It had worked for a dozen years. It had worked until Brooks. He’d seen something else, something more, but she thought of that now as a blessing. If he hadn’t, she wouldn’t have this chance at a genuine life.
And the genuine life she might have would include backyard barbecues.
When he parked, she thought she had herself fully under control.
“Relax,” he told her.
“Do I look tense?”
“No, but you are. I’ll take that; you get Bert.”
He tucked the bowl under his arm, hefted the six-pack, and with her hand steady on the leash, they walked toward the house. Toward the music and voices, toward the scent of grilling meat.
She recognized three of the women—Brooks’s mother and his two sisters, but not the other women, the men, the children. The thought of being thrust into the midst of so many strangers dried her throat and thickened her heartbeat.
Before she could get her bearings, Sunny set down a platter and hurried over. “There you are.”
“I had a little business to deal with,” Brooks told her.
“I heard.” Sunny tied Abigail’s tongue into knots with a quick, hard hug before she gave Bert a casual rub. “Don’t you look pretty. And what’s this?”
“Orzo,” Abigail managed. “I hope it’s appropriate with your menu.”
“Since the menu’s a lot of this with more of that, it’ll fit right in. And it’s beautiful. Go on and put that on the table, Brooks, and get Abigail a drink. We’ve already got the margarita blender going overtime.”
“I’ll fix you up,” he told Abigail. “Be right back.”
“My girl Mya—you met Mya and Sybill—makes killer margaritas. Why don’t you let Bert off the leash so he can play with Plato?”
Abigail crouched down as the dogs sniffed and wagged at each other.
“He’s all right with kids running around?” Sunny qualified.
“Yes. He’s very gentle, very patient. He wouldn’t attack unless I gave him the command. Or I was being assaulted.”
“We’ll be sure nobody assaults you. Come on and meet Mick and Hilly Conroy. They’re old friends, and that’s their son, Russ—Brooks’s best pal, with his wife, Seline, and their toddler, CeeCee. They’ve had a spot of trouble,” Sunny continued as she walked. “I’m hoping to cheer them up.”
“It’s an unfortunate situation. Brooks is very concerned.”
“We all are. Here’s Abigail,” Sunny announced, when they joined the group.
“About time.” The younger woman had smooth olive skin that set off the bright green eyes she used to assess Abigail. “I was beginning to think Brooks made you up.”
“No. He didn’t.” I did, Abigail thought.
“This is Seline, and her CeeCee, and our Russ. Russ’s parents, our friends Mick and Hilly.”
“I’ve seen you around town a time or two,” Hilly said. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”
“Thank you. I’m very sorry about your hotel. It’s a beautiful building.”
“It’s good of you to say.” Hilly tipped her head to her husband’s arm, as if seeking comfort. “We’ll have it all back and better than ever. Right, Mick?”
“Count on it. I heard the Blake boy gave you some trouble, too.”
“He wanted to give Brooks trouble, but he didn’t succeed. He appears to be a very angry, very stupid person with violent tendencies. He should pay the consequences.”
“We can all drink to that,” Mya said, as she strode over with a margarita in each hand. “Daddy snagged Brooks a minute, so I’m delivering your drink.”
“Oh, thank you. It looks … frothy.” She tried a sip, discovered the tequila ran strong and smooth through the froth. “It’s very good.”
“Packs a nice kick, doesn’t it?” As she spoke, Sunny put an arm around Abigail’s shoulders. “You were right about Bert.”
Following the direction, Abigail looked to see Bert sitting cooperatively while the puppy danced around him, a long-legged girl hugged his neck and a towheaded boy stroked his back.
“He’s very well behaved,” Abigail assured her. “And I think he’s enjoying the attention.”
“He’s big as a horse,” Seline commented.
Abigail started to disagree. After all, the average horse would be considerably bigger. Then had to remind herself not to be so literal.
“His size should intimidate intruders.”
“Scare the crap out of them,” Russ commented. “Now that we’ve got a second coming along, I’m talking Seline into a Lab.”
“Poodle.”
“Girlie dog.”
“We’re girls.” She gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek. “You’re outnumbered.”
“This one might even things up.” He tapped her belly with his finger. “A guy needs a
“Poodles are smart.”
“They are a highly intelligent breed,” Abigail agreed. “Only the border collie is thought to be more intelligent. They’re agile and, if properly trained, very skilled and obedient.”
“See?”
“A Lab’s a
“Yes, of course. They’re the most popular breed in this country, and in Great Britain. They make excellent assistance dogs. They’re loyal, and most have a well-developed play drive. They’re excellent with young children.”
“Young children.” He snagged CeeCee, made the girl laugh as he tossed her in the air. “We’ve got one of those, getting another.”
“Poodles are good with kids.”
When Seline turned to Abigail, Sunny laughed. “Now you’ve done it. These two will tag you as referee in this battle. I’m going to save you, show you the gardens. Food’s going to be ready in a few minutes.”
“Maybe they should consider a Labradoodle,” Abigail murmured, as Sunny steered her away.
It wasn’t so difficult, she realized. For about twenty minutes, she walked and talked the gardens, talked with Brooks’s family and friends, answered excited questions regarding Bert from wide-eyed children.
By the time everyone crowded around picnic tables, she felt more at ease. And relaxed further when, with the food now the focus, the attention shifted away from her.
A backyard barbecue had its points, she thought. A casual setting for socialization, a variety of food prepared by a variety of hands. It was a kind of ritual, she realized, and somewhat tribal, with adults helping to serve or feed or tend to the children, their own and those belonging to others, with the dogs nearby and—despite her wince of disapproval—enjoying the food scraps tossed their way.
And she liked the margaritas with their frothy kick.
“Having a good time?” Brooks asked her.
“I am. You were right.”
“Hold that thought.” He leaned in to kiss her, then picked up his beer. “I think you’ll all be interested,” he began, without raising his voice over the conversations crisscrossing the table, “Abigail and I are getting married.”
And those conversations, every one, stopped cold.
“What did you say?” Mya demanded.
“It’s what she said that matters.” He took Abigail’s hand. “And she said yes.”
“Oh my God, Brooks!” Mya’s face went brilliant with her smile. She grabbed her husband’s hand, squeezed it, then leaped up to rush around the table and hug Brooks from behind. “Oh my God.”
Then it seemed everyone spoke at once, to Brooks, to her, to each other. She didn’t know who to answer, or what to say. Her heartbeat thickened again as, beside her, Brooks looked at his mother, and she at him.
“Ma,” he said.
