Rather than reply, Ian raised a hand to gently touch her face, smoothing his fingertips along the ridge of her jaw. Brooke closed her eyes briefly, biting the corner of her lip as the brief caress elicited a swell of sweet sensation that sparkled through her limbs.
She opened her eyes when Ian lifted his hand, holding it up to show her the smudge of white powder on his fingertips.
“Thanks,” she muttered, swiftly patting her cheek to brush off whatever flour remained there.
Ian didn’t speak for a moment; he only stared at her, his jaw rigid, his green eyes hard like polished jade. Brooke was so accustomed to tenderness in his gaze that the inscrutable look in his eyes pained her.
“You left rather abruptly,” he said coolly at last, “after blurting something about falling in love with me.”
Oh, God; I
am
a colossal idiot.
“Ian—”
He raised his palm to prevent her from interrupting him. “Then you tried to brush it off by saying I knew what you meant. But the thing is, I don’t know what you meant. I was hoping you might enlighten me.”
Twisting her hands in front of her, Brooke struggled to answer him. Her heart pummeled unrelentingly, buffeting the air from her lungs. “I care about you, Ian. I always have.” She managed to draw a breath before blurting the rest. “And … and I admit it, I’m so attracted to you I can hardly see straight when you’re around.”
His fists coiled against his hips as he continued to stare at her, his dark brows drawn low—though his expression changed, conveying a blend of bewilderment and frustration. “So what’s the problem?”
Releasing her breath, Brooke sank onto one of the Adirondack chair by the door, sagging against the arm rest. “I told you. I can’t stay in Eastport.”
His fists still pressed to his hips, Ian crossed the porch in three long paces, turning to her once he reached the edge. “And yet you can’t tell me where or when you’re going. I feel like you’re not being honest with me, Brooke. You’re hiding something. If it has to do with me, I wish you’d just tell me. Whatever it is, I can take it. I’m not made of glass.”
“Why does it have to be something to do with you?” Brooke flared, panic welling inside her. He couldn’t possibly guess the truth, but he was probing too far, getting too close to breaking her resolve. “There’s plenty about me you don’t know anything about.”
“I’d like to know everything about you, Brooke. Or anything you want to tell me.” He shook his head in exasperation. “But you don’t tell me much, do you? Half the time you look at me with pure longing in your eyes; but other times I feel like it pains you physically to look into my face. The only thing I can figure is that you still see me as the boy everyone used to pity. And maybe you just can’t get past feeling sorry for me.”
“That isn’t true,” Brooke insisted. But his words brought to her mind’s eye the boy at school with the tattered jeans and gaunt features, for whom she often brought an extra sandwich, claiming her mother had packed her more than she could eat. Though he was grateful, she knew it embarrassed him to take her charity. Had she pitied him then? She knew the responsibility she felt for his wellbeing had, in some part, stemmed from the guilt she carried from the horrible night his mother died. Her feelings for him had always been so muddled, so complex, that she could hardly begin to sort them out.
“I know what people thought of me around here when I was a kid,” Ian went on bitingly. “Everyone knew how I felt about you, and they all thought you were too good for me. You and I both knew it, too. But you’ve been gone for a while, and maybe you can’t quite see that I’m not that boy anymore.”
Brooke shook her head briskly. “That’s not how I felt then, or how I feel now. I swear it.” When she looked at the gorgeous, accomplished man standing before her, she couldn’t imagine pitying him. Yet, in the depths of his gaze, the lonely, frightened young boy remained. She realized it was both sides of him, strong and vulnerable, that drew her to him.
“Then what exactly do you feel?” he demanded.
Overwhelmed, Brooke sank forward, burying her face in her hands
. Confused; ashamed; heartbroken,
she answered silently
. Longing to hold you.
