Читать книгу Flowers on Main - Sherryl Woods, Sherryl Woods - Страница 5

Bree O’Brien sank her fingers into the rich, dark soil and lifted up a handful so she could breathe in the scent of it. This was real, not like the shallow world in which she’d been struggling to make a name for herself for the past six years. Gardening was something she understood. Plants could be coaxed along with water and fertilizer and loving attention in ways that a theater production could not. A vase of flowers, artfully arranged, had only to please the recipient, not an entire audience, each of them a critic in one way or another.

She’d been relieved when her sister Abby had called her about the opening of the Inn at Eagle Point, now owned by their sister Jess. It had given her the perfect excuse to flee Chicago, where her last play had been savaged by the critics and closed a mere week after it had opened. In six years she’d had one regional theater triumph and two box-office and critical disasters.

Some playwrights might be thrilled to have just one big success, even far, far off Broadway, but Bree had always wanted more. She’d expected to be up there with Neil Simon, Noel Coward … heck, even Arthur Miller. Of course, that had been after her first success, when she was way too full of herself. She’d thought herself capable of Simon’s comedic timing, Coward’s wit and Miller’s complex dramatic skill. There’d even been a few critics who’d shared that opinion.

That had made it all the more humbling when the second play had received only lukewarm praise and a shortened one-month run. The third had been skewered by those very same critics who’d sung her praises earlier. Her first play was suddenly being called a fluke. More than one suggested she was washed up at the age of twenty-seven.

She’d been relieved that no one in the family had been in Chicago for the play’s opening to witness her downfall or to see the reviews that had followed. She wouldn’t have been able to bear watching them struggle to be supportive. It was awful enough that everyone at the theater had been a part of the most humiliating moment of her career. None of the actors had even been able to look her in the eye as the director—her lover, for goodness’ sake—had read review after scathing review at the opening-night party before finally crumpling up the papers and tossing them in the trash.

One of these days, she supposed she’d muster up enough confidence to sit down in front of her computer and try again, but for now she was happy to be back in Chesapeake Shores, in familiar surroundings, with her family fussing over her just because they loved her and not because they knew her life was in shambles. She’d needed girl time with her sisters, a rousing game of tag football and nonstop teasing with her brother Connor and his buddies, and a chance to hug her nieces—Abby’s twin daughters.

She’d needed to be back home even more than she’d realized, back in her old room where the only writing she’d ever done was in her diary or stories and plays written for her own satisfaction and no one else’s eyes.

What she’d also needed, but hadn’t admitted to a soul, was distance between herself and acclaimed playwright and director Martin Demming, a mentor for a time, a lover even longer. Lately, though, the relationship hadn’t been working. Maybe she was already raw and overly sensitive after those vicious reviews, but it seemed to her he’d taken an almost gloating satisfaction in her failure. She hadn’t been prepared for that.

So, here she was, three weeks after the opening of Jess’s inn, kneeling in her grandmother’s garden, yanking out weeds and letting the warmth of the sun soak into her bare and protectively sunscreened shoulders. For the first time in months, the tension that knotted there had finally eased. She felt … She searched for the right word, then realized it was content. She felt content with herself, even with her life, despite the current upheaval. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt that way.

Oblivious for now to all the warnings about sun damage and Marty’s constant and annoying admonitions about ruining her pale-as-Irish-cream complexion, she turned her face up to the sun and felt it ease the headache that came whenever she thought about the life she’d left behind.

Even as the thought surfaced, her hands stilled and she gasped slightly. Had she left it behind? All of it? Chicago? The theater? The writing? Marty? Had she really left it forever? Could she uproot herself from the world that had meant everything just a few short months ago? Was that what she was doing here, on her knees in the dirt, days after she was supposed to return to the life she’d always dreamed of? Was she giving up? Hiding out? Or merely licking her wounds before going back into the battle zone once again?

And that’s what it was, Bree realized, a battle zone, with way too many potential enemies—the producer, the director, the actors, the critics and the public, all of whom had their own views on what her work was or ought to be. Some days everything came together in an amazing collaboration. At other times, it was a highly charged emotional war with all of her carefully crafted words, scenes and motivations picked apart by those who thought they knew best.

She sat back and heaved a sigh. Oh, how she wished she had an answer to any of those questions.

“You’ve pulled up three of my summer phlox,” Gram said, a clucking note of disapproval in her voice as she interrupted Bree’s dark thoughts. “Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind before you ruin the perennial garden I’ve spent years cultivating?”

