Chapter 18
Breezy
Sunday morning in Red Bridge feels like I’m living someone else’s life.
Instead of being hunched over my laptop in Chelsea, answering twenty emails before nine a.m., I’m sitting at my brother’s kitchen table in leggings, hair in a half-bun, sipping coffee while my adorable niece creates what can only be described as culinary carnage.
It’s just past nine, and breakfast is a full-body event. There’s yogurt on the high chair tray, a spoon clattering rhythmically against the bowl, and Autumn babbling through a mouthful of banana.
“Mo’ nana!” she insists, pointing to the counter behind her with her chubby hand.
“You’ve already had a whole banana, sweet pea,” I tell her and point to the bowl that still has some strawberry yogurt in it. “How about you finish your yogurt now?”
“Yo-yo, Bee!” She giggles, then smears yogurt across her cheek like war paint.
It’s just me and this little cutie for the next few hours.
Bennett is in Paris for the next two days for a gallery showing, and since Norah is his manager now, she had to start the day on a few conference calls for his ever-expanding art empire and just left about twenty minutes ago to run some errands in Molene in the name of restocking Bennett’s studio with his favorite paints.
Truthfully, old Breezy would’ve bristled at that.
I would’ve felt edged out of the inner circle I helped build.
I mean, I spent years handling Bennett’s shows, his deals, his entire damn trajectory.
I was the PR machine behind his art, even though I was running Bishop Galleries and that was more than a full-time job in itself.
But sitting here now, watching Autumn dunk her entire hand into a bowl of yogurt like she’s mining for treasure, I don’t feel left out for the first time in my life. I feel…relieved.
And that scares me.
“Uh-oh,” Autumn says solemnly after she manages to flick a handful of yogurt onto the kitchen floor. It lands on the hardwood with a wet splat.
“Uh-oh,” I say, wiping up the mess with a paper towel while simultaneously biting my lip to fight my laughter. Goodness knows, once a toddler figures out they can make you laugh by doing something, they’ll keep doing it over and over again. “Bye-bye, yogurt.”
“Bye-bye!” She delightfully kicks her little sock-covered feet. “Bye-bye, Yo-yo!”
It’s been two weeks since I landed here in Red Bridge, and somehow, I’ve slowly become a part of their household rhythm, helping out with grocery shopping or watching Autumn whenever I can.
Norah even did some of my laundry earlier this week, and when I found my sweaters folded on the dryer like some kind of domestic peace offering, I teared up.
To be cared for is…new. Quietly frightening. I can’t decide if my growing comfort here is a good sign or a bad one, but for now, I’ve resigned to sitting in the unfamiliarity until I figure it out.
Norah’s also been forwarding me emails she’s received from gallery owners and museum curators, even a couple of headhunters from the art world, asking what I’m doing now that I’m no longer with Bishop Galleries.
Apparently, word travels fast when you fall off the pedestal.
And every morning last week, I took my laptop to CAFFEINE with full intentions of responding to them. I’d sit there with my coffee, staring at the blinking cursor in an empty draft, and then…nothing. I couldn’t bring myself to type a single word.
Because the truth is, I don’t know what to say.
Because I don’t know yet if I even want to say it.
Autumn hums to herself now, a tuneless little song, yogurt dripping from her spoon, and I smile at her cute little face.
“Bee sing!” she demands. “Sing, Bee!”
I don’t hesitate to dive right into her demand. “Old MacDonald had a farm…” I start, pausing long enough for her to join in.
“E-I-E-I-O!” she shouts, clapping her hands excitedly.
Her joy is infectious, and before I know it, we’re both going through all the farm animals together, Autumn giggling and smiling and clapping the entire time.
We manage three rounds of “Old MacDonald” and five rounds of “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” and considering how I spent my weekend, it’s a miracle I’m capable of keeping up with her pace without yawning.
Friday night, I stayed at Tad’s. And last night, I went to his house but came back to Bennett’s at three in the morning because I promised Norah I’d watch Autumn today.
