The Night Bird (Frost Easton #1)(106)

“Bye, Lucy.”

“Bye.”

He carried Shack’s box out of the room. Lucy’s parents were there, and they looked relieved to see him go.

Outside the hospital, Frost drove through the darkness back to his Russian Hill house. The hill always felt like it was on top of the world, as if he could roll a marble down and watch it bounce all the way to the bay. He was tired, and he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He was lonely. He was often alone, but rarely lonely. But tonight was one of those nights. When he stared at the house, it felt big and empty, not like home at all.

He carried Shack inside, but when he opened the door, he smelled the spicy aroma of chicken parmigiana, and he heard male voices from the living room. He wasn’t alone anymore. He had family.

His brother was there.

Herb was there, too.

“Sierra Nevada?” Herb called, hoisting a wet bottle from a cooler on the floor.

“You read my mind,” Frost said. He was suddenly wide awake.

His brother stood up and grabbed bowls of hummus and olives. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” Duane said. “Come on, let’s sit outside.”

The three of them headed for the patio. Herb brought the cooler. Shack jumped on the glass table and closed his eyes against the breeze. Down the hill, San Francisco spread out in a million lights below them, and fog clung to the distance. They clinked bottles, they drank, and Herb began telling old stories from his days in the Summer of Love. Soon they forgot all about dinner, and they hung around on the wrought-iron chairs with their feet propped on the railing, laughing and getting very loud until the night was mostly gone.





FROM THE AUTHOR


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