Seemed like he was staring.
“Maybe you could remodel, rather than rip it down and burn it,” he said, turning to Colleen’s mother. “Seems a shame to waste the whole room.”
“Good point. I could have an art studio, maybe. I’m taking classes.”
“What kind of classes?” Bryce asked.
“I paint nudes,” she said, giving him a speculative glance. “They pay the models, you know. We’re always looking for new talent.”
“Cool!” Bryce asked. “How much?”
“Not enough,” Lucas said. “Anyway, we could put in some skylights, since you need a new roof anyway, and bigger windows. You’d have great light. French doors on that wall, maybe a little deck.”
“Wonderful! When can you start?” she asked.
He turned to look at her. “Are you sure you want me to do this, Mrs. O’Rourke?”
“Jeanette.”
“Given my history with Colleen, Jeanette?”
“I’m sure,” she said, so smoothly that he was immediately suspicious. “So it’d be you both? You and Bryce?”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “I could probably sell tickets. Can you work up some plans? I don’t care how much it costs. My cheating bastard husband had to give me a metric ton of money in the divorce. Blood money. Guilt money. Whore money.”
An hour later, he’d drawn a rough plan and given her a ballpark estimate. He and Bryce got into the pickup truck Lucas had rented for the duration.
Joe would be glad about this. It was a start, at the very least, and hopefully Bryce would have some kind of aptitude for construction.
They passed a dirt road. He and Colleen had parked there one night, before they’d both gone off to college. He could still remember the impossible silkiness of her skin, the way her eyes went so big and soft when she—
“Did you see my dad yesterday?” Bryce asked. “He’s feeling a lot better.”
Lucas glanced over at his cousin. “Glad to hear that.” Yes, he’d seen Joe yesterday. He’d been asleep, looking smaller somehow.
Bryce had had a cat when they were teenagers, a scruffy old thing he’d found abandoned near the school. He brought it home and kept it in the spare room over the garage, an unfinished space that held only some boxes of old toys. Didi hated cats. But eventually, Bryce had worn her down; the woman didn’t refuse him much, and the cat was no exception. It was old and battered, but it had a rusty purr that rattled in its throat. Bryce named it Harley, and the cat loved Bryce. Slept on his bed every night. If Bryce wasn’t around, the cat might give Lucas a few head butts, but it was clear he knew where his bread was buttered.
Unfortunately, Harley was old and riddled with health problems, which was probably why someone had dumped him in the first place. Despite the myriad pills Bryce coaxed down Harley’s throat each day, despite the vet warning him that the cat wouldn’t see Christmas, despite the fact that the cat slept more and more and ate less and less, Bryce just didn’t believe the cat was sick. “He wouldn’t purr like this if he didn’t feel good,” he’d say, petting the cat’s head, and it seemed almost true.
Until the day the boys had come home from school and found Harley dead, curled up on Bryce’s bed.
Bryce had been utterly stunned. Lucas had heard him crying at night, despite his advanced age of sixteen.
It didn’t look as if things were going to be much different with Joe. And far, far worse.
“You should spend as much time with him as you can, Bryce,” Lucas said now.
“I already do. I mean, I live there, right?”
“Make sure it’s time well spent. That’s all.”
It would’ve been nice to have been able to do the same with his own father. To have said goodbye, to have held his hand in the last minutes.
But this time, he could be there for Joe. And Bryce, too.
ON WEDNESDAY, COLLEEN stopped by her mother’s house.
Mom had called last night to say she was having Dad’s study redone, and thank the baby Jesus. The tenth anniversary of Dad leaving had really lit a fire under her. First the nude modeling, now redecorating.
Colleen pulled her car onto the street. There was a pickup truck in the driveway and a stack of lumber piled alongside the house, as well as a Dumpster. Carol Robinson’s white Prius was parked on the street, too; Colleen recognized it from the many open houses she’d been to. Mrs. Johnson’s car, too, a monstrous Buick that Mrs. J. (piña colada) tended to drive down the middle of the street, striking fear into the hearts of every living thing.
“Hey, Mom!” Colleen yelled, going into the house. The sound of a power saw ripped through the air, then faded.
“We’re out back!” Mom called.
Colleen pushed through the door to the backyard. Carol, Mom and Mrs. Johnson—she was Mrs. Holland, technically, though no one called her that—sat in lawn chairs and were sipping something pink.
“Hey, ladies!” she said, bending to kiss each one. “What’s going on here?”
“Just a little healthy observation, Colleen dear,” Mrs. J. said. “We’re not dead yet.”
“Grab a chair,” Carol said.
Colleen obeyed. Looked up at the roof. “Is that Bryce?” she asked.
“And Lucas. His cousin,” Carol said. “Joe’s dying, you know. He has maybe six weeks left. Didn’t you used to date him?”
“I never dated Joe Campbell,” Colleen murmured.
“Hey, Coll,” Bryce yelled.
“Hi, Bryce.”
Lucas came into view.
Oh, wow. Wow. He wore carpenter shorts and work boots and a white T-shirt that made his skin seem darker. Blue-collar man and his big, strong...um...hammer. Wasn’t there a p**n o about this? There should be. Someone should make one. Now.
Seeing her, he gave a nod. Maybe a smile.
