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“I’d help too,” Carmen chimed in. “And so would everyone else. We might not be licensed contractors, but we didn’t grow up without picking up a few things from Paul.”
I wasn’t one to get emotional, but a lump formed in my throat. “Thanks.”
Hudson nodded. “Say the word, and I’ll sketch out some plans.” This was moving fast. I’d only gotten the idea less than ten minutes ago.
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.” I wasn’t ready to commit to anything but thinking about it.
“No problem,” Hudson said. “I’d better run. Mrs. Sullivan somehow managed to get a sponge clogged in her drain. Again.Dad is still making me take all her calls.”
Carmen tsk-tsked. “Aww, poor baby.”
Hudson shot her the evil eye. “Did you know her great-granddaughter did not one but two mission trips to Haiti? I do, because I’ve seen all the pictures. Twice. Even better, she’s started showing me pictures of her great-grandsons too. I guess she’s covering all her bases in case I swing that way.”
I laughed for the first time in weeks.
Hudson wasn’t amused. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Are you coming by tonight for a drink?” I asked.
He grinned. “After dealing with Mrs. Sullivan, I’m going to need one… or three.”
“Looking forward to it.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’ll, uh, try to eat before so I won’t be hungry for heads.”
It took him a second to understand my lame-ass joke, then he gave me a pity laugh. “Thanks.”
After my siblings left and I was alone, I surveyed the room, trying to determine if I was strong enough to make a change, both for the Brew Co. and for myself.
***
Claire
I SPIED THEOpen House sign posted outside an upscale condo community and checked the clock in my sister’s Land Rover. “I have time, right?” I muttered before crossing two lanes of traffic to turn left.
The open house wasn’t busy—never a good sign—so I had the chatty real estate agent all to myself. I walked around the condo, murmuring whenever she paused to take a breath. The place was nice enough, but I still hadn’t decided if I wanted to stay in my sister’s neck of the woods. I couldn’t continue staying in her guesthouse much longer, though. I’d narrowly avoided catching Phil in his underwear when I’d gone into the main house to do some laundry earlier that day. If that wasn’t a sign I needed to move on, then I didn’t know what was.
I managed to pry myself away from the real estate agent just in time to be ten minutes late meeting Stephanie and Phil for dinner. She’d insisted I join them and refused to take no for an answer no matter how many times I rejected the invitation. Apparently, my sister was worried about me. I was “too pale” and didn’t “get out enough.”
News flash: It was the end of winter in the Northeast, and I didn’t have the social network that she had. In the end, I agreed to meet them. I owed her so much already—the least I could do was allow her to buy me dinner. What kind of messed-up logic was that?
The maître d’ showed me to the table, where Phil was already chatting with the sommelier. He pulled out my chair for me—positioned between my sister and brother-in-law—and I sat, feeling very much like a third wheel.
Stephanie beamed at me. She leaned in so as not to disrupt Phil’s conversation. “For a second there, I was worried you’d stood us up.”
I frowned. “I said I’d be here.” If I ever broke my word, you’d have to send the cadaver dogs looking for me because I’d either be dead or close to it.
She tsk-tsked and turned her attention back to the sommelier. I sipped my water, wishing they’d hurry up and make a decision so I could drown my sorrows in alcohol instead of water. Phil finally selected a bottle of wine with a price tag that rivaled a car payment. Next, the sommelier recommended some meals that would complement the wine. Normally, people chose their meals first and their wines second, but Phil was peculiar in that way.
Only partially paying attention to what the sommelier was saying, I surveyed the menu and suppressed a sigh. I missed the Banks Brew Co. and their menu that included good old-fashioned cheeseburgers and fries, a meal that went with any beverage. I missed the laid-back atmosphere in the Carolina Banks, where some folks wore flip-flops year-round. I felt my mood slipping even further into despair and sighed. This was exactly why Stephanie had marched into the guesthouse earlier and flung open the curtains to let in the nonexistent sunshine. I’d better put on a happy face, or she was only going to psychoanalyze me more.
Stephanie pointed to an item on the menu. “The coq au vin is excellent.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll have that.”
She beamed at me again. What she didn’t realize was she’d enabled my treading water in the vast ocean of indecision. Since I’d returned from the Carolina Banks, I couldn’t seem to make any kind of meaningful decisions about my life or even a simple one, such as what to have for dinner. That was probably because in both cases, what I wanted wasn’t on the menu.
Phil steepled his fingers. “So, Claire, is your work with Bruce wrapped up?”
“Yes, I finished the final contract last week.”
