Bliss and the Art of Forever - Alison Kent Page 0,18

meal and a show all in one.”

But Jean’s mind was elsewhere. “Do you know that young man’s story? Why he’s in Hope Springs? Why he’s the one with custody of his little girl?”

“No,” Brooklyn said, cutting into her enchilada. “We only met yesterday. And we talked mostly about his work and his daughter. A bit about his parents. I told him about Artie.”

Jean arched a brow. “That’s a lot of talk for a first date.”

Brooklyn looked down at her plate with a quiet smile. “It wasn’t a date. But no. I don’t know his story. And I don’t need to know.” Though she was so very interested. “I assume he has one. Fathers don’t usually get full custody.”

“Shirley gives his history a sordid spin, but she does that with everything, so I’m not sure how much of what she says I believe. And I won’t repeat any of the tales she’s told at Pearl’s because who knows if they’re true. But I will say this.”

Leaning forward, Jean covered Brooklyn’s hand with her own and gave it a pat, her watch face slipping to the side of her wrist. “As good a man as your Artie was? From the facts I know to be true, not the ones embellished by his mother, Callum Drake is equally so.”

Later that night found Brooklyn stuffed with brownies and thinking about good men. Not all the good men she’d known in her life, but Artie. And Callum. And her father, who’d loved her mother dearly, but had been clueless when it came to seeing where she needed help. Leaving her to the dinner dishes while he retired with a scientific journal didn’t make him a bad man. Especially since Brooklyn had seen him pitch in when asked. But he had to be asked. For whatever reason, helping never occurred to him otherwise.

He’d been an academic, he and her mother both, which made Brooklyn’s choice of profession somewhat fated. Theirs had been a house of learning: documentaries and discussion, books and brainstorming. Very little of what she’d read or watched had been for fun. Fun, her father said, was in thinking through puzzles, in solving problems strategically, in knowing things few others did. Even so, it wasn’t about being smarter. Their family, he’d told her, simply used their minds more judiciously.

Artie had made her see fun differently. No. Artie had introduced her to fun. It hadn’t made her think less of her father; it had made her appreciate Artie’s love of life more. He’d had street smarts, and a four-year degree, and the sort of empathy her father didn’t understand because her father read pages, not people.

And though she laughed at her susceptibility to the pull of the superficial, she couldn’t deny the attraction of Artie’s tattoos.

He’d had the most amazing series of firefighting tats on both arms and shoulders, and across his upper back. Helmets and hoses. Ladders and axes. Flags and eagles, and dates he never wanted to forget. Sadly, he’d lost a comrade during their eighth year of marriage; she’d gone with him when he’d added that one framed in a helmet shield.

Jean was right when she’d said Artie’s need to take care of people had made him good at his job. That same compassion had been a big part of the reason she’d fallen in love with him. They’d met at a Labor Day barbecue thrown by his station’s firefighters and their wives. Artie had been single, and Brooklyn the guest of a girlfriend whose brother worked Artie’s same shift.

The brother had decided to play matchmaker. His matchmaking had worked. Brooklyn had been dazzled, swept off her feet. Artie had made sure she had enough to eat, that she was never without something to drink, that she met all of his friends and their families. That she learned everything about him time allowed. That he learned everything about her she was willing to share. That he had her number and her permission to call. He wanted to get together.

Oh, the memories, she mused, opening the hope chest at the foot of her bed and sitting on the floor in front of it. Thinking back to those early days never failed to bring on the tears. Sad tears, yes, but joyful ones, too. He’d been amazing. One of a kind. At least to her, coming from the world of academics, and she’d fallen hard.

The life of the party, her Artie. The jester. Always with a comeback, but never insulting or at another’s expense.