After giving a little wave, she disappeared down the ladder.
The recollection reminded Alec of how she’d once trusted him. It also reminded him of how she’d never seen him as a man, and probably still thought of him as a brother. Despite it all, those two or three illicit minutes were burned into his brain for all eternity.
Did it ever pass through her mind? Wishful thinking. He laughed at himself, because she’d married someone completely unlike him. An uninhibited, athletic guy like his brother, Joe.
Joe.
His phone rang, thankfully steering him away from the abyss of guilty, dark thoughts. Down to 2 percent battery. He answered, “Hi, Mom.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“No.” He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck. “Colby and Hunter have gone. I’m alone now, checking out the space.”
“I’ve heard it’s quite lovely.”
“It is. The Cabots spared no expense in the front or back of the house. It’s got the potential to be a real destination spot.” It started rising—that yearning to be among the best. To create a one-of-a-kind menu and environment that drew people from afar. He’d done it before. He would do it again. He had to.
“I’m cautiously optimistic, then, that this might work out.” His mom’s voice carried a hopeful note. “It’s been lovely to have you home again.”
She’d been the only person in his family who’d encouraged his passion. Certainly his father hadn’t. “Derogatory” would be a gentle adjective to describe that man’s opinions about Alec’s career. Words like “girlie,” “fruity,” and “weird” were often slung around like hash on a diner grill. His dad’s attitude had gradually infected Joe, too, who’d emulated their father’s machismo and followed him into the police force.
As his once-beloved little brother grew to scorn him, Alec’s sorrow had turned to bitterness, resulting in Alec’s decision that day. That regrettable day before Joe’s fateful hike.
Again, blackness gathered at the edges of Alec’s mind, so he forced his thoughts back to his mother. “You can relax, Mom. I’m home to stay.”
He was. He’d make this restaurant great. He’d give Colby what she needed, as a weak way of making amends for his inadvertent role in her husband’s suicide. And he’d prove to his father that he could be every bit as tough as Joe. That his demanding career was something only someone with strength, discipline, and dedication could achieve.
Maybe then his dad might realize he still had one son he could love.
“Wonderful. So, can you come for dinner tomorrow?” she asked. When Alec hesitated, she added, “Your father’s meeting his old partner, Craig, so I could use some company.”
“Well, then, I suppose that depends on what you’re making.” He smiled, lapsing into their comfortable banter.
“Nothing fancy. How about some old-fashioned barbecued chicken and jalapeño corn bread?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Six o’clock?”
“See you then.” He didn’t even need to hit “Off” because the battery died. He placed the phone back in his pocket and turned toward the kitchen.
Only four weeks until this place opened. It would be tough, but he could make it happen, and make it brilliant.
Chapter Two
Colby slammed on the brakes to avoid flattening Stitch in her mom’s driveway.
Her mom had always hated being alone, so it had surprised absolutely no one when that tabby cat arrived just as Colby went off to college. Although her mother never stopped complaining about the vet bills, Colby suspected she’d be devastated whenever Stitch died. If he didn’t stay out of driveways, that might happen sooner than later.
The aging, gargantuan beast had grown stubborn in his old age, refusing to budge, even for cars. Shifting into park, Colby removed him from the driveway.
“Stitch, you’re going to be a pancake if you don’t learn to scoot.” She deposited him on the porch of the small bungalow where she’d grown up. Quite a different neighborhood from where her half sister, Gentry, had been raised. Colby had never cared much for material things, but her mom liked to bring that disparity up . . . often.
“Mom?” From the so-called entry, Colby could see most of the cozy living room and dining room and a bit of the kitchen thanks to a renovation she’d underwritten several years ago for her mother. Almost everything had been replaced. Only the orange-and-brown patchwork afghan quilt her grandmother had made in the seventies and the “antique” secretary desk in the corner that had been handed down for two generations—its sole value being sentimental—remained as reminders of yesteryear. A quick scan proved the main area to be empty. She strode to her mom’s bedroom and knocked on the door. “Mom?”