Just Give In… (12 page)

“You want to put something in that? It’s a little heavy to haul things in, but I could put some wheels on it…” the Captain said, coming to stand beside her.

“It’s perfect,” she announced, picturing how it would look, gleaming white, overflowing with bubbles. Completely impractical and yet…

“Not without wheels. How do you move it?”

“It’s not a container, it’s a bathtub.” For once, amid all the mechanical doodads and gizmos, little Brooke Hart could educate the Captain.

“Yes, I can see that,” he answered, completely deflating her mood.

“You don’t move bathtubs. You put them in one place, run water into them, and then bathe.”

It was rather fascinating to watch the Captain experience a lightbulb moment. His forehead furrowed as the wheels turned, and then when everything clicked into place, his head tilted slightly to the left, and then he would nod once, mainly to himself, as if the universe was aligned again. “Do you want a bathtub?” he asked, and Brooke giggled.

“It was a serious question,” he added, looking a little hurt.

“It won’t fit in my car,” Brooke explained, wondering why he hadn’t grasped the impracticality of the situation.

“What about here? My place.”

Her heart missed a beat.

“Here?” she probed carefully, aware of the many subtleties in the one small word, but of course, the Captain wouldn’t be aware of such nuances in his question.

“Here. For now. At some point in time, you’ll have a place of your own, but for now…here.”

And then she realized he was serious and she was surprised at how much the idea hurt. Not the owning a bathtub part, but the idea of leaving one behind. Brooke had a lot of experience in leaving things behind. Usually it didn’t hurt, but that was probably because she’d never had anything worth keeping before.

Brooke rose to her feet, and wiped her palms on her jeans. “That’s too much trouble. And it wouldn’t fit in the bathroom. Besides, I love showers. Much more efficient, and quick. Who knows when the hot water’s going to go. No, showers are a lot smarter.”

“Haven’t had a lot of bathtubs, have you?”

“Some,” she admitted. Fourteen was the exact number, not that anyone was counting.

“I could…” he started.

She held up her hand before he did something that made it even harder for her to leave. “No.”

His mouth tightened, but he didn’t argue.

“I’ll use it to put the do-me-hootchers in,” she rambled on. “I was looking for something extra-large.”

“Do-me-hootchers?”

“Those,” she explained, picking up a small, elongated…-me-hootcher.

The Captain met her eyes, but Brooke was a little smarter now and kept her own eyes carefully blank. “Those are Geiger counters from the second world war.”

“Geiger counters,” she repeated, storing it away in her head. “Then the tub will fit the bill nicely.”

“I’ll put the wheels on it tomorrow,” he promised.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, the bathtub disappeared and she told herself it didn’t matter. Someday when she had a fine bathroom, she would buy a heart-stopping tub. Something big, modern, with jets because who needed old fashioned frills? Completely impractical, and until then, showers were great. They were hearty and invigorating and…

Once more she glanced toward the empty spot and sighed. It had been pretty, with the curly-cue legs and the back designed to ease well-worn muscles.
Oh, well. Things to do, abandoned gadgets to sort.

To keep herself busy, she took the tiny cactus and placed it on the window-sill in the kitchen, right next to some sort of meter. What the meter measured, she didn’t know, but it set off her cactus nicely. After cleaning the dust from her hands, she went back outside, wondering how long it would take the Captain to notice the plant.

Not like she was noticing him. Earlier he had abandoned his work shirt for a cooler tank top, and sweat poured lovingly down his back. Every time he lifted a heavy tool, the sturdy muscles in his arms bunched. He had a steady, powerful rhythm, pulverizing the hapless metal into a quivering mass of pliable goo. Her mouth felt dry and her thighs began to quiver, and she put a hand on the porch railing for support.

Yes, there were lots of things to do, the Captain among them, but she was learning to be patient, as well.

I
T TOOK TWO DAYS FOR
Brooke to make the perfect batch of brownies. The first night, the Captain had watched her silently. The next night, he abandoned his latest project and offered to help.

“You know how to make brownies?” she asked, curious because up to this point, the Captain had demonstrated no culinary abilities at all.

