Just Give In… (7 page)

Quickly she got out of bed and straightened the sheets. After cleaning up in the bathroom, she dressed for the day, but unfortunately, the void inside her remained.

T
HERE WAS BREAKFAST
on the table. The Captain had attempted scrambled eggs. Next to the plate was an envelope with her name on it. Curious, Brooke drew out the single sheet of paper and twenty fifty-dollar bills. They seemed to be real. Not sure what to make of this, Brooke read over the invoice. Apparently the Captain was paying her for three days work, plus an advance against her salary.

At the bottom, in neat letters, he’d handwritten
Buy New Shoes.

Brooke laughed and folded up the invoice, wondering who bought thousand-dollar shoes. However, she wasn’t going to take his advance, only the money she’d earned. After removing one fifty and folding it in her pocket, she hid the other nineteen bills in a Mason jar in his cabinets, buried somewhere between oversize eye bolts and a Russian Geiger counter. Someday he’d find his money, but not today.

As soon as she hit the front porch, he pointed to a floppy hat that was hanging on the rail. “You need to wear that today.”

The hat was too big, and the camouflage pattern wasn’t something she would have chosen for herself. However, until she could buy something suitable, it’d do.

While she positioned the hat on her head, the Captain watched, frowning at the way it hung low in her eyes. He scratched his jaw, and then walked to the shed, returning a few seconds later with some sort of tool.

Without a word, he took off the hat, folded a pleat in the back and with one click, he’d adjusted the size perfectly.

When he returned the hat to her, she examined his work. “What is that?”

“Staple gun,” he answered, and then after that he walked away.

A
MORNING BREEZE WAS
blowing in from the east, cooling the air. Brooke worked silently, but she noticed that the Captain wasn’t doing his usual today. Long wooden boards had been pulled from the shed. He’d dug four small holes in the yard, filled them with cement, and then anchored in four wooden posts. However, Brooke chose not to ask, instead focusing on what apparently was a collection of antique medical instruments.

After lunch, the Captain dragged out a ladder and climbed up on the roof of the house. Fascinated, Brooke watched as he connected the boards from the top of the house to the posts, making some sort of frame.

Still, the Captain hadn’t volunteered any information and Brooke decided that this was none of her business, and she’d worked on until the sun was low and red, looking like a ball of fire at the end of the world. The Captain continued, unwinding some sort of dark netting and then nailing it to the frame.

At sundown, Brooke went inside, typing in her notes on the Captain’s computer. Two hours later, she could hear the hammering on the roof, and she worried that it was too dark to be safe. Deciding that prudence overcame privacy, she marched outside and found him on the roof.

Finally she had to ask. “What’s going on?”

He climbed down from the ladder and dusted his hands. “Weatherproofing.”

She examined the netting above her head. “For what?”

“It’s something I should have put up a long time ago. Keeps off the heat. Keeps off the sun.” With that, he gathered up his tools and went inside.

Brooke looked up, saw the moonlight and the stars streaming through like tiny dots of lights. All she could do was smile.

S
OMETIME DURING THE DAY
, the Captain had brought in an old dining-room table and chairs, or maybe he’d built them, she wasn’t sure. There were frozen Salisbury steaks for dinner and Brooke made a mental note to drive into town and by food. Real food. Twenty-five dollars would go a long way toward some fruit and vegetables. When you were raised on breakfast cereal and soup, real food was very appealing.

Dog took away the dishes, and after Brooke curled up on the couch, he brought her a beer. The Captain had taken over the table, repairing a hand mixer, but Brooke decided there were questions she wanted to ask, questions she had a right to ask since they were about her family, her property and her future financial prosperity.

Although the Captain was studiously ignoring her, Brooke wasn’t fooled. A person should be aware when they are the focus of attention—wanted, unwanted or otherwise. When she and her mother were living in a shelter in Cleveland, they had been robbed four times because Charlene Hart wasn’t smart enough to know when she was the focus of unwanted attention. Then Brooke had taken over security, hiding their cash in her shoe, and the robberies had stopped. No, it was smart to always know.

The Captain always knew. She supposed that was the military background, which made sense because if Brooke wasn’t alert, she might have been robbed—if the Captain wasn’t alert, he might have been killed. Maybe someday she would ask about that, but for now, she felt like she needed to keep the conversation on more impersonal things.

“May I ask you something?”

He looked up, looked nervous, but nodded.

“I’ve noticed all the oil wells around here. Do you think they’ve found it all?”

“Probably.” Apparently believing the conversation to be over, the Captain went back to his task.

“But Sonya doesn’t believe that’s true. Why does she think that?”

The Captain, apparently now realizing the conversation wasn’t over, put down his screwdriver. “Look, I grew up in Baltimore, not Texas. I haven’t lived out hre that long, but I’ve seen how the oil industry happens. Maybe they are doing some more work out here, but it’s a crap shoot. Tin Cup is at the perimeter of some fields and every time that gasoline goes up, some greedy suits crawl out from their rock, hoping to make a buck.”

He waited, hand poised over the screwdriver, and Brooke decided that she could find out her answers later.

Eventually, the Captain realized that she wasn’t going to press him and returned his attention to the mixer.