Bree looked from her grandmother—hands on hips, petite and feisty in her straw gardening hat, sneakers and bright-pink cropped pants and matching blouse—to the tall, dark purple phlox already wilting amid the weeds she’d tossed aside to her left. At the sight of the flowers, she groaned. “I got the roots. I’ll put them back in the ground with some extra water and fertilizer. They’ll be okay, Gram.”

Gram gave her a penetrating look that suggested she knew exactly what was going on with Bree, but was waiting for her to bring up the subject.

“Can you say the same for yourself?” Gram asked. “Will you be okay?”

Bree deliberately looked away and turned her attention to replanting the phlox. “I have a lot on my mind,” she murmured, afraid that she would confirm Gram’s suspicions if she said more. Of everyone in the family, only her grandmother seemed to truly understand her, to see inside her heart even when Bree was silent. To her father and even to her outgoing siblings, she was mostly an enigma.

“Your distraction’s plain enough,” Gram agreed. “What you need is to share some of it, make the burden a wee bit lighter. If you don’t want to tell me whatever’s on your mind, go over to the inn and have lunch with Jess or call Abby. She’d be happy to take you to lunch in Baltimore, I’m sure. She can show off that new office of hers. You can have a nice heart-to-heart chat.”

“Jess has her hands full. She doesn’t have time to listen to me moan and groan. The same with Abby. Now that she and Trace are engaged and she’s commuting to Baltimore practically every day, she has little enough time for herself and the twins without wasting it on me.”

“Nonsense! Either one of them would make the time, because they’re your sisters,” Gram said impatiently. “With the O’Briens, family comes first. We stick together no matter what. Didn’t I teach you that years ago?”

She’d certainly tried, Bree recalled. It had been a hard lesson to learn after their mother had taken off for New York, fed up with their father’s endless round of business trips and his neglect of their family. Gram had been the glue that held the rest of them together. She’d been the one who’d tried to nudge them into making peace with Megan on her visits home, encouraged them to keep an open mind toward their mother. Not that any of them had. They were young and unforgiving, and the complexities of their parents’ relationship had eluded them.

Lately, Bree had noticed that her father was making more of an effort to connect with all of them. Mick had shelved an entire project in California to be home for the opening of the inn, though he’d taken off again soon afterward. Even their mother had come back for Jess’s big day, which had created its own problems, but Bree had to admit it had been nice to have everyone—at least everyone except her brother Kevin around for a few days. Kevin’s tour in Iraq had kept him from being home for the festivities.

Those few days had reminded Bree of the kind of family harmony they’d had years ago, before Mick’s acclaim as an urban architect and developer had taken him all over the world. It was exactly that kind of camaraderie that Bree had needed most when she’d left Chicago.

She could have told any family member about what had happened, and they would have done anything necessary to try to bolster her spirits. She knew that. She also knew she wasn’t quite ready for the pity none of them would be able to hide or the sound, pragmatic suggestions Mick or Abby might have offered.

It would be better, she thought, to suck it up, make her own decisions and then get on with her life, not wallow in self-pity or dump all of her problems on her sisters, Gram or anyone else. What she needed, as always, was the peace and quiet to find her own way.

“Maybe I’ll call Jess or Abby later,” Bree hedged eventually. “Why don’t I go inside and fix us some lunch. We can eat out here or even on the beach.” She was suddenly overcome by a wave of nostalgia. “Remember when you used to make picnics for us when we were kids? We’d spread a blanket on the sand and spend the whole afternoon along the shore.”

Gram regarded her with amusement. “Do I need to remind you that you were the first one to complain about the sand getting in your food and the sun being too hot?”

Bree laughed. “I guess I’d forgotten that part. Okay, we can eat on the porch. There’s no sand on the porch, and there is a lovely breeze.”

“Actually, I can’t today,” Gram said, a note of apology in her voice. “I have a meeting at the church.” She studied Bree worriedly, then added, “But I can cancel if you’d rather I stay here so we can talk some more.”

Bree wasn’t ready to bare her soul. “No, go. I’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll walk into town, do a little shopping and then have lunch at the café.”

Gram nodded. “If you decide to do that, give my best to Sally and bring home one of those raspberry croissants of hers. I’ll have it for breakfast tomorrow.”

Bree feigned shock. “You’re actually going to eat someone else’s baking? Or are you trying to figure out her recipe so you can make them yourself?”

“When someone has a knack for something, I’m perfectly content to leave them to it. Sally’s croissants melt in your mouth. Why try to improve on that?”

“I think I’ll tell her you said that,” Bree teased. “It’ll please her to know that the greatest baker in Chesapeake Shores admires her croissants.”

