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For Brogan Cole, the waning days of summer brought a melancholy sadness to the last week of August. She couldn’t put her finger on what exactly drove her gloomy feeling. For someone who didn’t like to jet off to exotic destinations, she felt summer had gone by way too fast and left her in the doldrums. She’d always considered herself happiest at home. A homebody who could extract joy from the most mundane task, she took pleasure in spending hours gardening, babying her young fruit trees in the orchard, or diving into a good book on a rainy day. She found joy in making dinner from vegetables she’d grown herself. Taking care of the house she shared with the man she loved was usually enough to give her a sense of peace that came from deep in her soul.
Usually.
But as the last days of summer grew shorter, she felt drained of all joy.
Time spent puttering around the house, taking care of her plants, gathering the harvest from her garden, or picking lemons from the orchard didn’t bring her the rush it usually did. It left her feeling empty. What was this hole she felt in her heart? It wasn’t like her to stay down for very long.
So why did she feel she’d lost out on having a thrilling summer adventure?
She’d long since accepted that her fear of flying kept her grounded in more ways than one. She usually shrugged off that particular phobia as fallout. Her mother had perished in an airplane crash on a dark and stormy night. What child wouldn’t grow up to fear boarding a jet, any jet large or small, then taking off to unknown parts of the world with a stranger at the controls? Trust someone she’d never met? Why would she do that? Putting her safety in the hands of a stranger seemed foolish. Trusting a pilot was serious business. An experienced pilot had to show good sense and fly around a storm instead of showing off how he could fly through one. The idea of getting on a plane meant she had to hope and pray the pilot knew enough to handle certain situations—a mechanical failure at forty thousand feet, an unexpected lightning strike, a crisis onboard. She expected an outcome where every passenger would survive. Unlike her friends, she didn’t look at flying as a simple means of escape. There were issues to consider.
She’d learned a long time ago there were no guarantees. Her trust issues began in childhood. They were lifelong and many. She’d dragged most of them around for decades. She’d overcome a few during years of intense therapy. Others she’d ironed out on her own by sheer willpower. But flying was still the number one phobia she couldn’t conquer.
If a trip became necessary enough to include a four-hour-plus flight time back east, she resorted to Ambien or valium—enough to knock herself out to last the entire trip. Was it an ideal fix? No.
But it meant those exotic destinations were not on her to-do list. Not even in the summertime. Not even when she received emails from old friends describing their glamorous trips, bombarding her with photos detailing a magical vacation spent on a tropical island somewhere. She didn’t yearn to travel abroad or feel envious of those who did. To reach her own paradise, she had only to open her backdoor and walk several yards down to the beach, stroll along the white sand among the dunes and collect driftwood or seashells.
So why did she feel like she'd missed out on something as the August heat shifted into shorter and cooler days?
These past few months had already shown she could get through and even survive without her stoic mother figure. Maeve Calico, her former housekeeper and confidant, had flown the nest for good and now lived in Los Angeles with Jack Milliken. With every phone call between the two, Brogan could tell that Maeve seemed happier, carving out the life she’d always wanted. And lately, Maeve had hinted that Jack was willing to lighten his security business workload to travel to places she’d always wanted to see.
Did that mean her surrogate mom was ready to fly farther from the nest than ever before? She had to prepare herself for that ultimate outcome. One day would Maeve want to go back to Ireland to live?
While Brogan felt change closing in, she had to savor the small victories. And there were many. She’d survived an extended visit from her mother-in-law Kate Ashcroft, Manhattan’s perennial society maven. Not an easy thing to do. She could celebrate solving the case Kate had dumped in their laps—the sudden disappearance of Kate’s best friend, Whitney Parrish, heiress to a perfume fortune. She and Lucien had returned Kate’s gal pal to her posh Bel-Air home within a few days spent following the clues. After tracking the woman’s cell phone, they learned Whitney had survived a botched kidnapping. Two former employees had dumped the heiress in the desert, leaving her to die. A quick reaction on Kate’s part brought Lucien and Brogan into the frame in time to save a beaten Whitney from dehydration.
