Chapter 2
Evie
I’ve never been more grateful that my midnight blue Toyota Corolla—whom I’ve aptly named Bluebelle—has seen better days. I blow steam into my mittens while I wait for her to warm up. I’m still parked in Bert’s driveway, struggling not to let my good mood sour as I think about what lies ahead of me.
When the anxiety reaches a boiling point, I dig into my bag and pull out my diary, desperate to purge my thoughts. My knee bounces with excitement as I press the tip of a brand-new pen to the paper, relishing how the fresh black ink glides across the page.
Unfortunately, Thanksgiving dinner at Margaret Montgomery’s house isn’t just about giving thanks—it’s about gracefully enduring my father’s stink-eyed scrutiny. Because if he had things his way, he’d lock Grandma up in the nearest state-run nursing home and throw away the key . . .
We’ll have to put our best feet forward to convince him she’s still fit to live at home, despite her recent fall.
Stupid vertigo . . . Her doctors still don’t have answers for us.
But Grandma’s goal is to age in place with dignity and grace.
Actually, I believe her exact words were, “The only way I’m leaving my home is in a body bag.
” Hence why I’m living with her. After all, how could I not?
I’m a caregiver. I take care of people for a living.
How could I abandon Grandma after she took me in when I was just a dumb teenager with a rebellious streak?
It’s been a great few years for us, all things considered. Sure, she’s slowed down quite a bit, and her memory isn’t what it used to be, but she’s still healthy as a horse. A horse with a shuffling gait and balance issues, but a horse nonetheless.
My phone buzzes inside my bag. Pulling it out, I screen the call and swipe right. “He—”
“Where are you?” Jamie demands. “Dinner is ready, and I’m hungry.”
“Good to hear from you, too, bro.”
“Come on.” The line goes dead.
Sighing, I set aside my journal and make the two-minute trek to Grandma’s house.
I manage to drag the journey out an extra five minutes in the name of safe driving, but I eventually find myself parked next to my dad’s black BMW.
I cut the engine and sit in silence for a moment, staring at the warm glow coming from Grandma’s bay windows.
The inviting light would be a welcome sight on any other night, but dread swirls inside me like a vortex as I consider what’s waiting for me on the other side of those sheer curtains.
Small talk. Tension. Stiff lips pursed in quiet judgment. Interrogation. Adam.
Adam’s mother.
The curtains move, and a broad-shouldered frame fills the window. Jamie. My brother points two fingers at his eyes, then jabs them in my direction. Winking, he mouths the words, “Get in here. Now.”
I slouch into my seat. “No.”
Another figure appears, and my stomach caves like it’s been blasted with a ball of iron. Brandon. What’s he doing here?
Angels and male models have nothing on this specimen of a man.
He’s got all the standard things going for him—he’s tall, lean, strong.
But he’s also sporting a slight Dad gut now, that, for whatever odd reason, makes him even more attractive to me than before.
I think it’s the fact that he’s a dad. And a darn good one, at that.
He searches for me with those piercing blue eyes that twinkle with millions of sordid secrets—including ours.
When he spots me, he grins. Groaning, I sink farther into my seat.
It boggles my mind that he’s still attempting to restore the status quo between us—even after all this time.
How he can pretend like nothing is amiss is beyond me.
Men and their infuriating ability to compartmentalize . . .
At least I can hold a grudge.
When I see Jamie announce my arrival like an obnoxious brute, I know I can stall no more.
A gust of frigid wind sneaks beneath my coat as I climb out of the car.
Squealing under my breath, I tense and scurry toward the house, my leather boots crunching over the salt Brandon laid down this morning.
Ever the Good Samaritan. The hardest part about hating my brother’s best friend? He’s a genuinely wonderful person.
Most of the time.
The front door flings wide as I climb the last porch step.
Jamie is there, in all of his machismo glory.
As a cop, he works out enough to look like a bodybuilder.
His goal is to be fit enough to “take on the bad guys and win,” but he’s flexing in the mirror more often than fighting any so-called bad guys.
He pulls me in for a bear hug, slapping my back roughly. Jamie is twelve years my senior and twice my size, but he’s always manhandled me as if I’m just another one of his buddies. “Thought you were gonna no-show.”
“I thought about it,” I admit as I shrug out of my coat and kick off my boots. The blend of aromas from the homemade bread, buttered corn, and oven-baked turkey permeate the warm air, making my mouth water.