Gram drew herself up indignantly. “It’s nothing I haven’t told her myself, young lady. I’m not beyond giving credit where it’s due. Now go along with you. Try to come back with a smile on your face. It troubles me to see you looking so lost.”

Bree knew that Gram was attuned to her moods, but she hadn’t expected her to hit on such an apt description. She was lost. Having one person who could read her and was always willing to lend an ear, offer advice or whatever else she needed brought unexpected tears to her eyes. If she wasn’t careful, she’d start bawling right here and now, and Gram would stay put and pry the whole pitiful story out of her.

Instead, she forced a smile. “I’m just sorting through a few things. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

The words were as much for herself as for her grandmother. It would be too easy to let herself wallow in that feeling of love and acceptance, to wrap herself in it and forget all about her dreams. Chesapeake Shores would be the perfect safe haven.

Then again, maybe it was time to take a really hard look at those dreams and see if they still fit, after all. Bree had the O’Brien streak of stubbornness in spades, but maybe there was no shame in letting go for once. Moving on. Making new dreams.

If only she had even a vague idea of what those new dreams might be.

Mick O’Brien stood on a street corner in New York City with his cell phone in hand, trying to work up the courage to make a call to a woman he’d known most of his adult life. Megan was his ex-wife, for heaven’s sake! Dialing her number shouldn’t be harder than facing down an entire planning and zoning commission dead set on vetoing one of his developments. Yet he’d done that numerous times without batting an eye, while just the prospect of making this call had his palms sweating.

Losing his nerve, Mick snapped the phone shut for the third time and turned on his heel. He wound up in a coffee shop somewhere on the Upper East Side of the city, just blocks from Megan’s apartment, cursing his own cowardice or maybe the decision that had brought him to New York in the first place, after all these years.

Seeing Megan again at the opening of Jess’s inn had unleashed something inside him. He’d suddenly remembered the way it had felt to love her, how he’d always felt ten feet tall when she’d looked at him. All the years of burning anger and resentment over their breakup had disappeared in the space of a heartbeat when he’d seen her walking toward him on the beach, her figure as lithe as a girl’s, her auburn hair whipping in the wind.

They’d even shared a few rare moments of real harmony, when he’d included her in the gift he’d given Jess to celebrate the inn’s opening. When he’d told their youngest daughter that the outrageously expensive stove she’d wanted was a present from him and her mother, the icy tension between them had thawed a few degrees. Bridging the distance between mother and daughter had brought him the kind of satisfaction he hadn’t felt in years. At least until he’d received a check in the mail from Megan for her half. That had annoyed the dickens out of him.

Although he and Megan had seen each other only a few times in Chesapeake Shores, it had been enough to convince Mick of the cost of clinging to his own stupid pride. Years ago that stubborn pride had kicked in and kept him from begging Megan to stay. Now, sensing that they might have another chance, he wasn’t going to let anything stand in the way of his reaching out.

Except maybe fear, he thought with chagrin as he sipped his coffee and stared at the cell phone lying on the scarred, Formica-topped table in this noisy, busy neighborhood eatery.

Maybe it would be easier if he just showed up on her doorstep. Megan was too much of a lady to slam the door in his face, while she might find it a whole lot easier to hang up on him.

He was so busy contemplating his strategy that he jumped like some scared teenager when the cell phone rang.

“Yes, hello,” he muttered, embarrassed even though the person on the other end of the line couldn’t possibly know how idiotic he felt.

“Have you seen her yet?” his mother demanded.

Mick frowned. How was it that Nell O’Brien always knew what he was up to, even when he’d been very careful to keep this trip to New York a secret from everyone in his family?

He’d seen no point in stirring up speculation—or a storm of objections, for that matter—when he had no idea how things between him and Megan were likely to go.

He’d detoured to New York on his way back from business meetings in Seattle and Minneapolis, thinking that if he made a damn fool of himself, no one would have to know about it. Now here was his mother, with that second sight of hers, guessing exactly what he was planning.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said defensively, hoping Nell had simply taken a lucky guess.

“You’re in New York to see Megan, aren’t you?” she declared with conviction.

“What gave you that idea?” Even as he spoke, he could imagine her rolling her eyes at his response. She’d never liked wasting time stating the obvious.

“Your office said you flew to New York this morning after you finished up your meetings in Minnesota. Since you haven’t set foot in that city since the day Megan moved up there, and since you’ve been mooning around here ever since she left after the opening at the inn, I put two and two together.”

“Well, your math skills are lousy,” he claimed. “I haven’t seen her.”