“I can follow instructions,” he said, coming to stand next to her, peering over her shoulder into the bowl.

“So can I,” she told him, in case he thought she needed assistance.

“I should learn,” he admitted, and grudgingly, too. It made her happy to know this wasn’t about lack of faith in her abilities, but a lack of faith in his own.

“How to make brownies? They’re very easy,” Brooke told him, efficiently cracking two eggs in the bowl, dropping in one small shell in the process. Quickly she fished it out with her finger. “You’re supposed to use a spoon, but sometimes I cheat—to make sure it tastes okay.”

Brooke licked at her finger, noticed the Captain watching and made a long production of taste-testing, curious to see exactly how much self-control the Captain acutally had.

His gray eyes darkened to black, and she could feel his growing erection brushing against her thigh. Her pulse quickened and, deciding on bold action, she offered up her chocolate-covered finger.

The Captain took a cautious step back. “I should learn to do more in the kitchen.”

Patience and strategy, she reminded herself.

“Did Sonya do all the cooking?” Brooke asked, not sure he would answer, but tonight, to her surprise, he did.

“I was away most of the time.”

“What about your mother?”

“Mom always cooked. Great stuff—meat loaf, crab cakes. She made a Thanksgiving turkey that would knock your socks off.”

“You miss her?”

A shadow of loneliness crossed her face, and she felt the ache cut through her heart. “Yeah.”

“What about the rest of your family?”

At her question the loneliness was gone, as if it never existed. “I thought you wanted to make brownies.”

“Families are important,” she told him, because loneliness could be hidden, but it never disappeared. This she knew well.

The Captain laughed. “Says the woman who’s dodging her brother until she reaches some arbitrary number in her bank account.”

“The brownies are for Austen. I’m going to see him tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said, and his hand reached out, touched her mouth. Brooke forgot to breathe.

Gently he brushed at her mouth, her cheek, and the ache in his eyes made her dizzy. “Chocolate.”

“Of…course,” she said, stumbling over the simple words.

His touch disappered, her breathing resumed and the intimate moment was gone, as if it never existed. Brooke poured in the last of the flour, still warm from his touch, because tenderness could be hidden but it never disappeared, either. The Captain possessed more tenderness than he knew.

Carefully she added the salt and baking powder, measuring each amount precisely. The Captain’s close presence made precision difficult, but she thought she managed beautifully.

“You’re going to see him, talk to him, show him what a great person you are? Or are you going to make something else up?”

The confident way he said it made her want to believe him. Made her want to think that Austen would welcome her as a sister. But the few times she’d seen her brother, welcoming wasn’t even close.

She beat at the better until her hand began to hurt. Without a word, the Captain took over. “I’m bringing brownies,” she told him, stilling his hand when the mixture was glossy and rich.

“You don’t need the brownies, Brooke. He’ll like you. I swear.”

She saw the faith in his one good eye and it made her want to believe, but a lifetime of disappointment was hard to shake. Once the brownies were in the oven, she smiled at him and dusted the flour from her hands. “A little insurance never hurt.”

T
HERE WAS SOMETHING
very satisfying about tearing into a wall with a sledge hammer. The plaster kicked up a god-awful amount of dust, but Austen coughed happily, watching the destruction of his old home. He’d never felt right about putting a new house over the old one, however, this piece of the land would make a kick-ass garage where he could work on the Mustang. Or maybe he could find a sweet GT-40 for Gillian. He pulled back the hammer, ready to do some more damage when he saw the twin beams cutting through the dark.

There were headlights flickering up the drive. Not Gilian’s high-powered halogens. These were different. Older. Impala older.

Instantly, he knew. It was Brooke. His sister.

Austen tossed down the hammer, wiped the dust from his face and conjured up a smile that was worthy of greeting long-lost relatives. Even the ones that made your stomach tighten in knots.

As she picked her way through the debris, Austen shook his head apologetically. “I wasn’t going to stay out her very long. Gillian’s expecting me at the house for dinner, and I try to keep her happy.”