Grandma peeks into the entryway. “Evie, honey? Can I have a hand?”
“Of course.”
Grandma’s kitchen could best be described as a backdrop straight from a 1960s homeware catalog—right down to the curved cabinetry and linoleum countertops, olive green appliances, and the built-in breakfast nook.
“Could you take the turkey out of the oven?” she asks quietly, wringing her hands. Her coffee-brown eyes, the same color as mine, dart toward the chatter coming from the adjacent dining room.
Concern weaves through me as I look her over.
Grandma’s small, but never once would I have ever considered her frail.
But . . . I can’t help but admit how run-down she looks right now.
And it’s rare that she ever outright asks for help.
She’s fiercely independent normally. She was raised on a farm, was an ER nurse for fifty-plus years, and has the same firecracker personality as me and Dad.
Pretending not to notice, I grab the oven mitts from the counter. “Sure.”
“Can I help with anything?”
I stiffen and do my best to ignore the silky, inviting inflection of Brandon’s voice as I remove the turkey from the oven and set it on the counter.
Grandma instructs Brandon to herd up the cattle. Seconds later, bodies begin filtering into the kitchen, forming a semi-circle around the matriarch of the family. Grandma bows her head, and we say grace.
Meanwhile, I’m surveying the room.
Unfortunately for me, the gang’s all here. Dad and Francine. Jamie, Rebecka, Isabelle. Adam. His parents. My aunts and uncles and cousins. Brandon and his twin sister, Dana. Their mom, Regina. It’s a full house.
When my gaze circles back to Brandon, I freeze. His head is bowed in reverence, but his captivating eyes are fixed squarely on mine. A stare-off commences. Neither of us move. I don’t blink. I can’t even breathe . . .
The longer we stare at one another, the more my heart trembles and aches, overwhelmed by the sudden sense of loss. The longing. The desperate need to restore the connection that was lost by one stupid, irreversible mistake.
Finally, his eyes close, his dark lashes brushing across chiseled ivory cheeks.
He looks more peaceful now, as if we just had a long overdue heart-to-heart instead of sharing a tense look.
His lips brush softly together as he prays a prayer that doesn’t quite match Grandma’s. Do I see him mouth my name?
Is he . . . praying for me?
My heart jolts like it’s been zapped by a taser.
Who am I kidding? I don’t hate him. I could never hate him. For better or worse, I love Dr. Brandon Timothy Wright. I always have, and I always will.
***
I hang back as everyone ambles into the dining room like lazy livestock, attempting to keep a careful distance between myself, Adam, and his parents. Hopefully, I’ll end up on the opposite end of the table as Mrs. Smart.
Unfortunately, I have no such luck.
“Evie,” Francine, my stepmom, calls as I enter the dining room. “I saved a spot for you!” She pats the space next to her excitedly.
I end up sandwiched between her and Brandon—with Adam directly across from me. Of all the unfortunate seating arrangements, this has to be the worst. Worse still? On Adam’s left is his father, and on his right? The she-devil herself: his mother.
Mrs. Smart airs out her cloth napkin and settles it across her lap with the ceremonious pomp and circumstance of a British royal. “Genevieve,” she croons, smiling tightly. “So wonderful you decided to join us. We missed you last year.”
Translation: You’ve been avoiding me since you left my baby boy at the altar, you little brat.
My mouth pinches into something resembling a smile. “Oh, I’m sure you did.”
Dad shoots me a look of warning from across the table.
Adam shifts in his seat, smiling ruefully beneath long, blond lashes.
Despite all my mistakes, Adam and I are on good terms. Well, as good of terms as we can be after I stood him up on what was meant to be our wedding day.
I don’t regret my decision to not marry my childhood best friend, but I do regret how I publicly humiliated him in front of all our friends and family members.
I never meant to hurt him like that. Becoming the region’s infamous runaway bride wasn’t on my Bingo card, and the guilt over it still haunts me.
But seeing as Adam’s my manager at Dad’s agency, we’re cordial.
Silence fills our end of the table.
“So, I hear you’re still just working as a caregiver at the agency,” Mrs. Smart needles.
My jaw clenches as I cut up my turkey. “Yep. Just a caregiver still. What about you? Still just a homemaker?”
Brandon coughs next to me, then covers his mouth and apologizes.
Mrs. Smart’s eyes almost fall out of her head.
Adam raises his tumbler glass. “To Evie and Maggie for preparing a wonderful dinner for us. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”
Everyone raises their glasses in unison.