Chapter 6
Breezy
It’s been three days since I landed in Red Bridge, and I’ve spent all seventy-two hours feeling like a glossy Manhattan fish plopped into the drained fountain of a very snowy small town.
Out of breath, out of resources, and out of freaking water.
Three days of playing third wheel in Bennett and Norah’s idyllic farmhouse life and unpacking my stupid suitcases and putting my clothes and toiletries away in the guest room like I’m planning on staying awhile.
Three days of my brain spinning like a broken record over a million different things.
Dad’s last voice mail to me before he died.
Past conversations with my father about the galleries and his will.
Logan’s face when I told him I quit.
Logan telling me he’d known about Dad’s plan with the galleries for a whole six months and how I was painfully oblivious the entire time.
All that thinking, and still, I’ve done absolutely nothing to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do next.
For someone who’s made a career out of crisis management and high-stakes openings, this particular limbo feels like the earth’s gravity has disappeared and I’m floating around aimlessly while the world below keeps spinning.
Ugh. I really need to get my shit together.
I glance at my phone out of habit—the fast-paced life I left behind creeping into my subconscious even if I am in a small-town respite—and the three texts I haven’t read or cleared from my littlest brother taunt me once again.
Logan: Breezy, call me.
Logan: Please.
Logan: Just talk to me so I can explain. Groveling via text is so disingenuous.
It doesn’t matter how many times he texts or calls or pleads; I have no desire to respond.
Dimming the screen again, I walk toward the gurgling, faintly misting coffeepot as it finishes its brew, waiting not so patiently for the beep of finality before stealing the pot and filling a cup for myself.
I sit down at the big farmhouse kitchen table across from my sister-in-law and niece and soak in the smell of dark roast and vanilla creamer.
They’re trivial in the grand scheme, but in the little moments like these, they help—as does the sight of Norah feeding Autumn breakfast while my niece giggles and smiles in her high chair.
“Bee! I eat! I eat!” Autumn exclaims as a big plop of yogurt drops from her spoon and onto the floor.
“Good job, Autumn,” I say as I flash a secret smile at Norah. “You’re such a big girl.”
“Big gurl! Me! Eat!”
This kitchen is all wide-planked wood and barely filtered sun, a mocking, far cry from my sleek Chelsea office, and there are no ringing phones, no Richters or Rothkos or Warhols, and no interns with clipboards—just my sister-in-law in one of Bennett’s favorite flannels and my giggly niece trying to feed herself yogurt with a spoon.
It’s not the gallery, but it is art. And I work hard to center myself enough to take it in.
The warmth. The comfort. The homey feel of a family and its love.
As Norah patiently helps a very determined Autumn, I mull over the most shocking part of my life imploding—that I don’t hate this moment as much as I should or thought I would.
That it’s a joy to be getting so much unfettered time with Autumn.
That strangely, the tension I normally carry deep within the walls of my chest has eased.
When Summer was this age, I was too busy jetting between galleries, juggling exhibits, and trying to impress a father who never saw me. I missed so many breakfasts like this one. So many “I eat!” moments.
I’m glad I’m not missing these.
Heavy boots on hardwood signal the arrival of another, and I recross my legs in my cashmere pajamas and billow my shirt to make sure I’m decent.
“Morning, ladies,” Bennett says, his voice still rough with sleep as he ambles into the kitchen, stopping at his girls.
He’s wearing one of his usual paint-stained Henleys—smudges of blue or pink or sunflower yellow that never quite come off littering the fabric in ways reminiscent of Bennett past. The Bennett who was a part of the canvas both literally and emotionally.
“Dada!” Autumn squeals as Bennett leans down to touch his lips to Norah’s. When he returns to full height, I lift my coffee in the air in salutation.
“Morning.”
“Morning, sis.” I smile at the moniker, reveling in the feel of being something so simple.
For years, I managed Bennett’s career and his emotional well-being in ways that went well beyond the normal call of duty.
