He doesn’t want to ruin it.” Yaya squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, they shimmered with unshed tears. “He’s just doing the only thing he’s good at.”
Anger simmered beneath the surface of his skin. Why was she suddenly trying to protect him? To defend him? He left every chance he got. He missed Brock’s entire life, and worse, he didn’t even care.
“And what’s that?” Brock snapped and pushed back from the table, his frustration mounting.
He hated that he was raising his voice, but he couldn’t stand his father even more.
“Destroying the livelihoods of hardworking people and wrecking relationships? Because he seems pretty good at both of those if you ask me.”
“That’s enough, Kelly. I’m tired of you blaming your father.
” Yaya pulled herself up to her full height, which in all fairness, wasn’t much compared to Brock’s towering stature.
But she didn’t back down. She wrapped her cardigan around her like she was warding off a sudden chill.
“He did the best he could with what he had.”
“Yaya, he—”
“Loves you, Kelly. He’s your father. Your blood. And he loves you.” Yaya smoothed the silver wisps of hair that had fallen into her face and tucked them back into the loose bun on her head. “But you know who didn’t love you? Your mother.”
Brock’s blood ran cold.
No one ever mentioned his mother.
Ever.
“I bet you haven’t thought of her in years, have you?” Yaya sniffed, tugging her sweater tight. “And for good reason. She was an awful, terrible woman.”
The overflowing swell of anger slowly cooled to confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“And you wouldn’t, because I swore to your father I’d never mention her.
Not to anyone. And especially not to you.
” Yaya tottered forward and cupped his cheeks with her warm, fragile hands.
“But I can’t stand by and watch the two of you grow further apart over foolish pride and tempered resentment. ”
Brock searched his grandmother’s face, but all of his thoughts were a scattered mess of bewilderment.
He didn’t know anything about his mother.
No one ever spoke of her. Hell, he couldn’t even remember her face, and thinking about it now, he wasn’t even certain if he knew her name.
Very little seemed to be known about her, either that, or it was well hidden.
When he was young, he’d tried to ask about her, but his questions were always shut down, so eventually he just stopped asking. It was as though she’d never existed.
One moment in particular stood out for him, though.
He was sixteen, maybe seventeen, and his father was leaving.
Again. Except this time, Brock had threatened to find his mother and go live with her because surely she would love him more than Aidan did.
Brock would never forget the way his father looked at him, as though he’d crushed his soul completely.
But then he was gone again, and it was nothing more than another bad memory.
“What does my mother have to do with any of this?” Curious now, Brock tried to search his grandmother’s eyes. But they were full of past secrets, most of which she’d never reveal.
“It’s not my story to tell.” Yaya smiled, but it was sad. Haunting, almost. Hopeless. “You need to talk to your father.”
Brock raked a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t even know how to reach him.”
“His number hasn’t changed, Kelly.”
The barb struck home, the sting only worsened by the cold truth. His father may not have made much of an effort, but Brock hadn’t either.
“Your idea for the beach house sounds lovely. It’s just icing on the cake that you’re working with Juliette Laurent.
She was always my favorite.” Yaya’s voice turned wistful, and she settled back down into a chair at the table, her shoulders dropping with an invisible weight.
“I won’t sell the beach house, not yet, but you have to make an effort to reconcile. You and your father both do.”
Brock stiffened, then relented. It was the least he could do for his grandmother.
“Okay, Yaya. I’ll try.” Cordial speaking terms were better than nothing, but there was one thing he needed to hear from his father first. An apology. “I’ve got some business to take care of, so I should probably get going.”
Yaya nodded and offered a small tired smile. He thanked her for the cookies and the coffee, which was now lukewarm, gave her a peck on her weathered cheek, and walked out into the bitter January cold.
His thoughts were all over the place, but mostly his mind was trying to search the darkest, furthest corners of his past, of forgotten childhood traumas.
There had to be something—a spark, an image, a flash of anything to shove everything Yaya said into some kind of relative perspective.
But there was nothing. No blurry face or traces of perfume.
No recollection, no vaguely familiar voice.
Not even a scrap of pieced-together memories.
His breath puffed out in a cloud around him, and he started his truck to warm the engine. There were too many questions and not enough answers. The process of attempting to untangle them caused a dull ache to form at the back of his head.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Anders. It rang multiple times before cutting to voicemail. Knowing Anders, he was probably working.
Something Brock should be doing.
Something he wanted to do. To keep his mind busy. Keep his hands busy. Keep his thoughts from hovering over him like a dark cloud of depression.
He left Yaya’s house and headed for Mystic Florals. The claw-foot tub was being installed in Gigi’s apartment today, and that would give him something to focus on. If he was lucky, Juliette would still be out, and then he wouldn’t have to worry about her either.
Brock set out to distract himself by doing the one thing he knew he could control, the one constant in his life, while he tried desperately to ignore the way everything around him was slowly beginning to unravel.