Page 79 of This Is How It Started
But all my mother says is, “How about dessert?”
* * * *
Brooke is home when I get there, sitting at the center island, eating her gluten-free toast. It crosses my mind that in all the months I’ve been living here, I haven’t seen her eat anything else. Just diet soda and her special bread, slathered with butter.
“How was the seder?” she asks.
“Nice. Hannah seems to be adjusting well.” I’ve continued to update Brooke on my sister’s marital status, which in and of itself is freaky. Occasionally, Adam and the sale of Switchback will creep into the conversation. But anything having to do with my mother is off-limits. I do that out of respect for Mom’s privacy. But I suspect Brooke is thankful for my discretion. There’s no love lost there.
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” She goes back to nibbling on her late-night toast.
“She did mention that we should make sure your homeowners insurance covers the rentals and events.”
Brooke lets out a breath. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. I’ll call David’s insurance agent in the morning.”
“She also said something about an LLC.”
“Yep, I’ve been thinking about that too. Will you ask her about it? Maybe it’s something she can do for us if it’s necessary.”
“Yep. I’m seeing her next week for lunch. I’ll ask her then.” I start to head for bed when Brooke stops me.
“Next Friday, the sorority sisters are coming for their city getaway. That’s another six thousand in our coffers. I’m now able to pay a maintenance crew and a handyman to come in here and fix the walkways, freshen up the house...patch the leak in the kitchen. The revenue from the wedding will put us ahead. I just wanted to say how much I appreciate all the work you’ve put into this. Thank you.”
I stare at her, taken aback. I never expected her gratitude, only to earn my keep, and in her words, to protect my father’s legacy to his children. But it’s a really nice thing to say. Furthermore, I believe she means every word of it. Maybe, just maybe, I’m good at something.
“Later this week, I’m meeting with that event planner. Hopefully it’ll be advantageous.”
Brooke crosses her fingers. “Night.”
“Good night.”
I climb the stairs up to my room, sit on the edge of the bed and kick off my shoes. It’s been nearly ten months since the accident, and my world seems to have found some semblance of balance, though there are days I feel so lost that it’s a wonder I don’t have to be taken away on a stretcher.
Perhaps it’s the calm before the storm.
But it felt good today to finally come clean with my family about Brooke’s and my little enterprise. I laugh at how easily I include myself in this strange adventure. It’s not Brooke’s enterprise, it’s ours.
As I so often do, I wonder what Josh would think of it. It isn’t exactly real estate, but in a way the outcome is the same. Brooke and I are selling a dream. For the mystery writers, it was an escape in a house that served as their muse for a week. For Charles and Richard, the cottage and backyard set the opening scene for a new beginning. For Shireen and her fiancé, it will be the place where they fuse their two lives together.
Yes, I think. Josh, who also made people’s dreams come true with his beautiful designs, would’ve loved the idea.
My thoughts drift to Campbell and the kiss. I reach for my phone, start to dial his number but quickly hang up before the call goes through. I’m still not ready to have a conversation about what happened in his new house or about us. I’ve tried not to think about it, about him, but it’s proving difficult. Or, if I’m being a hundred percent honest with myself, impossible.
* * * *
Two days later, I see him at the Live Wire, a dive bar near the water that Adam is a big fan of. I could take it or leave it. The crowd is fine, kind of old San Francisco before the tech crowd took over. But it’s always drafty and not the cleanest.
Hygiene doesn’t stop Campbell and Adam from partaking in the happy hour’s special on fried calamari and on-tap Pabst Blue Ribbon, though. I settle for a bottle of Sierra Nevada and give the neck and lip a good swipe with a napkin before I raise it to my mouth. Campbell catches me, shakes his head, and laughs.
He and Adam grab a four-top before the place gets crowded. Campbell plops a quarter on the rail cushion of the pool table closest to us. He’s the best pool player I’ve ever seen. We used to have a billiard table at the house on Vallejo, and he and Adam would play for hours. Adam can hold his own, but he doesn’t have Campbell’s moves or coordination.
Both of us are trying to pretend that nothing happened the other day, yet it’s still thick in the air. Judging by the way he keeps sneaking glances at me every couple of minutes, he wants to talk about it but won’t because Adam is here.
“You cold, Rach?” he asks me, because like an idiot I didn’t bring a sweater and am hugging myself like I’m in the frozen arctic dressed in a tube top. He slips off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. I immediately feel his leftover body heat and pull the jacket tighter to get more of it. To get more of him.
Adam follows with his eyes a redhead in a mini skirt who squeezes by us. I can’t tell if he’s interested in her or her basket of onion rings. The mystery is solved five seconds later when he announces that he’s going to the bar to order onion rings, and does anyone want anything? Campbell and I shake our heads.
The minute we’re alone, Campbell pulls his chair closer to mine and says over the music, “We gonna talk about it or pretend it didn’t happen?” He’s looking straight at me, approaching the kiss dead on, and I’m faced with the fact that Campbell Scott is no longer a boy. He’s a man. A direct, take-charge man.