“I could help you,” she offered, looking so eager that he almost agreed.

“Nah. I’ve got it covered,” he said. She seemed disappointed, and he reminded himself to be nicer to her.

“I can’t stay very long anyway. I just wanted to give you these,” she said, holding out a plate of brownies. Brownies. His sister had made him brownies.

“Wow. That’s really nice and all. Are they homemade?”

“They are.”

Austen stared at the paper plate, and the plastic-wrap covering, and realized what was wrong with this picture. “Brownies. How’d you make brownies at the Inn?” As soon as he saw the horror in her eyes, he wanted to kick himself for saying the wrong thing. Of course they weren’t homemade, but she’d gone out of her way to make them look homemade and now he’d gone and embarrassed her.

However, to her credit, she recovered quickly. “I borrowed the kitchen.”

“You went to a lot of trouble for me. Thank you.”

“You’re my brother. I don’t mind.”

There was a long silence, and Austen winced, trying to think up casual conversation. Making casual conversation was a necessary requirement in the field of politics, but somehow, with Brooke, his mind always went blank. Desperate, he blurted out the first thing that popped into his head. “How are you getting along in town? People treating you okay?”

“Everyone has been very nice,” she told him, sounding as if she meant it.

“Wasn’t expecting that, but miracles happen all the time.”

The silence dragged on, and he could see some of the light fading from her eyes. “I should go,” she said, and began to walk away. Like a jerk, he nearly let her.

“Brooke!”

“Yeah?”

“Have you talked to Hadley?”

“No. He hasn’t called. I left a message with Mr. Cervantes and put a couple of notes in the door, but nothing yet.”

“I don’t know the number at Hadley’s father’s place, but Gillian could get it. I could call.”

“There’s no rush,” she said. “I’ve liked staying here and wandering aorund the town. Seeing where you all lived. What was it like living here?”

At first, he thought about lying. Making up some story that would fit her fairy-tale theory, but this time, when he looked at her, he noticed soething different. A sturdiness and a strength. And she was his sister, after all.

“We didn’t have a good time of it. Frank was mean. See that tree?” Austen pointed to the oak in the front yard. “Those holes? Frank like to take his Winchester and shoot at the tree. Stupidest thing you ever saw, but that was our father, Frank Hart. Drunk and stupid. Sometimes I would make up conversations with Mom. Have these long talks wither her in my head.”

It was hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice, and unfortunately, Brooke had noticed.

“I should go,” she said, and he watched her leave, holding the plate of brownies like a fool.

“Listen, these are great,” he called after her. “We’ll do dinner again, real soon.”

W
HEN
B
ROOKE RETURNED HOME
, the Captain was waiting on the porch. He’d hauled up a red leather bench seat and was sitting on it, like a swing.

“How’d it go?” he asked, and she sat down beside him, running a hand over the glossy material. It was one more overlooked item that the Captain had restored, making it shiny and useful again.

“He liked the brownies.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” She traced the lines of the seat, not really wanting to talk about Austen. If she had made great progess, if she had restored their relationship to something shiny and useful, maybe she would have felt better. “I like this. What’s it from?”

“Ninteen sixty-seven Cadillac DeVille.”

She didn’t say much, and the Captain must have known something was wrong. He reached out and took her hand and stayed with her, watching the night.

It was so peaceful here. The dark sky stretched beyond forever, but she didn’t feel alone. The Captain was the quietest man she’d ever met, the hard security of his hand invited her to confide. “It’s not a quick process, is it? Getting someone to like you.”

“I don’t think you’ll have too many problems. You’re easy to like.”

“Thank you. You are, too.”

“You’re not very picky. You like everybody.”

“Almost everybody,” she corrected. “But I still don’t have a lot of friends.”

“I don’t, either. I’ve learned not to lose sleep over it.”

Off in the distance, she could see the lights of town, a cheery beacon in the night, but she wouldn’t have traded anything for this.

“What happened with Max?”

“What do you mean?”

“The status is still in the box, and you don’t forget. So I’m assuming there’s a reason you haven’t mailed it.”