Before I Knew (The Cabots #1)(14)

She chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her laughter seemed to brighten the sky. Of course, she usually had that effect on him.

“How’s Leslie?” Alec still remembered when Mrs. Cabot had insisted he call her by her first name. She’d always been a funny woman, so different from his more traditional mother.

“The same.” Colby grimaced. “Always looking for something new to fill the void. A cat, a garden, a dog, a poet . . .”

“A poet?” Alec could only imagine what that meant.

“Don’t ask.” She shook her head and grinned. “But I almost feel sorry for a stranger named Richard.”

Alec faced her. “Hunter used to call your mom the ‘black hole of neediness.’”

“One he had no interest in trying to fill.” She smirked.

“Unlike you.” He’d spent years watching Colby leap through hoops and over fences trying to keep her mother happy. To keep everyone happy, actually, including him. She’d sat with him, chatting away in the kitchen. He knew those visits had mostly been about sampling his food, but he suspected she’d also thought he’d needed company. Colby had never liked seeing anyone be lonely.

She glanced up, chagrined. “We both know Hunter was always smarter than me.”

“Not really. Just more focused, and less compassionate.” For a second he allowed himself to pretend that the warmth he saw in her eyes was more than a melancholy memory of faded friendship. “I always thought your mom was fun.”

“To think I thought you were smart, too.” She playfully punched his arm, like the old days.

He laughed. The foreign feeling caught in his chest, and for the first time in forever, a thread of real hope weaved through him. “You know, you’re a lot like your mom, or you used to be, anyway.”

“In what way?” She sounded horrified.

“Are you really going to pretend you were never outlandish?” When she raised her brows in question, he continued. “Remember when you wanted to be a hair stylist and asked me to let you cut my hair after you’d destroyed all your old doll heads?”

“And you let me.” She grinned, one brow raised. “You were brave.”

Or stupidly infatuated, which maybe was the same thing. Having her fingers running over his scalp had been worth every penny he’d spent later to fix the bad haircut.

“Or before that, when you were desperate to see the Seattle Space Needle, but your mom refused to drive you, so you decided you could bike there . . . at night.”

“Well, I did have that new ten-speed,” she teased. “Meanwhile, you crushed my dream. After you told on me, my mom locked up my bike for weeks.”

“I had to tell. If you and Joe had sneaked off like you’d threatened, it would’ve been a disaster.”

The mere mention of Joe—whose life had ended in disaster, anyway—soaked up every hint of humor like a dry sponge.

“I just ran into your dad . . . sort of.” Colby gripped the railing.

“Sort of?”

“Stitch was camped out in your yard. Your dad pulled into the driveway before I made my getaway. He paused long enough to warn me to keep Stitch off the property.” She twisted her wedding band. “He still blames me for bringing Mark into Joe’s life.”

Alec knew that to be true and wouldn’t lie—at least not about that much.

“Do you?” Her stiff demeanor informed him that she expected a yes. He’d suspected she believed that and had been dreading working with him, which made sense given that she had no idea why he’d retreated from her these past years.

“No.” He didn’t blame Colby. If anything, she suffered as much as anyone. She’d loved Joe, and she’d loved and lost her husband, too. The irony of it all was how much Alec blamed himself for the entire mess.

“Thank you.”

“Saying goodbye to Joe wasn’t easy for any of us. My dad can’t seem to get over missing all the day-to-day things they’ll never do. It’s almost like he resents the future.” Alec rested his hip against the railing. “Maybe you do, too, having lost Mark before you had kids.”

Colby looked away, but not before he saw pain cross her eyes. He should’ve kept quiet. Now all he wanted to do was hold her, although that desire persisted regardless of a reason.

Mark. Like always, the name summoned the memory of the man’s bold signature. Alec’s stomach churned. He didn’t remember every word of the three-page handwritten letter, which had skipped from thought to thought. All he did recall was the part he should’ve told someone.

“I can’t eat. I can’t keep living this way, Alec. You and your family have to forgive me, please.”