Page 11 of No More Secrets
“It was either Beckett here,” Joey jerked a thumb in his direction. “Or Crazy Fitz from the bookstore. And Fitz wanted to make it mandatory that all residents had to build fallout shelters.” She leaned in and snagged a cucumber out of the salad.
“For the love of — if you all are going to keep picking, we might as well eat,” Phoebe sighed.
Dinner was an entertaining and informative peek into family life. The Pierces — and Joey — bickered and laughed their way through dessert. It was an easy dynamic, one bred from years of knowing every detail of each other’s lives.
Summer sat back and did what she did best, observed the action. Her family dinners hadn’t had the casual familiarity the Pierces exhibited for years, and it was refreshing to watch the friendliness, the easiness.
She tried to pay attention to everyone, but her gaze always returned to Carter. After his shower, he had changed into clean jeans and a long-sleeve tee that hugged every inch of muscle. He had a scar that split his eyebrow and traveled up, carving a path into his forehead. He looked like a warrior. Where Beckett was smooth and polite, Carter was rough around the edges.
There was something there that intrigued her. Something miles beyond his attractive looks and her desire to tell his story.
She liked looking at him, liked listening to the rumble of his voice. And, for now, she would leave it at that. She was here to write his story, the story of farm and family. Not throw herself at him.
After cleanup — in which they all participated — Phoebe brought out photo albums. “I thought you’d like to see where it all started,” she said, sliding onto the bench next to Summer.
The photos were faded with age, but Summer could see the hopeful beginnings of a life on the land.
John Pierce was a tall, striking figure. A doting husband and father, Phoebe explained, he had a quiet, patient way with the land and the animals that made everything thrive.
“You boys look so much like your father,” Phoebe sighed, cupping a hand to Carter and Beckett’s cheeks as they leaned over her shoulders to see the album. “He’d be so proud of you.”
Carter kissed her palm. “No more wine for you. It makes you sappy,” he teased.
In defiance, Joey topped off Phoebe’s glass.
“Oh look, here all three of you are,” Phoebe said pointing to a picture of three little boys with jet-black hair and varying degrees of bruises and grass stains. “And here’s one of you and Jax, Joey.”
Joey didn’t look, but Summer did. A mini Carter-looking boy was holding the lead of a pony that a small, grinning girl rode.
“I forgot how good he was with horses,” Phoebe said, tapping a finger over the picture.
Joey shoved her chair back and abruptly got to her feet. “Thanks for dinner, everyone. I’ve got an early morning.” And with that, she stalked from the room. They heard the screen door slam shut a few seconds later.
Phoebe sighed.
“It’s been eight years,” Beckett said. “At some point shouldn’t it stop hurting?”
“Some things aren’t healed by time,” Carter said, taking a long draw from his beer and laying a hand on his mother’s shoulder.
Phoebe squeezed his hand. “Sorry about that, Summer. Jax and Joey were high school sweethearts and it ends the way so many of those stories do.”
“With a broken heart?” Summer supplied.
“He left town in the middle of the night. No explanation. Just ‘I’m going to California.’ We didn’t see him again until Christmas the following year. Joey still hasn’t seen him.”
“Mom, I don’t think Summer needs all this background,” Carter contended.
“And Joey wouldhateus sitting around all ‘poor Joey,’” Beckett added.
Phoebe closed the photo album. “Well at least you know not to ask Joey anything about the third Pierce brother. Now, if numbers one and two can help carry my things to the car, I’m going home to put on pajamas with an elastic waistband.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Carter gave Summer points for dragging herself out of bed at the un-Manhattan hour of 6 a.m. And even more for wandering into the kitchen fresh faced and smiling.
“Good morning.” Her voice still had the huskiness of sleep, but her eyes were bright.
“Morning,” he said, pulling a second mug out of the cabinet. “Coffee?”
