August strode past me and opened one of the kitchen cabinets. Barely straining, he reached the top shelf and took down a fluted crystal recipient just as his father came in through the open doors that gave onto the paved terrace.
“Hi, Ness.”
“Hi, Nelson.”
Holding a pair of tongs out so that the charred greasy bits didn’t transfer onto my dress, he leaned in for a one-armed hug. I suddenly wished August hadn’t told them anything. Then they’d just be Nelson and Isobel, my parents’ best friends instead of a set of parents whom I felt like I needed to impress. My nervousness was so violent that the air probably shimmied with it.
“We probably shouldn’t be offering you alcohol, but would you like a glass of wine?” Nelson asked. “I opened one of the bottles from our wedding. It’s matured as beautifully as my bride.”
Smiling, Isobel shook her head. “I’ve matured, huh?”
“You’ve gotten more ravishing, which was a feat considering how beautiful you were thirty years ago.”
When he dropped a kiss on his wife’s glowing cheek, I became misty-eyed. They reminded me so much of my parents. My parents who’d loved each other so fiercely and completely that they’d resisted a mating link to stay together.
My eyes bumped into August’s worried ones, before vaulting to the serrated egg-shaped heads of the purple tulips.
“So, wine?” Nelson asked me, even though his gaze was on August. “Or is my son going to give you a hard time about underage drinking again?”
August raised his palms. “She didn’t drive here, so I’m not passing any judgment.”
I suspected that even if I had driven here, he wouldn’t have objected to me imbibing alcohol since the one and only time he’d made a fuss about it was back at Frank’s when August had been annoyed with me over Liam.
Nelson gestured to the terrace.
Before I walked out, I put my bag down on the speckled granite. “Can I bring anything out?”
“You can grab the pitcher of water from the fridge,” Isobel said, stirring her tomato sauce before removing the pan from the burner.
I pulled the water from the fridge and headed to the terrace where I set the pitcher between two giant candles flickering in glass hurricane holders.
I gazed around the paved veranda where nothing had changed: the stacked firepit was still surrounded by five burgundy Adirondacks; and the low stone wall, from which sprouted little purple blooms, still girdled the deck.
When I was younger, I used to skip atop the wall with my arms stretched out like a tightrope walker picturing a pit of hungry alligators beneath me. I had a vivid imagination back then. Not that it had changed. My imagination was still plenty vivid, except it ran on a very different frequency these days.
“You okay?” August asked, coming up behind me.
“Your parents . . . They just remind me so much of Mom and Dad.”
He draped his arm around my shoulders and tucked me into his side, and although we weren’t supposed to touch, I didn’t fight his embrace. Even though his fingers only connected to my bicep, it felt like they were resting on my heart, towing one ripped segment toward the other.
After a while, he whispered a quick, “Sorry,” against my hairline before releasing me.
I wasn’t sorry.
That hand might’ve left a trace on my body, but it had also left one on my heart.
I thought of Mom again, of her claim that the right man could fix a broken heart. August could touch mine, and this was as thrilling as it was terrifying because that meant he could mend it just as he could break it.
Dinner was delicious and laid-back. Neither Isobel nor Nelson brought up the mating link, and neither of them asked questions about my intentions toward their son or his intentions toward me.
But after dinner . . . Well, after dinner was a different story.
While the men cleaned up the vestiges of our meal, Isobel brewed a pot of chamomile tea before leading me to the firepit. Flames snapped in between the circle of stones and warmed the cooling night air, casting shadows over her haggard face.
She’d promised me she was well, but the deep creases around her eyes and lips worried me nonetheless. As she reclined in the burgundy Adirondack, I prayed her fatigue wasn’t a symptom that her double-mastectomy had failed its purpose.
“August spoke to us before you arrived,” she said, jouncing me out of my pessimistic musings.
Clutching my mug, I focused on the dancing blaze.
“Nelson and I, we don’t want to meddle, but your parents are no longer here, and well, we feel a responsibility toward them to discuss it with you. This . . . link, it’s momentous and not without consequence, for you and for our son.”
How I wished the fire could leap out of the pit and incinerate something, anything, just to drag the focus away from me.
“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but your mother, she was intended for-”
“Heath. I heard.”
“Oh.” There was a pregnant pause, then, “The reason I’m bringing up your mom is because I want to remind you that you have a choice in the matter. You and my son might have a connection-you always had a connection-but I guess, what I’m trying to say, is that this connection has grown into something . . . more.”
At this point, if the flames decided to incinerate me, I wouldn’t have truly minded.
“August feels strongly toward you, but you’re so young, so if you don’t reciprocate his feelings, he’ll understand. Maybe not right away, but in time, he will.”
She touched my forearm, and I jumped, spilling tea all over my lap.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” The tea seeped into the red silk, darkening it.
“A mother wants only one thing in life, and that’s her child’s happiness. You’ve always contributed to August’s, but now you’ve become the pivotal object of it. And although he claims it’s not because of the link, the link doubtlessly enhances what he feels. Doubtlessly enhances what you feel, too.”
Although I wanted to melt through the planks of my chair, I finally looked at Isobel. Her green eyes were gentle instead of reproachful like I’d feared.
“I want what’s best for both of you, and maybe that’s each other. But you’re only seventeen.”
I’d be eighteen in two weeks, but then August would be twenty-eight in March, so we’d always have this nine-years-and-some-months gap.
Over the husky notes of the jazz song pouring from the outdoor speakers, Isobel said, “Nelson and I, we met when I was sixteen and he was twenty-two. And Maggie, she was-”
“Thirteen. And Dad was three years older, which had made a lot of people balk.”
She smiled. “How I remember. But Maggie was so spirited and strong-willed that whenever anyone mentioned the age difference, she’d get all up in their faces.” Isobel turned her gaze to the flames and sighed. “I guess age doesn’t really matter in the end.” She removed her hand from my arm. “What does matter, though, is making an informed decision. You have options. August is one of them, but the Winter Solstice is another.”
I cast a glance over my shoulder to make sure the men were still out of earshot. August was drying a plate by the sink while Nelson was stacking the glasses inside a cupboard. They seemed deep into their own conversation.
“Isobel, would you and Nelson be disgusted if I chose August?”