“I want to spend the night with you and keep you in my arms. I want to feel when you roll into me and listen to you snore and talk in your sleep. I even miss when you clock me in the face by mistake.”
She laughs.
“And I want to hold you when you have bad dreams, when you shake and sweat and run from things.”
I drop my head. Chris isn’t the only one.
“Please, Estelle. Do you want to? Do you miss me the way I miss you?”
There’s another pause. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but I can’t get myself to leave now because I’m desperate to know what she’ll say.
Finally, I hear her say, “How are you this sweet?”
“Because I love you.”
“James…”
“I do love you, Estelle. You don’t have to say anything. Just let me love you, okay?”
I think I might scream if she doesn’t answer him. I count to eighteen before she does.
“Okay. God, you’re such a fucking asshole. But okay.”
I know she’s smiling.
When I’m pretty sure that there’s kissing and whatever else is going on that I don’t want to imagine my brother doing—and when I’m also sure that they wouldn’t hear me if I banged symbols outside the room—I slip back down the stairs.
Eric is on the phone, presumably talking to Zach, when he passes me on the landing where he touches my shoulder before mouthing,Good night.
It is getting late, and the van that will shuttle them to the Bangor Airport will be here at six forty-five tomorrow morning.
It seems rather over-the-top that they’re getting picked up, but that’s pretty much how Chris does things. He remains a minimalist when it comes to his own needs, but he routinely spends money on everyone else. He has the same truck he had in college, but he insisted that I needed a new SUV to navigate the Maine winter terrain. The money the Shepherds inherited when their father died is substantial, and as the executor of the trust, Chris makes sure that everyone around him is more than taken care of.
At my insistence, I use my own inheritance and the insurance money that James and I got from the fire that killed our parents to pay for James’s college expenses and most of the repairs and remodeling this old house needs. It’s hard to stop Christopher from jumping in to do everything.
From the writing I do for a New England–based magazine, I don’t make nearly as much as he does. His job with Acadia National Park has expanded, and he’s become deeply involved in his position as the head information management specialist. There’s lots of talk about computers, networks, and such that I don’t always follow, but he loves his work.
I stop in the living room when Chris comes out. He nods toward the deck, and I listen. Sabin is playing his guitar, slow notes trickling out here and there, wafting a melancholy tune our way. Chris takes my hand, and we walk out to join Sabin.
When he sees us, he picks up his strumming and stomps his feet. “Hello, young lovers!”
Sabin has on his cowboy hat, and I’m reminded of the first time we met in the student union at Matthews College.
In between chords, he taps the brim up a bit and winks at me.
Chris and I curl up on the extra-wide wicker lounge chair. Sitting between his legs, I lazily rest my head on his chest while we listen to Sabin play.
When the last note plays out, he sets down the guitar and holds out a hand. “Tips are appreciated. You know how it is for us starving artists.”
“You had two lobsters and a flat-iron steak for dinner. You’re hardly starving,” Chris points out.
Sabin fake-pouts. “Allow me my artistic angst.”
“Speaking of artistic,” I say, “I saw in the paper that auditions for the playhouse in Bangor are coming up. They’re doingOthello. OrHamlet. Or some other one word–titled play I can’t remember. You should try out. Don’t you miss acting? It’s been so long since you were in anything.”
He leans back in his chair. “Well, here’s the thing, kids—”
“Or,” Chris cuts him off, “you could take the job I’m about to offer you.”