I was the agent, the assistant, and the go-between during his most difficult years as he turned down seven-figure checks for his paintings and declined MoMA exhibitions without blinking.
I was the call of desperation while he poured everything he had into Summer and her complex medical needs.
I was the last stop before the inevitable outcomes of jail, bankruptcy, or worse.
Now, Norah manages his career and his mood swings, and I get to just be…Bee.
And he and Norah and Autumn get the life he’s always deserved.
I’m so happy for him. And for the first time ever, I find myself a little jealous too. Of the creative outlet he has to take chaos and make something beautiful out of it. Of the sanctuary and security of a family that loves him. Of knowing exactly what he wants and sitting in it wholeheartedly.
I thought I had some of that with the galleries, but I was wrong.
I know Bennett deserves this beautiful life. But I can’t help but wonder what kind of life I deserve.
I sip my coffee as he scoops Autumn into his arms, her little hands smearing yogurt on his sleeve, and something tender and bittersweet catches in my chest.
Something foreign—something that feels an awful lot like possibility and hope.
Once he sets Autumn back in her high chair, Bennett grabs a cup of coffee and stands at the kitchen island, flipping through the latest copy of the Red Bridge Chronicle and sipping on the plain brew.
Norah and I chat and laugh as Autumn finishes off her meal and mess, but when they get up to clean Autumn’s hands and face, I’m left with the vision of a smirking Bennett, his hips against the counter with the folded paper in his hand.
“What?” I ask, unsettled by the way he’s staring at me.
“Really making a splash in Red Bridge, huh, sis?”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
He sets the paper on the table and taps his finger on the headline. “Front-page material.”
I follow his finger to the text, half expecting some kind of ridiculous small-town nonsense about a sheep sale for the library roof, but what I find instead is altogether more outrageous.
Bishop in the Barn: Breezy Bedding Both Hanson Brothers!
“Ahh!” I gasp. Snatching the paper off the table, I stand, my eyes flying across the page.
Move over, Mary’s little lamb! There’s a new shepherdess in town, and she’s keeping both Hanson brothers warm this season.
You’ve got to be kidding me! Eileen Martin, the little snake, wrote an entire exposé saying that I’m sleeping with Tad and Randy Hanson!
I keep reading, desperate to pull the words from the page and swallow them whole so no one else can see them as I go.
Our favorite Red Bridge realtor Hillary Howard has been saying property values are up in Red Bridge, but apparently, the Hanson brothers’ values are skyrocketing too. Rumor has it Breezy Bishop’s subletting space in both brothers’ beds.
What the fucking fuck?
Someone needs to tell Ms. Fiona Blue that this isn’t the kind of sharing we want her to teach our sweet children during story time at the library.
I finish scanning her ludicrous words quickly before taking in the stalker-esque grainy photos at the bottom of the page. One is a shot of me and Tad at CAFFEINE, caught mid-conversation. Another of Randy behind the wheel of my Range Rover, the New York plate zoomed in like it’s a smoking gun.
Heat floods my face.
“What the hell?” I look up at Bennett, who’s barely holding in laughter, the bastard.
Norah leans over to look at the paper with a furrowed brow. “What’s going on?”
I stab the headline with my finger, tapping furiously as I shove it at her face. “According to Eileen Martin, I’m bedding both Hanson brothers!”
Norah’s eyes widen. “What?”
“You know, I thought the article Eileen wrote about me years ago—the one where she said I fought off a gang trying to kidnap Norah—was peak crazy. But this is truly the cherry on top of the Eileen Martin bullshit cake.” Bennett pauses, but his eyes glint in the most annoying way as he studies me closely. “Or…is it…not bullshit?”
“Oh my God, Ben.” I huff, folding the paper in half like that’ll make it disappear. “Of course I’m not sleeping with the Hanson brothers!”
But I am about to ream some asses. And I’m about to do it right now.