Neither she nor Bennett has asked me any questions about where I’ve been disappearing to at night, but I’m not na?ve.
They have to know. I mean, I’ve been caught by both of them in the walk of shame act a few times at this point.
But they haven’t said anything. Besides the one morning I came home and Bennett was up with Autumn, my brother hasn’t asked me any more questions about my late-night whereabouts.
Maybe it’s out of respect. Maybe it’s out of quiet amusement. Or maybe Norah read him the riot act and told him to stay out of my business.
I don’t know, but I’m not sure either of them would guess I’m spending my late-night free time in the hot sheep-farmer-next-door’s bed.
Frankly, it’s not something the old me would’ve ever done.
But I’m starting to wonder if she died the instant my father’s betrayal slapped me in the face from his grave.
I don’t know if this new version of Breezy is improved, but I know her body still hums from the memory of Tad last night—his laugh, his hands, the warm, reckless tangle of us that made the rest of the world blur out.
Whatever this casual fling thing is that we’re doing, it’s safe to say it’s working. Maybe a little too well.
And still, as much as I love the way Tad makes me forget, mornings like this remind me how uncertain everything else still feels.
Honestly, I don’t know if this is real or if I’m just compartmentalizing.
Am I going to wake up one day hysterical, undone, unable to move without the galleries anchoring me?
Or is this strange, floaty reality of having no plan and no title actually what peace feels like?
I don’t know if I’ve ever had peace. But right now, watching Autumn grin with yogurt smeared across her nose, I think maybe I do.
“All dones, Bee!” Autumn cheers from her high chair, and I make quick work of wiping off her face, earning a few belly giggles as I do.
Once she’s back on her feet, she runs toward her favorite dollhouse in the corner of the living room and starts playing.
But only two minutes into playing, she pauses and yells, “Juice-y, Bee! Juice-y, Bee!”
“Do you want apple juice or grape juice, sweetie?”
“Aaa-pull!”
“You got it, girl,” I answer and grab the new cups Norah has been letting Autumn try to drink from because the pediatrician encouraged her to go lid-less.
A minute or two later, Autumn is all set up at the living room coffee table with her apple juice, a little bowl of Cheerios—an additional request while I was getting the juice—and her favorite kids’ show playing on the television.
And I head back into the kitchen to clean up our breakfast mess.
But I’m only a few dishes in when her little voice pulls my attention again.
“Uh-oh, Bee!” She’s looking down at her overturned cup of juice spilling across the table. Her big blue eyes are wide, and guilt blooms inside them. “I sowwy.”
Aw. My heart squeezes.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I say softly and head into the living room with a towel to clean up the mess. “Accidents happen sometimes, okay?” Once it’s all cleaned up, I tell her it’s okay again and give her forehead a little kiss.
Her relief is instant. She beams up at me, cheeks dimpling, and then holds out a Cheerio toward me like a peace offering. “For yous.”
“Thank you.” I take it with a smile and pop it into my mouth with exaggerated delight. “Yum. Best breakfast I’ve ever had.”
She giggles, and that sound might as well be music to my ears.
She grins wider. And that grin… I swear, it’s Summer’s grin, and it never fails to hit me like a sucker punch.
Autumn never met her sister, but she’s a carbon copy of ringlet curls, blue eyes, and pure sunshine.
I can see the bond they would have had—Summer putting her little sister in an all-pink princess outfit while playing dress-up, Summer bossing Autumn around with big-sister pride, and Autumn following her around in sparkly shoes.
The ache catches me low in my chest. It’s sharp but sweet and tethers me to both what’s gone and what’s still here.
“I love you, Autumn,” I tell her as I press another kiss to her forehead.
“Luv ya, Bee!”
Autumn runs back over to her dollhouse, and my phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.
Logan: Everything is going to shit without you.
Logan: I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. You know that. I know that. Help me. Please. I’ve already fucked two artists into sharing an exhibition slot because I don’t understand how this scheduling program works.
My throat tightens, but I won’t give him that power. Instead, I slide the phone to dark, but not even ten seconds later, it buzzes again, and the screen comes to life.
