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In fact, I thought about it all night long.
“What’s on the docket for today?” my father asks, slicing into his fried egg. The yolk oozes onto his white plate, stopping when it reaches a triangle of buttered toast. This man has eaten the same thing for breakfast for decades. How he hasn’t grown tired of it is beyond any of us. “A little fishing? A little hiking? Horseback riding? What sounds like a good time?”
My father can barely make it to the caretaker’s cottage without stopping for multiple breaks to catch his breath or rest his knees, but I applaud his ambition.
“Oh, we’re doing group activities?” Nicola asks. It’s a valid question. Normally when we summer here, we come together for meals and conversation, then go our separate ways the rest of the time.
We’re together—but also apart.
Exactly the way we like it.
Dad chuffs as if Nicola should have read his mind. A flash of his old temper lights his eyes before dissipating completely, replaced with a calm and relaxed smile.
“I think we should,” he says to her. “Don’t you?”
My father is allergic to two things and two things only: cats and any talk of death or dying.
This is our last summer together.
But we can’t talk about that . . .
We can allude to it.
We can imply it.
But we don’t dare breathe a word of it.
“Briar, what sounds like fun to you today?” my father asks the newest soon-to-be member of our family.
Her brows rise as she’s midbite, like he caught her off guard.
“I’m up for anything,” she answers after she swallows. “Was hoping to catch some sun today. Burke said the water might be warmer this afternoon.”
“Perfect weather for a beach day—or the pool, if that’s more your speed,” Dad says with an amused twinkle in his gray eyes as if he finds everything that comes out of Briar’s mouth endearing. “Calling for a high in the upper eighties and not a cloud in the sky, so plenty of sunshine. Hope you brought your sunscreen. Nothing worse than starting off the summer with a sunburn.”
My father’s efforts to make Briar the guest of honor are nothing more than a desperate attempt to ensure that she feels like one of us, that she’s making the right choice by marrying into our family, and more importantly, that she remembers him with fondness when he’s gone.
He was the same way with Audrina, but as we all learned, no amount of hospitality, generosity, or kindness can force someone to stick around.
When she’s finished eating, Briar says, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to grab a tray for Burke and take it upstairs.”
“No need, dear. Let Yvette take care of that.” My father wags his finger. “That’s what she’s here for—to make all of our lives easier.”
“I don’t mind,” Briar says, getting up before he has a chance to shoot her down again. “I’m headed that way anyway.”
Before anyone can say another word, she carries her dirty dishes to the kitchen.
I don’t know if she’s the breath of fresh air this family needs, but I do know one thing: she’s going to make a terrible Rothwell.
Dashiell wasn’t wrong last night when he said she wasn’t one of us.
Once upon a time, it was the best thing about her.
Turns out, she’s nothing but a liar with dollar signs where her eyes should be.
Maybe she’ll fit in after all.
CHAPTER NINE
BRIAR
One Year Ago
“What about you? Are you on any socials?” Dorian asks as we start our second round of drinks at this hole-in-the-wall American sports bar.
Given how late it is, they’ve got to be playing this game from a recording. That, or it was delayed. To quell my anxiety, I’m tempted to google the final score—until I remember my phone is a useless brick at the moment.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “Unfortunately. I’m not as active as I used to be, but I still have all of my accounts. I can’t bring myself to delete them yet.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“It’s fun to look back sometimes.”
Dorian makes a face. “Spending time in the past is the biggest waste.”
“You have an unhealthy obsession with time, you know that?” I reach for my martini before remembering I already finished it. “I bet quality time is your love language. Then again, you probably don’t even know what your love language is since you’ve never been in love . . . supposedly.”
“It’s not supposedly when it’s a fact.”
“Guess I’ll have to take your word for it, then.”
“As you should.” He anchors his turquoise gaze on mine, and I’m powerless to look away.
“I hope you get to experience it someday.” I break his hold on me and check the score. “It’s not that bad. When it’s real, I mean. It’s actually pretty magical.”
“As magical as a Cohiba Behike and some Coltrane on a Friday night?” He flattens his lips in staunch disagreement with my statement. “I doubt it.”
