Chapter 15 Beck
Beck
Friday, midday, reunion weekend
“Hi,” Beck says. She may have said that already, but her brain isn’t .
. . it can’t . . . Holy shit, Stephen Wentworth.
Starlight chooses this minute to shift, and Beck grabs on to the saddle and some of Starlight’s mane.
From the back of the horse come plopping sounds.
Of course. Then the horse yawns and shakes its grizzled head.
She hasn’t seen Stephen since she was twenty-four years old when, gently, kindly and wisely, he broke her heart.
Jasmine dismounts in a fluid move, and a pang of envy shoots through Beck. Such grace is beyond her. “Maybe someone can help me down?” she suggests. Her face is hot, her stomach quivering.
Already, Stephen is coming toward her, extending a hand. A hand will not get her—six-foot-two, 173 pounds—off this horse. “Is there a crane nearby?” she asks. “A ladder? The fire department, maybe?”
Stephen smiles, and good God, it isn’t fair, the whole men-age-so-beautifully thing.
Fix your face, she tells herself fiercely.
He takes her around the waist. Her knee has locked, which means her leg can’t straighten out, so Stephen pretty much drags her off the horse.
It isn’t a Ryan Gosling move, as Beck is not Rachel McAdams, but then she’s on her feet.
Her bad knee buckles, but Stephen keeps her from falling .
. . awfully close to falling back in love.
Oh my God. Stop with the cheesiness, Morrow.
This is not a rom-com, and if it were, it would actually star Rachel McAdams, not you.
“You good?” he murmurs.
“Mm-hmm.” A sharp pain screeches in her knee, her quad muscle burns, her femur aches and her face is two inches from Stephen’s. Kissing distance, once upon a time.
“We got together in college,” Stephen says, turning to his sister. “But also high school.” He grins at Beck, and every internal organ she has seems to lunge toward him.
“Excuse me?” Audrey says, blinking. “High school?”
Beck steps back, into Starlight’s hindquarters, grabbing on to the stirrup for balance. “Auds, I didn’t seduce your brother in high school. We kissed a couple times. Maybe three.” It had been six times. She bends her knees, working out the stiffness.
“It was six times,” Stephen says, twinkling at her. “I counted.” Then he steps closer, wraps his arms around her and hugs so hard her feet come off the ground.
There are not a lot of men who can make Beck Morrow feel delicate. In fact, there has only ever been one. He smells clean and wholesome, and his shoulders are brawny with muscle.
“How did we miss it?” Jasmine asks. “I thought the Core Four had no secrets.”
“Well, we had at least one,” Beck says, clearing her throat.
Audrey looks at Beck, her brother, then back at Beck. “Did you tell me about this, Stephen, and I just forgot?”
“Nope. It was a secret, and all the hotter because of it. How have you been, ladies? You look fantastic. All of you.”
Beck’s heart rams itself against her sternum. “You, too, Stephen. You . . . you look very good.” So eloquent.
“Very good,” Jasmine says. “So good, Stephen. Are we allowed to lust after your brother, Audrey?” Beck dies a little inside.
“One of you already has, it seems.” Audrey smiles, then slides her arm through Stephen’s. “Can you two untack the horses while I catch up with my brother?”
“Sure thing,” Jasmine says.
“Thanks, ladies,” Stephen says. “Auds and I will go back to the house and make something to eat. We’re all going to the game later on, right?”
“We are,” Beck says, trying to keep her voice normal and not like that of a swoony teenager. “The tailgate, then the game, and sure, you could come with us. If you want. I mean, you could also drive yourself. Or not.” Clearly, the teenager wins.
“Great,” he says with an easy smile.
Beck watches as the siblings walk away, one tall, dark and handsome, the other small and fair. Audrey’s laughter rings out, followed by Stephen’s. He slings an arm around her shoulders, a gesture of longstanding, easy affection.
Long before Beck loved Stephen Wentworth, she’d been jealous of Audrey for having him as a brother, their closeness, their affection and inside jokes, the constancy of their friendship.
“How long were you guys together?” Jasmine asks.
“Um . . . four years,” she says. “Maybe we can talk about it later?”
“Props to you, Beck,” Jasmine says. “He is delicious. Is he married? Kids?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t seen him in twenty years.” A headache is gathering behind her forehead. “Did you know he was coming?”
“No. I mean, I’m not surprised, since they were always so close. Here, put this on the hook.” She hands Beck Chase’s bridle, and Beck does as she’s told.
