Brothers of Paradise Series

Which I suppose I have.

I light a few candles, which leads to an immediate bout of overthinking. They make the place look date-like, and I blow them all out instead. The faint scent of smoke lingers in the air.

Upstairs, the door to Emma’s room is closed. She’s usually a heavy sleeper, but she’s been known to wake up an hour or two after bedtime from a dream, from thirst, or something just not feeling quite right. I hope tonight isn’t one of those nights.

She doesn’t seem to miss her father at all. Hasn’t asked me about him once since we left. But still, the idea of her getting attached to Parker, and to this town, without me knowing if we can stay here? If I can support us? Disappointing my daughter terrifies me more than Lee ever did.

There’s a knock on the door.This content belongs to Nô/velDra/ma.Org .

“Showtime,” I whisper to myself. Parker’s standing on the other side, a bottle of wine in his hand.

“Never come empty-handed,” he says with a grin.

I make a show of looking beside him. “But where’s the professionally cooked twelve-course dinner this time?”

“You’re a comedian,” he says, and kisses me on the temple. It’s a casual, affectionate gesture. I’m not sure it was even conscious. “Is Emma asleep? Your mom away?”

“Yes.” I follow him into the kitchen. He sets the bottle down, hands bracing on the counter. “She passed out like a light. Summer is good like that. She runs and plays and gets enough fresh air during the days that she struggles to get through brushing her teeth without falling asleep.”

Parker’s smile deepens. “She likes it here.”

“Loves it, more like. Do you want us to open your red wine?”

“Sure,” he says.

I find two glasses and watch as he uncorks the bottle. “What wine is it?”

He rattles off the name with the ease of someone who buys and enjoys this vintage, the words round and foreign-sounding on his tongue. His mother is French, even if the influence is clearer in Rhys and Lily than the all-American could-be-model in front of me, but it’s there beneath the surface.

“Do you still speak it?” I ask. Their mother had insisted on classes, and spoke to them in French whenever she could when we were kids.

He gives me a half-smile. “Only when I can’t avoid it.”

“You’re brave,” I say. Eloise Marchand is a determined woman.

“Mom’s fearsome, but she’s settled down some. Or maybe I’ve just learned to ignore her pointed demands? One of the two.”

“What does she think about the yacht club?” I ask. “What does the whole family think?”

He raises an eyebrow. “One night alone, and you’re diving right into the tough questions?”

I focus on pouring wine into our glasses. “Maybe. But you don’t have to answer.”

“They’re confused,” he says, “and happy in equal measure.”

“Confused?”

“Do you know what I did before the club?”

I play with the rim of my glass. Lily had mentioned it, briefly, in a message a long time ago. “You were a lawyer in Boston.”

“Yeah. I’d studied law and I practiced it for a few years, according to plan. I would sail in my free time, but… there was very little of it.”

“Did you go pro? The summer after college?”

“Attempted to, at least.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not a lurid story,” he says with a sigh. “But there’s a lot of time involved, and a lot of travelling. It didn’t work with my job.”

There’s more to that story, I’m sure. None of the Marchands technically need jobs, from a financial standpoint. But I had overheard more than one tense discussion during my childhood visits to Lily’s house. Eloise and Michael Marchand demanded nothing but excellence from their children, and it was excellence narrowly defined.

“When did you move back from Boston?”

“A few years ago now,” he says. “Shortly before Lily followed suit.”

“You led the way.”

His smile is crooked. “I always do.”

“Did you work from here?”

“Yes, I kept up my law practice. But there is something soul-destroying about reading corporate contracts day in and day out. My father wanted me to eventually work on retainer to his company, but…” He trails off and runs a hand through his hair. “This wasn’t what I had in mind for tonight. I wanted to decipher your secrets, not spill my own.”

I dig my teeth into my bottom lip. “Maybe you have to go first in order to get mine.”

“Oh.” A light sparks in his eyes. “Well, then. I lay my failings as a lawyer at your feet.”

“I wouldn’t consider shifting from lawyer to business owner a failure.”

He chuckles. “Say that to my father, please.”

“The yacht club is an institution in this town, and your family practically is, too. How could they not be happy?”

“They will be,” he says. There’s confidence in his voice. “I’m sure of it. My father loves sailing too much, and my mother the social fabric of this town, to not see how beneficial it’ll be. I give it a year or two before they’re asking me to host private events at the club or my mother decides to contribute with artwork.”

I laugh at that. “Sounds like them.”

“Besides, my license is still valid. I can practice law if I feel the need to.” He nods at the glass of wine still in my hand. “You haven’t tasted it yet.”

I haven’t had the time, I think, and keep my gaze on his as I take a sip. He is too fascinating and my stomach is too filled with nerves.

“It’s good,” I say, the red wine exquisite on my tongue. It’s been a long time since I’ve had wine, too. “Should we, um… go to the living room?”

His smile widens at my awkwardness. “Sure,” he says. “It’s just me, James.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not just you anymore.”