“That’s right,” Carol said. “You did date Lucas. But he married someone else, right? Lucas! Are you still married?” she yelled.
“Not anymore, Mrs. Robinson.”
“I could be single in a few hours,” she called. “You like older women?”
“I love older women,” he answered, getting a chorus of giggles from Team Menopause. Colleen just swallowed drily.
“You gonna tap that, Colleen?” Carol asked. “Because I sure would if I was your age. Even if I was sixty again.”
“I’ll tell him that,” Colleen said. “But personally, I think I’ll pass. And where do you get off saying ‘tap that’?”
“He’s the only boy Colleen ever really fell for,” Mom said.
Colleen closed her eyes. “Is there alcohol in those glasses?”
“Not in mine, my dear,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Though when the clock strikes five, there’d better be. But yes, these two are drinking.”
“Just a little white Zin and 7-Up,” Mom said.
“That’s right. Stab me in the heart. Ladies, have some dignity. At least let me make you mojitos,” Colleen said.
“All right,” Carol said. “But oh, wait, Bryce is taking off his shirt. Do it, Bryce! Do it!” She giggled most adorably.
“I feel dirty,” Colleen said.
“Me, too,” Mom said. “Bryce, you make me feel dirty!”
“Jeez!” Colleen squeaked. “Come on, ladies! A little decorum.”
But she watched as Bryce took off his shirt, sure. She wasn’t dead, after all. He was pretty, no doubt about it. Washboard abs, nice muscles, she’d seen it all before.
“I’d give that an eight and a half,” Mrs. Johnson said.
“Nine,” Carol said.
“Nine,” Mom echoed. “Colleen, I think you and Lucas should get together again. Why not?”
“Hail Mary, full of grace, please make my mom stop talking.”
“I heard he kissed you in the bar the other night.”
“Blessed art thou who can change the subject, and blessed—”
“Oh, come on,” Mom said, slurping down the rest of her hideous drink. “Don’t be coy. Before you know it, you’ll be old and your ovaries will be turning to stone, and still I won’t have a grandchild.” She began fanning herself. “Phew! Is it getting hotter out here? My God. I’m sweating. Colleen, have you ever had a bikini wax? I’m thinking of getting one.”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us, now and as we contemplate matricide.”
“Quiet, you two,” Carol ordered. “Lucas! Take off your shirt! Your cousin did! You should, too.”
Carol had a point. And it was pretty hot.
Lucas looked down at them. His white teeth flashed among that incredibly sexy razor stubble, and Colleen gave what she hoped was a casual wave and not a boneless flop of the hand, as she suspected.
He pulled off his shirt in one smooth move. Colleen stopped feeling her legs.
“Ten,” Mrs. Johnson said.
“Ten,” Carol and Mom echoed.
Maybe it was his swarthy skin. The muscles in his shoulders and across his chest. His hard, sweaty, delicious torso, not ripped like Bryce’s gym-perfect boy-toy body, just...just complete, utter masculine alpha perfection.
“Colleen?” her mother asked.
She closed her mouth. “Nine,” she said faintly. “Who wants a mojito?”
They all did. And Colleen could use one, too. Or she could stick her head in the freezer for a few minutes.
So Lucas would be around. She shouldn’t be surprised; Mom was hardly a master of subtlety. Bryce was a bar fixture, so sure, Lucas would be there, too. It was okay. She could handle it.
On lust-numbed legs, she stumbled into the kitchen. Checked Mom’s fridge, which was filled with fresh vegetables that, if history served, would melt into one big vegetable which would then be thrown away, but not before Mom called to complain about the price of fresh vegetables. But there was mint, and lime, and of course Colleen kept her stocked up with good quality booze.
She poured some sugar and water into a pan and heated it, since Mom didn’t have any simple syrup. Took out the white rum, squeezed the limes and rinsed the mint. From outside, she could hear the women laughing and the power saw screeching again.
Seemed as though any minute now, Lucas would come down and see her.
Sure enough, she heard the clump of his boots coming down the stairs.
He’d pulled his shirt back on. Good thing, too, because he looked like sin begging for a taker as it was. A bead of sweat ran from his temple down his cheek, then down his neck. She remembered how it felt to be held in those arms, to lie on top of him and look into those dark, lonely eyes that only ever seemed happy when they were alone together.
Yeah, right. She’d bet Ellen Forbes had made him look happy, too.
“Hey,” he said, and her knees went weak. She really had to get a grip.
His voice had always been a wicked weapon in his arsenal, deep and holding a scrape that made her special places throb with every word. “Do you have—”
“Okay, listen,” she interrupted briskly, pouring the syrup over the crushed ice. “Before you say something adorable, like, ‘How can I get that nine to a ten?’ let’s be frank here.”
“Colleen.”
“We had a thing once, it was very lovely, and then it ended when you married someone else after saying you didn’t want to marry me. Maybe it was her money, maybe you found out what love really was, I don’t care, Lucas. Water under the bridge.”
“Colleen.” His voice was more forceful now, but she kept talking, grinding the mint leaves with slightly more force than needed. “Yes, I find you attractive. I have a heartbeat, after all, and you’re frickin’ gorgeous. Yes, you find me attractive, because I am. Even so, I think it would be stupid for us to—”
