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Chapter Four
Donovan stood on the porch of his childhood home, the smell of pine and the whisper of the wind through the trees that would always mean home to him ringing in his ears, and debated ringing the bell. He was being an idiot. There was no question about that. He’d spent the day flying all the way across the country, taking the first flight out he could get this morning. Then he’d rented a car and driven the two hours from Portland. Now, finally, after all of that, he was standing in front of the door and halfway considering walking away.
Even five years after his parents had died in a car accident, it hurt to be at the house. Their memories were so fresh for him there. In DC, he could almost pretend they were still alive and well, living their lives on the left coast while he lived his on the right.
But, here? Back in Valentine Bay, where he was entrenched in the community that his ancestors had founded? Back in his old house, no less? There was no pretending. He had to deal with those demons head on. Not to mention the guilt. God damn it, the guilt. That was the hardest part.
Then there was his brother, Troy. Donovan found it hard to face him. Troy had dropped everything when their parents had died, given up a flourishing professional baseball career to come back to Valentine Bay and raise their little sister Mila, still in elementary school and reeling from the loss of their parents in a way that even her adult brothers would probably never fully understand.
It wasn’t that Troy rubbed it in his face or anything. Troy seemed happy in Valentine Bay, running his contracting firm and taking care of Mila. The awkwardness—and the guilt—was one hundred percent on Donovan’s end. Still, that didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
What would Miller say to him in this situation? He let the ghost of a grin touch his lips. He knew exactly what his fellow agent would say; he could hear the words echoing in his head. Stop being such a damn pussy, Valentine. I know you’re named after a chick-fest holiday, but, damn, dude. Sack up.
Even in his imagination, Miller was both brutal and accurate. He reached out and pressed the bell.
After just a few seconds, the door opened, but it wasn’t Troy standing there. It was a beautiful pre-teen girl he almost didn’t recognize as his own kid sister. Even though he loved the pictures Troy sent, in his mind, she was still a little kid. Seeing her standing before him in all her tween glory was a shock, to say the least.
“Holy hell, I feel old,” he mumbled.
Her jaw dropped when she saw him. “Donovan? Troy didn’t tell me you were coming!”
“He didn’t know, kiddo. Can I come in?”
She stepped aside and held the door open. “Oh, God, yeah! Sorry! I was just shocked.”
“You’re not the only one.”
Donovan looked up at the sound of Troy’s voice and saw him at the far side of the living room, coming down the stairs.
“Yeah, sorry, bro,” he explained. “Last minute trip. Is it cool if I crash here?”
Mila squealed and threw her arms around him. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes! You have to stay here!”
Troy grinned as he crossed the room to the two of them and then gave Mila’s hair an affection ruffle. “Well, you heard the lady. I guess you’re staying.”
A buzzer sounded from the kitchen and Mila’s face lit up. “Oh, hey, perfect timing! You’re just in time for dinner.”
Donovan raised his eyebrows at Troy. “You cook now?”
Troy put his hands up in front of him. “Hey, it’s all Mila. She’s the gourmet chef around here.”
Donovan clapped his hand over his heart in mock relief. “Thank God!”
Mila laughed, her face aglow with delight, clearly thrilled to be the center of her two big brothers’ attention.
“Come on! I made lasagna. It’s really good,” she enthused, leading the way into the kitchen.
“If she does say so herself,” Troy teased.
“Yep, I do,” Mila replied, and Donovan couldn’t help but smile at the sassy tone in her voice. Shit. Troy had obviously done an awesome job raising her these past five years. Donovan felt a stab of guilt for not coming home more often, but pushed it aside. Hell, there were so many other things to feel guilty about. Why focus on just that one?
He crossed the living room and headed toward the kitchen but was stopped in his tracks when his eyes lighted on the huge family portrait that still hung over the fireplace. Most families kept their television in that spot since flat screens had become the norm, but this house would never feel like the same home if they ever replaced the portrait with something as soulless as a television.
He stopped and looked at the blown-up photograph. The last one they’d all been together for, when Mila was only four. His heart squeezed. There they were, his parents. His beautiful mom, her warm brown eyes beaming out from beneath the chunky highlights she’d worn since he was a kid. His dependable, cheerful dad with his salt and pepper moustache. They smiled out from the canvas, beaming with pride because they were with their favorite people in the whole world—their kids.
He and his three brothers stood behind his seated parents in the portrait, each of them bearing different features from his parents, allowing his mom and dad to live on thanks to strong genetics. And there, sitting on their lap, was little Mila. A tow-headed angel with golden curls, bright blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. Her hair had darkened since they’d all sat for this photo, but the arresting eyes and rosy cheeks were still there, and still lovely.
It had been five years since he’d lost them, but damn, it still hurt so much that he could barely stand to think about it.