She could say none of this; to do so would mean spilling the secret she’d sworn to keep, and surely destroy Ian’s affection for her—she simply couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“Tell your parents ‘happy anniversary’ for me,” she heard him mutter. When she looked up, he had already turned his back and was descending the porch steps. She sat frozen and watched him march along the path leading to the road; only as he disappeared from her view did she allow the tears brimming in her eyes to spill over her scorched cheeks.
* * *
The evening was perfect for fireworks—warm and clear, moonless, with the diffuse hues of twilight spreading over the sky in bands of cobalt and indigo.
For some time Ian had been sitting on the top step of his front porch, his elbows resting on his knees. From this spot he could watch people amble past as they followed the crossroad at the end of his street, headed toward the river with blankets and lawn chairs tucked under their arms. He knew most of them would gather at McKitrick Park, where they’d be assured the best view. Every first of July in Eastport was the same, the town’s celebration of their Canada Day holiday ending with a spectacular fireworks display over the water.
This year Ian wasn’t in a festive mood. He’d spent the day at home, skipping the parade down Main Street, the dog show at the park, the crafts sales and group competitions, in favour of finishing up some paperwork. From his porch he’d be able to see some of the fireworks, at least. Days like this were for families, and as he didn’t have one, he’d allowed himself to indulge in a little self-pity. And why not? He’d been thinking a lot lately about what he’d always thought he wanted from life, and how far he’d come toward realizing his goals—what were his goals, anyhow? The respect he’d achieved from the town didn’t seem to hold the weight it once had in the scope of his world. The one thing that was missing—the one thing he still craved—remained just out of reach.
Ian straightened when he spotted a woman walking alone, her distinctive red curls coiled about her shoulders. At least she appeared at first to be alone; upon closer inspection, he noticed the sling strapped to her chest, a small blond head protruding above and two pudgy legs hanging below.
Leaping to his feet, he dashed down the porch steps, calling out to her. “Happy Canada Day, Faith.”
She stopped walking and turned toward him. “Hi, Ian. Are you headed to the park?”
“Don’t think so,” he said, jogging over to where she stood. “Just the two of you tonight?”
“We’re meeting Ted at the river.” Glancing down at her son, asleep against her shoulder, she stroked his back tenderly. “Why aren’t you coming out?”
“Not in the mood this year.” Ian paused; then, without thinking, he asked, “Have you seen Brooke?”
“Yeah, just a few minutes ago. She was headed to the river by herself. I got the impression she wanted to be alone.”
He nodded, taking her words as cautionary. “Thanks. Have fun.”
As Faith continued on her way, Ian turned and headed back to his house, giving himself a swift internal kick for even bothering to ask about Brooke; her silence when he asked about her feelings for him had made her intentions clear, and if she didn’t want to get involved with him, he meant to respect her wishes.
He stopped halfway back, turning on his heel to gaze back at the road—then admonished himself again for even considering taking a step forward. He should just stay at home, as he’d planned, and find a way to get his mind off Brooke Eldridge. If she wanted to see him, let her come to him; she knew where to find him. He’d been making a habit of running to her, and letting her rebuff him each time.
As much as he tried to listen to common sense, in the end his compulsion carried him forward, spurring him to start walking. At the end of his street he turned onto the crossroad, joining the others headed past the marina on their way to the park.
Bypassing the crowded park, Ian quickened his pace, heading further along the riverbank. He had an inkling that if Brooke wanted to be alone, she wouldn’t have gone to the park with everyone else.
He remembered one warm evening, back in high school, when he’d left his house to wander along the river’s edge and came to an isolated knoll, just above a rocky ridge, that was shielded by a stand of trees. He’d found Brooke alone there, sitting on the grass with her knees drawn up, staring out at the rippling water. She told him she sometimes went there to be alone so she could think; he was fairly sure she’d be there now.
Twilight deepened around him as he walked, passing scattered families gathered on the grass, but not finding Brooke among them. He headed further down the bank, taking careful steps to avoid stumbling on rocks and twigs, until he arrived at what he thought was the right area.
