Page 52 of These Summer Storms

“It’s not a funeral,” Alice said, instantly.

“Of course.” A pause. “He wouldn’t have wanted a funeral, you know. Everyone in black, weeping and wailing.”

He was right, but Alice didn’t want to admit it. “Have you done a lot of thinking about how my father would have liked to be memorialized?”

“You think hewouldhave wanted everyone in black, weeping and wailing?”

“Maybe not the black, but he rarely missed an opportunity for drama.”

He thought for a moment. “Yeah, he might want the weeping and wailing,” he said, moving to reinstall the door he’d taken off its hinges.

She watched him, knowing she should leave, distracted by the way his shirtsleeves tightened over his shoulders as he lifted the door into place. “Well, I’m not sure he’ll get it, considering what my mom’s got planned: string quartets, an open bar, and speeches from half a dozen international dignitaries.”

“You didn’t grow up in my family, and it shows,” he said, focused on matching the knuckles of the hinge again. “An open bar basically ensures weeping and wailing.” There was something so personal about the quip—the revelation that he had a family, and hadn’t been tossed down to earth fully formed, thirty-five and broad-shouldered and full of himself. She hid her surprise as he looked over his shoulder and said, “A little help?”

Alice dropped her bag and collected the pins for the door hinges.Approaching Jack, she played assistant, handing over the hardware, ignoring the scent of him, like cool sea air.

She backed away, watching him hammer in the top hinge. “So feelings are in your wheelhouse, after all.”

“Under certain conditions, yeah.” He leveled her with a look that, if she were honest, produced a very specific kind of feeling in her. One she had no intention of revisiting.

She cleared her throat, and he went back to work. “Is this what you meant when you said you put out fires? Light carpentry?”

He hammered in the final pin. “Among other things.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Too easily,” he said, dryly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that you should expect more from people.”

Now what didthatmean? “Excuse me?”

He opened the pantry door. Closed it. Turned back to her, ignoring the question. “Do you need help with your bags?”

“Do I—” She looked down at her suitcase and satchel. “No. I’m very capable of carrying them upstairs.”

He nodded once. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” she said, not feeling grateful at all.

“You’re welcome.” Why did everything he said irritate her? Why was it all so weird? Either way, she didn’t have time for it. She had agreed to help her mother—albeit under duress.

As if on cue, a shout sounded from upstairs. Unintelligible, but definitely Elisabeth, and definitely heated, if the heavythudthat accompanied it was any indication. Brows raised, Alice and Jack looked to the ceiling, as though it would somehow open and reveal whatever was going on.

They shared a look, and for a fleeting moment, everything between them was forgotten; something was going on upstairs, and they weren’t involved, and whatever it was sounded uncharacteristically emotional for a family that did not traffic in emotions.

Her shoulders straightened, and for a heartbeat, she was consumedwith the urge to flee. Maybe she could—with the drama unfolding upstairs and Sam and his family at the far end of the island, maybe no one would notice. There were benefits to a family that was the portrait of self-absorption.

But Jack would notice. He seemed to notice everything.

“You were looking for me?” she asked.

He thought about denying it. She could see it in the breath he took, a little too deep. And then, “I have a task, too.”

Interesting. “From my dad?”

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