"Hey, boss?" The shout from the head of the demolition team made Bronson drop his hand from the wall and turn to the door. "You about ready for us to get started?"
Bronson gave Lacey's apartment one last look, and walked back down the stairs to where the team were waiting. "Go ahead, but there's a bookcase in one of the rooms on the top floor I want saved. I'll arrange to have it collected within the hour, so make sure you don't damage it."
When their boss gave the order, his men swarmed up the stairs, and the noise started almost immediately. It wouldn't take long for the old, rotting wood to succumb to their tools and hammers and Bronson didn't want to stick around to watch it happen. The old building had to come down, the council had made that clear. But he didn't want to watch it fall. It felt too much like he was watching the last remnants of his relationship with Lacey crumble.
He needed to see her, but he had no idea where she'd moved to. If she refused to answer her phone, what could he do?
Bronson called Carla to ask for the bookcase to be moved and stored, along with her father's recovered books. The books he'd been planning to surprise her with, that she still didn't know he had.
He'd barely got off the phone, when it rang. The number that flashed up belonged to the private investigator he'd employed three years ago, when his brother had disappeared. The investigator who'd missed their monthly meeting, and hadn't returned Bronson's call.
"Where have you been?" asked Bronson, making an effort to keep the sharpness out of his voice.
"In Brazil. I wanted to be certain of the facts before I gave you the news."
Bronson's heart clenched. He stepped out of the elevator and leaned against the wall in the lobby, bracing himself for the worst. "News of my brother?"
"I've found him. He's alive and well, in Rio de Janeiro. And he's just applied to get married."
This early, Copacabana beach was all but empty. One or two eager sun-worshippers lay spreadeagled on the white sand. A cluster of vendors stood watching them, no doubt waiting for more sunbathers to arrive before trying to peddle their sarongs, hats, and cold drinks. Seagulls stood at the water's edge, and a few surfers caught the lazy waves that rolled in.
After the cold Sydney winter, the hot sun felt good on Bronson's back. The warm breeze ruffled his hair and bought a faint scent of coconut with it, as though the air was still saturated with sunscreen from the previous day.
He took the sidewalk along the beach for a short distance, then crossed the street and followed the directions he'd been given. The investigator believed his brother Christof was staying in a house nearby. It turned out to be a narrow two-story place, one of several in a row, but it was the only one painted a cheerful yellow. A surfboard was propped up over the front window, blocking his view inside the house.
Bronson's plane had landed at 5 a.m. local time, and it was now just after seven. He took a deep breath before he knocked, and waited several minutes before he heard footsteps coming to the door. When it swung open, a sleepy-looking man wearing a sarong low around his hips blinked at him.
"Hello, Christof." Bronson stared at the brother he hadn't seen in so long. All this time, he'd been half-convinced Christof was dead, or lying in a hospital in the middle of nowhere. Instead he was deeply tanned, and his hair was several shades lighter than Bronson had ever seen it.
"What are you doing here?" His brother stepped back, the sleepy look falling away. "How did you find me?"
"I've had a private investigator looking for you since you left."
Christof folded his arms. "Wasn't it obvious that I didn't want to be found?"
"After three years, you're still angry?"
"No. But you're a selfish ass. Why would I want to have anything to do with you after what you did?"
Bronson felt all the tension go out of his muscles. He was finally in front of his brother, and could say all the things he'd imagined saying for all the years they'd been apart. He had entire speeches planned. And the funny thing was, he didn't want to say any of it.
"You're right. I am selfish," he said instead.
Christof frowned as if Bronson had surprised him. "You think turning up and admitting it is going to make things right?"
"No. But I want to apologize. I did a shitty thing, and I'm sorry. You don't have to forgive me, but I need to say it."
His brother stared at him for a long moment without saying a word. Then he stepped back. "Well, you're here now. I suppose you'd better come in."
He led Bronson into a cluttered kitchen, with pizza boxes piled in a corner and a cluster of empty wine and beer bottles on the bench.
"Sit," said Christof, nodding to the stools in front of the breakfast bar. "I need a coffee." He stuffed the bottles and other trash into a bag, then put the kettle on to boil.
"How long have you been living here?" asked Bronson.
"About eighteen months." Christof pulled a cup out of the cupboard.
"And you like it?"
"A lot better than I liked living in Sydney. People are friendly, and I've made some good connections."
"You're getting married?"
His brother turned to face him, cup in hand, and narrowed his eyes. "How do you know that?"
"It's how the investigator found you."
"What else do you know?"
"Nothing." Bronson put both hands on the breakfast bar. "I had no idea you were in Brazil until about thirty hours ago, and when I found out, I got straight on a plane. It landed two hours ago, and I checked into a hotel, then came straight here." He spread his hands wide. "Until the investigator called, I thought you might be gone forever and I'd never get the chance to apologize."
"Saying sorry doesn't make things right."
"No. It doesn't."
His brother grunted and turned back to the cupboard to get a packet of coffee. "You seem different," he said over his shoulder.
"I am different. I didn't want to be the person you used to know anymore, so I changed." He gave a humorless smile. "Only you weren't around to see it."
"I didn't ask you to change." Christof spooned instant coffee into the cup.
"No." Bronson pressed his lips together, thinking of all the mistakes he'd made with Lacey. "And to be honest, I hadn't changed as much as I thought."
"What does that mean?"
"You remember the Baxter Apartments? I demolished the building so I could build your tower."
"So?"
"I paid the tenants to leave. But one wouldn't go. Her name's Lacey. She refused to move out and instead of listening to her, I pulled it down anyway."
"Ah." Christof's expression lightened, and all at once he looked like the brother Bronson remembered. "You screwed up again?"
Bronson nodded.
"And this time, you hurt a woman you're in love with. So it's come back to bite you."
Bronson opened his mouth. That was going too far. He wasn't in love with Lacey. He just missed her, and hated that he'd hurt her. And he desperately wanted to make it up to her, except she wouldn't take his calls. And every time he called and got her voicemail, half of him wanted to break the damn phone into a million pieces, and the other half was just happy to hear her voice.
Fuck.
"I'm not sure if I'm in love with her." The word sounded clumsy on his tongue. "It would be a stupid thing to do, fall in love with an ex-goth socialist who doesn't like people with too much money. Let alone falling for a woman who keeps an invisible turtle for a pet. But what if I have?"
"Sounds like love to me." His brother got another cup out and poured two coffees instead of one. He slid one of them to Bronson. "Here. You look like you need this."
Bronson took a gulp of the hot liquid. Why hadn't he realized how strong his feelings for Lacey were, before he'd thrown their relationship away?
"My fiancée is still in bed," said Christof. "But I'll take her a cup of coffee and tell her you're here. She'll probably want to meet you." He narrowed his eyes. "This doesn't mean I forgive you. You still have a lot of talking to do."
Bronson nodded, his mind racing. If he was in love with Lacey, it was too late to do anything about it. He couldn't give her home back or make things right with her father. He'd destroyed any chance he might have had with her when the building came down.
He put the coffee cup back on the bench, staring into the dark liquid. No, that wasn't when he'd blown it. His worst mistake was when he'd been so gleeful the council had condemned her building. How had he been so stupid? He may as well have danced over its remains.
Christof headed off down the hall, a coffee in hand, and Bronson watched him go. His gut was churning and he felt like beating his head to a bloody pulp on the counter.