With dusk settling over the river it was hard to make out shapes in the fading light, but a pale smudge in the distance caught his eye; making his way toward it, he recognized it as Brooke’s white blouse. A slow smile crept over his face; she was sitting on a tartan blanket, her legs drawn up with her arms wrapped around them, her cheek resting against her knees.
When she saw Ian approaching she raised her head, a ghost of a smile gracing her features.
“Need some company?” he asked, standing over her.
“Sure,” she said mildly. “How’d you know where to find me?”
Relieved that she hadn’t sent him away, Ian lowered himself onto the blanket next to her. “I ran into Faith, and she told me you were coming down to the river. You hide well, but I had a feeling you’d be around here someplace.”
“I’m not hiding. But I hate crowds. I figured I’d still be able to see the fireworks over the trees.”
“It’s a perfect spot,” Ian said. For a minute they didn’t speak as they waited, side by side, letting the rhythmic song of a multitude of crickets fill the silence—punctuated now and then by the shrieking laughter of children somewhere in the distance.
“I love this part of the river,” Ian said at last. “My mother used to bring me here to fish. Since my father wasn’t around, she made a point of doing some of the things with me that a dad might have done with his son. I could see how it repulsed her to dispatch the poor creatures, and to clean them afterwards.” The bittersweet memory made him chuckle. “But she didn’t complain. I’ll never forget that she did that for me.”
When he looked at Brooke she was studying his face, absorbing the sentiment in his words. “Sounds like she was a great mom.”
Ian tore a clump of grass from the earth at his feet, and then tossed the blades into the distance. “Not that great, to be honest. I was left alone a lot. Or I might as well have been, when she was passed out on the sofa. Much of the time, it was up to me to do the cooking and cleaning.”
Letting her knees drop to rest on the blanket, Brooke shifted sideways to face him. “I had no idea.”
“I didn’t tell anyone. I was afraid I’d be removed from my home and put into foster care, or maybe shipped off to relatives I’d never met in Alberta. Or worse, end up with my dad, whom I barely knew—other than through all the stories I’d heard of his cheque fraud schemes.” He sighed, letting the memories filter in, as uncomfortable as it was to dwell on them. “Anyway, I thought that eventually my mother would pull herself together, if I stuck by to help her. She always talked about getting sober. It was her New Year’s resolution every year. Never lasted the winter, of course. I don’t know if she would’ve ever succeeded, but I like to think she might have, given enough of a chance.”
“I’m so sorry, Ian.” Brooke rested her hand in his shoulder, a warm pressure through the fabric of his shirt. She searched his eyes with her brow creased and her soft, alluring lips compressed in sympathy.
“I don’t want you to feel sorry,” he told her, averting his gaze. “I just want you to know about me. I didn’t talk about my mother’s death much as a kid; it was as though this one event in my life defined me, and I couldn’t escape it. Since I’ve been back in Eastport, I’ve felt free of it. I’m just a plain old small-town lawyer now, not the tragedy-plagued boy with the petty criminal father and the mother killed by a hit-and-run.”
“Is that why you came back?” Brooke asked gently. “To make peace with your past?”
“In a way.” Ian hadn’t voiced these thoughts before, or even sorted through them in his own mind, and it felt right to express them to Brooke now. “But I guess, as a kid, what I wanted more than anything was a home, like the one you had, where I could feel cherished and protected. Even though I never really had that here, Eastport was still my comfort zone. I’ve always thought that I’d find the home and family I always longed for here.” As he spoke he realized that the person he’d imagined sharing that dream with was the person sitting next to him now. He’d never really believed that particular dream had a chance of coming to reality—and he didn’t quite dare to hope there was a chance now.
Brooke’s hand drifted down his arm, coming to rest on his elbow; she gripped it gently to stress her next words. “Ian, I want you to know, I never felt sorry for you. And I
never
thought I was too good for you. If anything, you’re too good for me.”
A small smile curved his mouth, as sudden warmth spread beneath his breastbone. “I don’t know how you can say that.”