Serena: We should do a girls’ trip. Ibiza, maybe? Henry would have wanted us to support each other through such a difficult time.
Serena: Also, do you have the number for the private banker in St. Barts? I’m here and need to move some funds. I tried to get ahold of Logan, but he didn’t answer.
Good grief. My father’s widowed wife is apparently having such a difficult time with his death that she’s currently on vacation in St. Barts. Not to mention, she wants to grieve together in Ibiza and find a way to get access to more of my dead father’s money.
But seriously, why is my family so screwed up?
I laugh out loud. A bitter, genuine, but ridiculous laugh. Autumn notices.
“Funny?” she asks.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” I murmur.
She goes back to playing with her dollhouse and I’m about to sit down on the couch, but my phone vibrates again in my hand, and a deep sigh escapes my lungs. Good God. Who is it now? My dead father texting me from the freaking grave?
Tad: I’m knee-deep in riled-up sheep. And it’s so cold outside, I’m questioning my life choices. How’s your Sunday going?
Now this is a text I can entertain. Want to, even.
Me: I’m babysitting Autumn. We’re still in our pajamas.
Tad: Wanna trade?
Me: You know what? I really appreciate that offer, but I think I’ll pass.
Tad: What? Why? You have so much potential as a sheep farmer, Breeze. I’ll even offer my mentoring services.
Me: From what I hear from the Red Bridge busybodies, those sheep mostly farm you…
Tad: Lies. Slander. Unfounded rumors.
I snort, shaking my head.
Me: Uh-huh. And what excuse do you have for me literally seeing five of your sheep in the town square two days ago?
Tad: Sabotage. Clearly, someone planted them to ruin my reputation.
Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
I laugh so loudly Autumn joins in, though she has no idea why.
Tad: Glad I got you laughing. I like picturing that.
Heat prickles at the base of my neck. Damn him. Why is he always so much fun?
Me: Careful, Farmer. You’re supposed to be tending your flock, not distracting me from being a good babysitter.
Tad: Who says I can’t do both, City Girl? It’s called multitasking, and I’m a pro. Wanna come over tonight, and I’ll prove it to you?
Me: And how exactly are you going to multitask?
Tad: You’d be surprised what my mouth and my fingers can do at the same time.
Me: Challenge accepted.
I school my face into perfect neutrality, but inside, I’m melting.
Autumn claps her hands along with the song that’s now coming from the television. “Dance, Bee! Dance, Bee!” she demands as she wiggles her hips in this adorable little side-to-side motion.
I set my phone down and do exactly that, shaking my hips and clapping my hands right along with Autumn.
She’s giggling and beaming at me with a full-toothed, toddler grin, and I’m laughing like a woman who doesn’t have the weight of a fallen empire on her shoulders.
When the music fades, I collapse onto the couch, breathless and smiling. Autumn curls up beside me, her eyes fixated on her television show and her little hand clutching mine.
While I enjoy my niece’s sweet little cuddles, my gaze drifts to my half-finished knitting project—fingers crossed it actually turns into a scarf—sitting on the armchair.
Peggy Samuel had been working on one at CAFFEINE last week, and since I wasn’t doing much besides staring at a blank screen, she gave me a free lesson over coffee.
Now, I’ve got a tangle of uneven stitches and a ball of yarn the color of sunshine. And even though it’s probably not going to turn into a scarf someone will actually want to wear, I still kind of love it.
And deep down, I love that I’m giving something like knitting a chance.
But maybe that’s the real reason I can’t seem to settle on any plans that have me heading back to New York. Currently, my days aren’t dictated by deadlines, exhibitions, high-priced art negotiations, or anyone else’s expectations.
Instead, they’re filled with my niece’s giggles and smiles, and Norah’s and Bennett’s warmth and support, and Josie’s friendship, and the simple rhythm of a town that actually notices when you walk through the door.
And my nights? Well, they’re filled with Tad Hanson.
Maybe staying in Red Bridge a little while longer is one of those bad ideas I should entertain…