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“Broken arm and some burn and shrapnel damage.” Lincoln gestured to his shoulder. “I was at Bethesda for a couple of weeks and did a bunch of rehab. I was wearing a flak jacket and helmet, so it could have been a lot worse.”
“Why didn’t…” Sam’s voice trailed off.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Lincoln shrugged. They both already knew the answer.
“I’m going to head up to San Francisco for the week.” Lincoln pulled his keys from his pocket. “I’ll be back if I can arrange to meet Jake, then I’ll take off.”
After leaving the tavern, he stopped on the front porch and pulled in a heavy breath. His heart was racing in a disproportionately strong reaction to getting irritated with his brother. Again.
Maybe this was the end. He and Sam had seen each other once in the past ten years. They hadn’t had a reason to communicate. Hadn’t wanted to. Now that both their parents were gone, Folio Publishing was their only connection. And Sam had every intention of severing that tie, so—
“Hey.”
Lincoln turned. Sam stepped onto the porch. The tavern door slammed shut behind him.
“How many authors?” he asked.
“What?”
“How many authors lose their contracts if Folio gets rid of the genre imprints?”
“At least two dozen.”
Sam frowned. “Even Arthur Redmond? He’s been with Folio for…what, twenty-five years?”
“He’s with the Cloak and Dagger imprint. He’d unfortunately be one of the casualties, unless I can find another place for him.”
Sam rubbed his jaw. “I don’t want to go to New York.”
“Yeah, you made that clear.”
“But you don’t get why I’d choose to give up Folio and stay here. Or why anyone would want something you don’t.” Sam moved to the porch railing to reposition a sagging string of white lights. “You know, you may have been the heir to the throne, but I’ve read your books. You get into the skin of characters who are nothing like you. Vietnam vets, refugee fathers, lobster fishermen. Hell, everyone talks about how Lincoln Atwoodliveshis books before he writes them.”
He eyed Lincoln narrowly. “Or is that all a big act? Can you really not see why people would choose a different life? Why we don’t want the spotlight? Why someone like me would pick a small town over Manhattan?”
He held up a hand to stop Lincoln from responding. “For what it’s worth, it took me a long time to see the appeal of Bliss Cove, too. But you’re the famous author with all the awards and rave reviews. Hell, your books are studied in college classrooms. You’re supposed togetshit that other people don’t.”
Lincoln blew out a breath. “That doesn’t mean I get everything.”
“Yeah, well, all your accolades and fucking sports trophies say differently.” Sam rolled his eyes in faint humor. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t know you got hurt. If you don’t have to go back right away, you might as well stick around.”
“What for?”
A brief silence fell, almost as if Sam, too, was processing the realization that this might be the end of their tenuous relationship.
Sam dragged a hand through his hair. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“Stay in Bliss Cove for a few weeks. Until you have to go back for the meeting. You can do that, right?”
“Ican, but why the hell would I want to?”
“So you can get to know the town and the people,” Sam said. “If at the end of May, you can give methreegood reasons why a person would want to live here, then I’ll come with you to New York for the board meeting.”
Interest and wary hope sparked inside Lincoln. “And if I can’t give you three reasons?”