Their victory seemed to score major points with Kate. Saving Whitney had gone a long way to cementing Kate’s opinion of her son and, in turn, her daughter-in-law.
Saying goodbye to their summer dogsitter and part-time housekeeper, Austin Stratton, had been a different matter. Maybe that’s why Brogan couldn’t shake the sadness. Someone else was leaving the nest. But there was no need to worry. Austin was on his way to better days at UC Davis, beginning his studies to become a veterinarian. Brogan had ensured the kid’s full-ride scholarship was enough to make his dream come true. Over the next four years—or however long it took—Austin could focus on his future and worry less about money.
There was a sense of satisfaction knowing that. Another win checked off.
She glanced over at the now-vacant guest house. The one Austin had occupied for the past four and a half months. As she veered left along the old cobblestone pathway, heading toward Lucien’s workshop, she felt like a veteran empty nester.
She fought the brisk breeze whipping her buttery blonde hair and walked past a row of showy hydrangeas still popping with a mix of blue and white flowers, each the size of a head of cabbage. The sunny buds grew next to a patch of rocket-tall delphiniums stretching their stems toward the sky. A few blossoms had flopped over in the afternoon heat, their petals littering the pathway. She had to remember to water the jasmine and the wilting Japanese privet. Their drooping state reminded her that the flowers wouldn’t last forever, sad signs that summer wouldn’t even last into those first days of September.
When she finally got within twenty feet of the studio, she decided the meadow sedge they’d planted around the building almost a year ago for landscape had doubled in size. Why had she not noticed that before now? She eyed the space where Lucien created his fabulous works of art, his one-of-a-kind furniture pieces that never failed to wow the client and realized her heart and soul would always be right here.
She didn’t need exotic destinations.
When had she put Malibu so far in her rearview mirror that the childhood home she’d shared with her father seemed like a distant memory? Thinking of her dad always made her sad. But she’d come a long way since losing Rory Rossum Cole. She’d never get over his tragic murder or how he died, but she had hope that in dealing with the loss, she’d grown up as the daughter he’d raised.
Today, there wasn’t time for sentimentality, though. Up ahead, Brogan studied the workshop and noticed the walls vibrating. Where were the dogs? How could they stand to be around all that racket?
Her eyes scanned the landscape until she spotted both dogs rolling in the grass outside the garden shed. Stella spotted her first and trotted over. But the miniature cream-colored Bichon named Poppy mischievously nipped at Stella’s feet, the only part of the greyhound that Poppy could reach. Stella, ever the sweet-natured, fawn-colored rescue, put up with the smaller dog for a few minutes before growing tired of the game and nosed Poppy away. The Bichon took the hint. As far as Stella was concerned, playtime was over.
Brogan turned back to the open doors of the studio. The place shook with the sound of a drill, an overhead whirring fan set to high, and rock music blaring from the speakers. Today, a steady stream of tunes from The Black Crowes kept her hunky six-two artist company as he worked in harmony with the playlist. She could tell the rhythmic beat had helped him put the finishing touches on a buffet piece he’d designed uniquely for Simon Bremmer and his wife, Gilly.
Made from a slab of coastal live oak thathe’d salvaged from a neighbor’s barn, he’d spent weeksworking with the wood to get just the right texture. He’d finished putting together the six-foot-long cabinet two weeks ago. After a week of slapping on stain and varnish, he’d already added the shelving to the inside. All he had left to do was install the doors.
She watched from the doorway as Lucien stood back, ran a hand through his mop of caramel-colored hair wet from sweat, and admired his handiwork.
Knowing he seemed pleased with himself, she grinned and cleared her throat. But it would take more than that to get the man’s attention.
In the loudest voice she could muster, Brogan cupped her hands to yell out, “Told you this piece would turn out better than the trestle table you built for them and delivered two months back.”
When it finally sunk in that he wasn’t alone, Lucien squinted in the direction of the doorway, wiped his forehead, and reached over to turn the volume down on the stereo. “Hey, what’s up?”