She laughed at that. “That can only mean you’ve chickened out now that you’re there. You’re probably sitting in some bar trying to work up the courage to see her.”

“I’m not in a damn bar,” he muttered. Saints protect him from a mother who’d always been able to read him like a book. “And I have not chickened out. Did you track me down just to hassle me, or was there something else on your mind?”

“I had something else on my mind, but now I’m thinking we should be talking about whether you have any idea what you’re doing. You and Megan have been divorced for years.

She left because you neglected her and this family and didn’t change your ways when she called you on it. You know I love you, but I don’t see how any of that has changed. You still spend more time away than you do with your family.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, my family has pretty much scattered.”

“And in case you haven’t noticed, one by one they seem to be turning up again,” she retorted. “Yet you’re still running from one job to the next.”

“Maybe I’m ready to slow down,” he said, testing the idea on himself as much as her.

“Retire? You?” she asked, her tone incredulous. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

“I didn’t mention retirement,” he retorted irritably. “I said I might be ready to slow down.”

“Maybe? Might? Seems to me you ought to be sure about a thing like that before you go getting that woman’s hopes up, then turn right around and dash them again.”

Much to his dismay, he conceded to himself that she had a point. Not that he intended to admit it aloud. “Look, I have things to do. Just tell me why you called.”

Apparently she realized that his patience had worn thin, because she actually answered the question, rather than launching a full-scale lecture or asking more questions of her own.

“I called because I’m worried about Bree,” she told him.

“Bree?” he asked, startled. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Men!” Nell muttered, her tone disparaging. “Mick, she’s your daughter. Didn’t you notice how quiet she’s been ever since she got here? For that matter, haven’t you wondered what she’s still doing here?”

“Bree’s always been quiet,” he said, genuinely puzzled by his mother’s observation. She’d always been happiest locked away in her room with a pad of paper or a book. Of all of his children, she was the one he’d understood the least. She’d never had the outgoing nature of her siblings. Nor had she suffered from the usual teenage highs and lows—or if she had, she’d channeled that into the writing she hid from everyone in the family.

“This is different,” his mother insisted. “And she hasn’t said a single word about going back to Chicago. Something’s happened, Mick, I just know it. I tried to talk to her earlier, but she told me she was fine.”

“Then maybe she is.”

“She is not fine. You need to stop worrying about the past and get back home to deal with your daughter. She needs you.”

“No,” he said at once. “If Bree needs anyone, it’s you. You’ve always understood her better than I have. Come on, Ma, you know I’m right. If you can’t get her to open up, then there’s not a chance in hell I’ll be able to.”

“Well, this time I think maybe she needs all of us.”

He frowned at Nell’s somber tone. “Ma, what exactly do you think happened to her? If that jerk did something …” He let his voice trail off. He’d never liked Martin Demming. He was too old for Bree for one thing, and an arrogant son of a gun for another. Mick had heard a few too many condescending remarks directed at Bree. It had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed not to tell the man off the last time Mick had been to Chicago. Only a plaintive look from Bree had kept him silent. It had made his heart ache to see his sensitive daughter listen to that demeaning nonsense without fighting back.

Nell interrupted his thoughts. “I don’t know if this has anything to do with Martin Demming or if it’s about her work.

That’s my point. We need to find out what has her so upset. When are you coming home?”

“That depends,” he said, still thinking about his mission to see Megan again.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said impatiently. “Either call Megan the minute we hang up or get on a plane and come home. You’re needed here.”

“I’ll be there first thing tomorrow,” he promised.

Heck, if things went well, maybe he’d even convince Megan to come back to Chesapeake Shores for another visit. If Bree really was in some sort of trouble, having her mother around certainly couldn’t hurt. In fact, it might be just what she needed.

He sighed even as the manipulative thought occurred to him. Who was he kidding? He was the one who needed Megan at home again. Always had. If a crisis with their middle daughter gave him the perfect excuse to get her there, he wasn’t too proud to take advantage of it. There’d be plenty of time to regret his tactics later … but only if they didn’t work.

The back booth at Sally’s all but had a Reserved sign sitting on it. Every day, right at noon, Jake Collins, Mack Franklin and Will Lincoln sat in that booth and ordered the day’s special. Today it was ham and cheese on a croissant with potato salad, Jake noted as he glanced at the chalkboard behind the counter on his way to the booth. When he got there, he stopped short. He wasn’t sure which shocked him more, that it was already occupied or that the person whose face was buried in the menu was Bree O’Brien.

It took less than a heartbeat for him to note that her bare shoulders were pink from the sun, that she wore the turquoise sundress that had always been a favorite of his, that she looked exhausted.

