Bliss and the Art of Forever - Alison Kent Page 0,16
only to read them once, and DVDs to replace VHS tapes, then left them sealed in their cases.
“We could’ve spent it so much more wisely,” Jean said, scooting her dinner plate to the side. “Instead of Curtis investing in baseball cards and buffalo nickels and hand-tied fishing lures and electronics, we could’ve traveled like you and Artie did. Though I doubt getting rid of Curtis’s hobbies would’ve funded us farther than Arkansas.”
Brooklyn smiled. “It can definitely be costly, which is why I’m cutting all the corners I can. And if I sell my larger furniture pieces instead of storing them, I’ll have that much more money to work with. Honestly,” she added, reaching for her fork, “I’m debating getting rid of everything but what I’ll need for the trip and the possible extended stay.”
“Which side is winning?” Jean asked, scooping up a bite of brownie and melting ice cream with her spoon.
“I’m not sure.” Brooklyn cut into her lasagna, shaking her head, wishing this decision were as easy as the one putting her on a plane four months from now. “If I knew when I was coming back, or even if I was coming back . . .”
“You have to eventually, don’t you?” A concentrated frown. Another bite of dessert. “You can’t stay in Italy forever.”
Why not? The words sat for several seconds on the tip of her tongue. “I haven’t thought much beyond June tenth, to tell you the truth.” June 10th. The two-year anniversary of Artie’s death. The date had been creeping up on her for months, and she was so ready to put it behind her.
“And come September?” Jean asked. “You’re not going to miss those cherubic little faces looking up and hanging on your every word?”
Brooklyn thought about Adrianne Drake. And then, because she’d ridden behind him, and he’d given her chocolate, and he’d drunk espresso in her kitchen, holding the tiny cup with his large-boned hands, she thought about Callum Drake, too.
Teaching next year in Hope Springs would mean seeing Adrianne in the hallways and the cafeteria and on the playground, and wondering what had become of her father. “I will. But I’ll have plenty of memories to look back on. And I owe Artie so much for making sure I’d be well taken care of monetarily.”
“He was a good man, your Artie,” Jean said, pointing at Brooklyn with her spoon instead of a finger. “And a good neighbor, checking the fluids in my car every weekend, as if I didn’t know how to do it myself. Asking about the lawn any time my service was late. You remember that day Maxine came by, and you and Artie were outside, and he heard that noise under her hood? He took a look and saved her a small fortune by catching whatever was going wrong before it did.”
The memory had Brooklyn smiling. Seemed like it had been an oil leak. “He liked taking care of things. Taking care of people.”
“That’s part of what made him so good at his job,” Jean said, her gaze drawn to the photos of split-rail fences crossing pastures and prairies framed on the room’s green pinstriped walls. “It’s hard to believe the opening of this place was delayed so long because of a fire. I think about that and Artie every time I come here. Such a tragedy. Such a loss.”
Her gaze on her plate, Brooklyn stilled. She knew the story of the house’s third-floor turret having to be rebuilt after an electrical fire. But unlike Jean, she never thought about the fire when she came here. She did her best not to think about fires at all. As much as she’d loved reading to the crackle of flames in the fireplace at home, she hadn’t used it since Artie’s death, giving away the wood stacked on the patio and never buying more.
“It’s okay that it still bothers you,” she heard Jean saying. “To think about the fire. I can’t pass an accident on the freeway without thinking about Curtis and his mangled car, and nearly losing my ability to breathe.”
Bother. That hardly seemed a strong enough word. “Yes, but I feel like it’s been long enough that I should have moved on.”
Jean set down her spoon, and propped her elbows on the table, her fingers steepled below her sharp gaze, her bracelets tinkling against her watch face. “Why haven’t you? I’m not saying you should have. Lord knows I’m not much of an example of how to get on with