Page 8 of Stolen Harmony
“Victor worries about a lot of things that aren't his business.”
“Maybe. But you are his business. You're his brother.” Kepler's voice carried the quiet authority of a man who'd raised two boys largely on his own. “And you look like hell, son.”
I ate the stew in silence, tasting the familiar combination of fish and vegetables and memories. My father had been making this recipe since I was twelve, the same way his father had made it for him. Some traditions were worth preserving, even when everything else was changing.
“You hear about someone coming back to town?” I asked finally.
“Mags Dane's been full of hints and mysteries all week. Could be anyone.” He leaned back in his chair, studying me with eyes that missed nothing. “Though I got the feeling it might be someone connected to you. She asked about Elaine's boy.”
My spoon stopped halfway to my mouth. “Rowan?”
“That's the one. Asked if I'd ever met him, what he was like. I told her the truth—that I'd only seen him once, at the funeral, and he looked like someone carrying too much weight for his age.” Kepler’s expression softened. “Kind of like someone else I know.”
The stew suddenly tasted like sawdust. I set down my spoon and stared at the table, trying to process what this might mean. Rowan, coming back to Harbor's End. The stepson I’d met exactly once, for thirty seconds of awkward condolences at his mother’s funeral.
“Why would he come back?”
“Same reason anyone comes back, I suppose. Looking for something he lost. Or trying to figure out how to live with losing it.” My father’s voice carried the weight of experience. “Question is, what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing. It’s not my business.”
“Bullshit.” The word came out sharp and final.
I sighed. “You’ve gotten more eloquent in your old age.”
He shot me a look. “I save my fancy words for people who listen. You don’t qualify.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled. “So I get the profanity package instead?”
“Exactly. Now shut up and finish your stew before itcongeals.”
I pushed my bowl away. “Not sure that’s possible. This has the consistency of mortar.”
“Mortar that’s kept you alive for years,” Kepler said, jabbing his spoon toward me. “Show some gratitude. You used to beg for seconds.”
“I was twelve. Twelve-year-olds will eat drywall if you put ketchup on it.”
“Good thing we couldn’t afford ketchup,” he said, and for a moment, his laugh cut through the heaviness in the room.
But then his expression hardened again. “That boy is family, whether either of you wants to admit it or not. Elaine loved him, and she loved you, and that makes him your responsibility.”
“He doesn’t even know me.”
“Then maybe it’s time to fix that.” Kepler reached across the table and gripped my wrist, his hand still strong despite his age. “Your mother used to say that family wasn’t just about blood. It was about choosing to show up for each other, especially when it was hard.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “You sure you didn’t just make that up to guilt-trip me? Sounds suspiciously like a line you’ve been waiting to use for fifteen years.”
Kepler’s mouth twitched. “Trust me, son, if I wanted to guilt-trip you, I’d remind you about the dent you put in my truck when you were sixteen and claimed a raccoon jumped out of nowhere.”
“It did,” I muttered. “The bastard was suicidal.”
“Mm-hm,” he said, sitting back with that maddening air of victory. “Point is, you can make excuses forever, or you can do something about the boy.”
The mention of my mother hit like a sucker punch. She’d been gone for fifteen years, but her wisdom still echoed in thishouse, in the way my father lived his life with stubborn integrity and unexpected grace.
“What if he doesn’t want anything to do with me?”
“Then you’ll deal with that when it happens. But you won’t know until you try.” He released my wrist and sat back. “Besides, from what I hear, the boy’s got his own demons to wrestle. Maybe you could help each other figure it out.”