In the kitchen, Audrey and Stephen are already putting together a cheese board. Stephen takes out two bottles of wine and uncorks them. He seems totally unfazed to see her. Then again, he apparently knew she’d be here. He’d sent that email asking her to come.
“Just have to wash my hands,” Beck says, needing a moment. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror tells her that she looks just as shaken as she feels—her hair is flat from the riding helmet, her face still pink. She sighs, washes her hands, splashes water on her face and fluffs her hair.
He never told Audrey about the two of them. She’d asked him not to, and he hadn’t.
She goes back to the kitchen, where Jasmine and Stephen are chatting amiably about her daughters. “Can I help?” she asks.
A clatter comes from the mudroom. “You looking for something, Auds?” Stephen calls.
“I’m good,” she says. “Beck, your cat is sleeping on Stephen’s jacket. Which is cute, given what we now know.”
Beck peeks in, and sure enough, Mr. Littlejeans is curled up on Stephen’s brown suede coat, purring. She knows the feeling.
Audrey opens the cupboard over the dryer. “Stephen, where’s the bread?” she asks, going back into the kitchen. Beck follows. “Wait, not the bread. The . . . shoot. The little hard carby things that you put cheese on.”
“Crackers. They’d be in the pantry. I’ll get them.
” The words are said easily, but sadness flickers across Stephen’s face.
For a few hours, Beck has almost forgotten about Audrey’s situation.
Illness. Terminal illness. How can Stephen bear it?
She ignores the tears that sting her eyes and gets to work, finding grapes and cloth napkins.
It’s a little spooky that she still knows her way around this kitchen, even though it’s been renovated since they were teenagers.
“It’s gorgeous out,” Stephen says. “Let’s sit by the firepit, all right?”
“Righty-o,” Audrey says, and it was one of their sibling things, Beck remembers. All right? Righty-o.
The firepit is new since Beck was here last. It’s encased in stone and sits under an enormous, gloriously reddish-orange maple tree, color so bright it seems to infuse the air around it.
The entire farm is a Ralph Lauren ad come to life.
Six Adirondack chairs sit in a circle around the stone pit, and a fire is already laid out there—Clay, maybe, or Stephen before they got back from their ride.
Stephen lights it, then sits next to Audrey, across from Beck.
He smiles at her again, and she feels that hot, slow honey awaken in her bones, warming her more than the fire.
“Okay, you two,” Audrey says. “Spill.”
Beck grabs a piece of French bread and shoves it in her mouth. “You go first, Stephen,” she says thickly, accepting the glass of wine Jasmine pushes her way. Thank God there’s wine. She takes a healthy swallow.
“It’s pretty simple,” Stephen says. “I always had a crush on her”—another devastating smile—“and she graced me with my first kiss when I turned sixteen.”
If she were to cast someone to play the part of Stephen, it’d be Damon Wayans, Jr. Or Kendrick Sampson. Or, sure, Michael B. But even they couldn’t live up to the real thing. “My first kiss, too,” she offers.
“Then we kissed one night when Audrey was having you all sleep over, in the den, remember? And under the bleachers during Ché Anderson’s last game?
Then on your birthday, then the day you were voted Vermont’s Athlete of the Year.
And then the day before you all graduated.
Not that I counted or anything.” He winks, completely relaxed.
Why is he so at ease when her stomach is jumping like she just swallowed an angry lizard instead of a chunk of cheddar?
She looks at Audrey, who seems to be in a state of bliss right now, smiling slightly, head tilted.
“And in college, I hear?” Jasmine says.
“You take it from here, Rebecca,” Stephen says.
Another hunk of cheese stalls the inevitable.
She chews, swallows awkwardly, takes another sip of wine.
Day drinking should make this conversation easier.
“Right. Um, well . . . I went to NYU. I started when I was twenty, because of my rehab and all.” She pauses, remembering that time of loneliness and pain.
“Anyway, my roommate took me uptown to see the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, and then we went for Danishes at the bakery across the street, and there he was.”
The memory of that day vibrates with clarity and color.
The incredible stained glass of the cathedral, the acoustics from the choir wrapping her in golden, ethereal sound, the peacocks wandering around outside, the slightly disturbing Peace Fountain.
Then the smells of the Hungarian Bakery, the way the flaky pastry of the cheese Danish seemed to be infused with flavor, so good she moaned, and Catherine, her roommate, laughed.
And there, sitting alone with a huge tome on anatomy in front of him, was Stephen Wentworth, looking at her with a smile in his eyes. Her heart, pretty much a lonely stretch of bad road those last few years, burst into bloom in that moment. Stephen got out of his chair and hugged her.