Before any of that could really sink in, he wheeled around and bumped straight into Mack, then brushed past him without stopping.

“Where are you going?” Mack demanded.

“Let’s go to Brady’s for lunch,” Jake said in a clipped, urgent undertone as he paused just long enough to give Mack a hard look that begged him to stop asking questions.

Mack stared at him blankly, obviously not picking up on Jake’s signal. “Why?”

“Because I’m in the mood for a crab-cake sandwich and a beer,” Jake said impatiently, weaving past three women blocking the aisle.

He didn’t wait to see if Mack followed but headed right back out onto the street, where he stopped and sucked in a deep breath. Damn, that woman should not be able to get to him like this, not after six years. And she’d done it without even once looking him in the eye or opening her mouth. It was pitiful. He was pitiful. Why should it matter to him that she looked as if she hadn’t slept in a week?

“Would you mind telling me why you’re both out here?” Will asked when he came upon them standing on the sidewalk in the blazing late-July heat. His crisply ironed sport shirt was wilting and he’d tugged off his tie. He was clearly anxious to get inside in air-conditioning.

“I have no idea,” Mack responded with a shrug. “Jake’s apparently developed a sudden craving for a crab cake.”

When Jake met Will’s gaze, he saw the knowing amusement in his friend’s eyes. That was the problem with hanging out with the same bunch of guys since elementary school. None of them had one damn secret from the others. Will, with his Ph.D. in psychology, was capable of guessing the source of Jake’s suddenly skittish mood.

Will sighed. “I was wondering when he was going to find out that Bree’s in town.”

Mack looked momentarily surprised, then nodded. “Just now apparently.”

“It took longer than I expected,” Will said.

Jake stared at them. “You knew Bree was here and didn’t warn me?”

“I’d heard,” Will admitted.

“Me, too,” Mack said, looking chagrined. “We figured she’d be gone before the two of you crossed paths.”

“How’d she look?” Will asked, his gaze on Mack rather than Jake.

Mack shrugged. “Jake was blocking my view.”

“Well, it’s probably better that Jake finally got a glimpse of her,” Will said thoughtfully. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Absolutely. Her family’s here,” Mack added. “It’s not like she’d stay away forever.”

“Would you two stop talking as if I’m not here,” Jake grumbled. “This isn’t about Bree O’Brien. I just decided I’m in the mood for a crab-cake sandwich. That’s it.”

“Last time I checked, Sally made a halfway-decent crab-cake sandwich,” Will remarked, calling him on the blatant lie.

“Hardly anyplace around here that doesn’t,” Mack agreed.

Jake tired of their amusement at his expense. “Oh, give it a rest,” he grumbled. “If you want to eat here, we’ll eat here. I just thought it would be good to try someplace different. We’re in a rut.”

“And you realized that not five minutes ago?” Will inquired skeptically. “We’ve been in the same rut for five years.”

“Six,” Jake muttered. “It’s been six years.”

The three of them had started eating lunch together every day right after Bree had left Chesapeake Shores. It had been Will and Mack’s halfhearted attempt to boost Jake’s spirits, even though they weren’t a hundred percent certain what had happened between Jake and Bree. The couple had broken up, that much Jake’s friends knew, and also that Jake was hurting. That was all that had mattered.

His buddies had rallied around him, being supportive in the only way guys knew how, by hanging out with him and trying to keep him distracted, and by not mentioning the source of his discontent unless he brought her up first. Which he hadn’t. Today was one of the few times in all these years that Bree’s name had even crossed his lips.

Good friends that they were and happily single, Will and Mack had also dragged Jake out regularly for happy hour and tried to interest him in other women. More often than not, they were the ones who met someone attractive and left with her, while Jake went home alone to his empty bed and dark thoughts. He’d gotten used to the pattern and to the loneliness. It was pitiful, all right, but it was the life he had.

And it beat the pain he’d felt when Bree had left. He wasn’t going through anything like that again, even if he wound up living like a hermit for the rest of his days, which his sister, Connie, told him regularly he was in grave danger of doing.

“Maybe it’s a good sign,” Will speculated, his expression thoughtful. “Him wanting to shake things up finally.”

“Could be,” Mack agreed.

The two men exchanged a look, then turned toward Mack’s SUV, which was parked closer than Will’s fancy foreign sports car or Jake’s bright green Shores Nursery and Landscaping truck.

“We’ll go to Brady’s,” Mack said, throwing a commiserating arm across his shoulders. “And then we’ll beat some sense into you.”