Shameless(25)

I can’t handle this mortgage, my parents’ mortgage, and the rent for my apartment in Boston. Never mind my school loans and the payments my parents still owe on their trucks and equipment. Cal’s modest life insurance policy will take at least six weeks to process. That will bring a small reprieve, but it won’t get me through the long haul.

What the f*ck do I even know about farming? Sure, I have experience landscaping, but that’s short-term work. It takes a shovel and a little elbow grease to plant things. But actually nurturing something to grow month after month, year after year? That requires dedication. Fortitude. Hell, even love.

I stew in these thoughts as I busy myself with an estimate for Jose. I even call a realtor, curious if anyone would even buy a goddamn lavender farm. I’m surprised when he tells me they’re growing in popularity.

“But it’s a niche market,” Kent, the realtor, explains, “so I’m not sure if I have any clients who are looking at the moment, but it can’t hurt for you to make cosmetic improvements in case someone turns up.”

He says he’ll do a little research and get back to me.

Selling the farm has to be the answer, but it’s one that makes me feel like shit for wanting to dismantle something my brother loved.

Several hours later, after I’ve bathed my niece who was covered from head to toe in spaghetti sauce, my mother calls to tell me my dad is out of surgery. Mom says he’s being a “grumpy pain in her tushie” but sounds relieved. The moment the call ends, I make sure Kat doesn’t mind watching the baby, and I head for the only thing that can offer me relief. The Harley.

It’s dark when I return, and all of the lights are out. I stare at the humble farm house, wishing I could drown my sorrows in bourbon. But I don’t. Because the least I can do is show up to my brother’s funeral sober.

Afterward, all bets are off. I don’t plan on stopping until I see the bottom of the bottle. I’m not a drinker, but I need something to relieve the pressure. Anything.





17





Brady





The black suit hangs on the door of the closet. It’s the one decent thing I brought to wear.

At nine-thirty, after I knot my tie, I open the office door just as Katherine strides out of the bathroom.

For a second, all I do is stare. And then my heart kicks into high gear.

Gone is the messy bun. Gone are the work boots and jeans. Gone is the mud from under her nails. The woman in front of me is stunning. Sophisticated.

Her chestnut hair hangs in thick waves along her shoulders. For the first time since I’ve been here, she’s wearing makeup. Those amber eyes are smoky and intense, and her lips are slicked in pale gloss.

I study the slant of her neck and how it dips beneath a fitted black dress that buttons down her body, starting just above her breasts and leading down her slender thighs.

The fabric clings to her curves, and even though everything is covered, I can’t help but wonder what’s underneath.

I blink. Once. Twice. Then I notice sleek four-inch heels, and my lips part.

“You look nice,” I rasp as I move around her.

Eager to get some distance, I turn toward the kitchen and pour us two cups of coffee. She must be wearing contacts today. That’s why she looks so different.

When I hand her one mug, she glances down at the cup and then reaches for the cream and a packet of sweetener.

Shit. She’s been making my coffee all week, and I have no clue how she takes hers.

Way to be considerate, dickhead.

After a few half-hearted sips, she sets her mug down. “I’ll get the baby’s things, and we can leave,” she whispers.

She returns with a giant green bag that I can only assume houses an entire Babies ‘R Us store and reaches for Izzy, who’s sitting in her playpen.

I bundle the girls in their coats, because it’s actually cold outside today. Which I figured out when I froze my balls off this morning feeding all of the animals.

After we load Izzy into her car seat in the extended cab of Melissa’s truck, I offer Katherine a hand and help her up.

The drive is quiet. Even Izzy is silent, like some part of her realizes what she’s lost.

When we pull into the parking lot of the funeral home, I fight the overwhelming tide of sadness that pulls at my gut.

You’re not supposed to bury your younger brothers. You’re supposed to grow old together. Get houses in the same neighborhoods. Take your kids to Little League and debate how far the Red Sox will go at the end of the season.

Not this.

As soon as we enter the building, people rush to greet Kat and offer their condolences. Izzy clings to me, and I gently bounce her in my arms as we wade through the crowd and head for the front of the room.

Suddenly, she lunges forward and starts wailing, “Mommm! Mommmm! Dadadada!” I turn to find several blown-up photographs of Melissa and Cal staring back, leaving me speechless. But when Izzy’s bottom lip quivers and tears stream down her face, a gaping hole breaks open in the center of my body.

My heart clenches, and my vision blurs.

When a soft hand reaches for mine, I clasp it. Katherine’s voice warbles, barely above a whisper. “I thought it would be nice to have photos since it was closed casket, but… I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Her eyes are just about to spill over with tears.