Footsteps(12)

Her brow creased at that, but then smoothed quickly. “I guess I won’t go in, then.” She pulled her long, dark hair free of its ponytail and tossed her head to loosen the wet tangles.





“You still trying to hide?” That was antisocial even for Carmen. “Are you hiding from somebody in particular?”





“It’s nothing. I’m just not feeling it this year, is all.” She draped her suit over a chair. “Did Peter show?”





“Not yet. He was iffy on coming at all. He had his hands full last night. You’re not trying to avoid him are you?” Peter had made a play for his sister once, a few years ago. But Carmen hadn’t been interested, and he had known better than to behave like his usual, Neanderthal self with Carlo’s sister. But Carmen, a landscape designer, was working a job with them, and she’d spent some time lately with Peter in that capacity. If he was getting handsy again… “Is he giving you trouble?”





Carmen huffed impatiently. “No. And do you seriously think I couldn’t handle him if he were? Don’t be all big brother on me, Carlo. I’m not avoiding anything but the town of Quiet Cove. I’m just not in the mood for this today.” She rolled her brown eyes at him and pushed past him, walking up onto the porch and pulling a tube of sunscreen from a small cabinet she kept up there. “Go find something better to do than invent a soap opera for me. I’m just grouchy. End of story.” She smeared sunscreen over her arm.





Grouchy was her default setting. As beautiful as she was, as talented and funny and smart, as great a life as she had, his sister had trouble being happy. That was another legacy of their mother’s untimely death. Carmen had been twenty-four and not much more than a year out of college when it had happened, and her life had taken a sharp U-turn. She and Carlo had filled in for their parents—the one who’d died, and the one who’d stopped. Carlo had already been working in Providence and settling into a career. Things had changed for him, but not so drastically. Carmen had been about to move to Europe. She’d had much bigger plans for her life than Quiet Cove. She’d been the free spirit of the family, the big dreamer, the one who wanted the whole world in her life. Instead, she lived a mile from the home she’d grown up in. He knew that, despite her appreciation of the life she’d made, she still felt stymied by fate.





He went up onto the porch and took the tube from her. Understanding, she pulled her hair over her shoulder and turned her back to him. “Sorry, Caramel. Just looking out for you.” He smoothed sunscreen onto her back.





“I know. And you know I don’t need a minder. I’ll hang out here and keep track of Trey. Go mind Joey. I’m sure he needs to get bailed out of something by now.”





Laughing, Carlo handed her the tube and stepped out onto the beach.





~oOo~





Carlo spent the day on the beach, mingling with townsfolk and tourists, playing in the surf with Trey and Elsa, getting in a few games of volleyball and cornhole, helping his father at the grill. Luca was the only sibling who hadn’t yet showed. That would get him some heat when he finally did make an appearance, but Carlo didn’t expect his brother to care. The sons had filled fairly predictable roles in their family—Carlo, the firstborn, was the responsible one. Joey, the youngest boy, was the goofball. John, second-youngest son, the quiet brooder. Luca, third child and second son, was the rebel—always on the wrong side of their father, which was why Carlo’s refusal to stay on with the company was such a continuing disappointment to their father. In Carlo Sr.’s highly traditional mind, if Carlo did not want it, then he had no choice but to groom his second son, the next in line. And he could not tolerate that idea.





The perfect irony, of course, was that Luca was the only one of the boys who loved the job and the company like it was literally in his blood. He was a brilliant craftsman and savvy about the business. He would be great in their father’s place. Possibly better than their father. But Carlo Sr. would never see through the rebellion, and Luca seemed incapable of anything but.





After dark the night played out as usual—the crowd dwindled down to a fraction of its peak, bathing suits were covered with jackets and sweats, and Carlo and John helped their father build up a big bonfire. Luca had simply never showed; he was blowing off the whole day, which told Carlo there had been some kind of fresh dustup between him and their father.





There were s’mores for the kids (and some of the adults), the beverage of choice shifted from beer to liquor, and, as always, a few people brought out guitars, John among them. No matter who had the guitars, no matter whether they’d ever met before, they always knew enough of the same songs that they could play together, and enough of the people sitting on logs or blankets or beach chairs or simply in the sand knew the words that they were always able to get a righteous sing-along going. It was a quintessentially summer thing for Carlo. The sort of ridiculously picture-postcard moment only found in cheesy movies. Or on a beach in a ridiculously picture-postcard town like the Cove. He loved it with his whole heart.