Not wanting to disturb him, Brooke picked at the corner of his army trunk and thought how much nicer it would look if she painted it. Nothing very flashy, maybe a soft blue. She liked blue. After glancing at the Captain, she thought that maybe she’d ask next week.

He put down his screwdriver and looked up. She noticed that he didn’t sigh. “They drill test wells, see what happens, lots of people show up, all sorts of rigs and machines, making a mess with no respect for the land.”

Brooke nodded and the Captain went back to work.

A few seconds later he sighed and put down the screwdriver again. “It’s not like she needs the money. She’s a lawyer. I send her money. The house in Killeen is paid for. I don’t get it.”

He paused, apparently expecting Brooke to now take part in the conversation, which she did. “Maybe she wants it for you.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“I know.”

The Captain went back to finishing the mixer, next pulling out a board with wires and lights and switches, but apparently he wasn’t happy with that. He swore and looked up. “Why’d you ask?”

“Austen’s place isn’t far from here. I was thinking how cool it would be if there was oil on the Hart land. I mean, I don’t care about being rich or anything, but…it’d be nice. We could build a house, maybe have a garden. Curtains. Blue curtains, I think.”

The Captain stopped what he was doing and studied her, his mouth a hard line. “I should have told you this earlier because you should know that Austen’s involved with another woman, and I think you should leave him alone.”

W
ORDS WERE DANGEROUS THINGS
, which was why Jason never used a lot of them. He would have liked to blame Brooke’s red face on sunburn, but he wasn’t a stupid man, and the aloe vera that he’d rubbed all over last night had really done the trick.

“Either that is the most disgusting idea that anyone has ever thought about me, or else you think I’ve traveled across half the continental United States on the basis of some delusional family. So, please tell me, Captain, am I an incestuous sleaze or a crazy lady? And you can only pick one.”

Jason opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again. She was steaming mad, which he found disgustingly arousing, but he knew that he had to man up and admit the truth.

“If Austen is really your brother, then why the hell are you broke and living in your car?”

It was another mistake. Her eyes filled with tears and Jason hated to see a woman cry, and this was Brooke, who, as he had just told her, was broke and living in her car.

She didn’t answer, not that he expected her to. Instead, he watched her stomp to the door, open the door, stop, slam the door, go back to the bedroom, emerge with his pillow, open the door, stop, and then she glared at him.

“Your money’s in the jar. I don’t need it.” The door slammed, and Brooke was gone.

Furiously, Jason swore, picked up the circuit board and threw it across the room, watching the tiny pieces scatter across the floor.

A long time ago, he would have known what to do. A long time ago, he would have been better able to think on his feet. A long time ago, he wouldn’t have been so far off the mark.

A long time ago, it wouldn’t have hurt so bad.

B
ROOKE DIDN’T LIKE
feeling stupid, she didn’t like feeling small. She didn’t like being broke, and she didn’t like living in her car.

The front seat was too cramped, she noted, bashing her knees on the steering wheel for the eighteenth time, her goose-feathered duvet smelled like French fries instead of burned scrambled eggs, but the pillow smelled exactly like the Captain.

She should have been smarter. She should have known better, but all the
shoulda
s didn’t help.

Furious with herself, she kicked at the door, tossing this way and that to find a more comfortable position.

The Captain tapped on the window and she ignored him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Go away.”

“Brooke, you can’t sleep in the car.”

“I belong in the car. Go away.”

“You don’t belong in the car.”

“I don’t belong in the house.”

“I can’t leave you out here like this.”

“You don’t have to take care of crazy people.”

“You’re not crazy. Come in the house.”

“No.”

“At least talk to me.”

“I am.”

“In the house.”

“No.”

She heard him try the handle, but the doors were locked. Car doors should always be locked.

After a few minutes he left, and Brooke was alone. She should be happy that she was alone. She should be happy that the Captain had given up. She was so happy, she kicked at the door. It hurt just as badly as before, but the pain in her foot was better than the pain in her head.

There was a click and then the back door creaked open, and the Captain climbed in her car.

“I don’t want you in my car.”

“Technically, your car is on my property.”

“I can park somewhere else.”

“I’m sorry, Brooke. I’m very, very sorry.”

The sincerity in his voice ripped at her heart, and she knew that was the best and worst thing about the Captain. If he saw a person in a hole, he needed to pull them out, but sometimes a person needed to crawl out of the hole themselves. Brooke didn’t want him to see her as a hole-dweller. She wanted him to see her as a desirable woman, and she knew that some of the time he did.

Right now, with her feelings so raw, she wanted to hear him say it, wanted him to admit that he wanted her. It wasn’t very nice of her because he would never tell her that, although it meant he could be as silent and therefore as miserable as her at least.

The silence grew, filling the car until Brooke kicked at the door. “Get out.”

“You can sleep in the house, or I can sleep out here. You pick.”

In answer, Brooke kicked the door once again.

T
HE MORNING SUN HIT
Jason in the eyes, and he twisted his neck, a hairbrush stabbing him in the face. Three times he stretched, but the knots in his body remained.

In a lot of ways, Jason knew the situation was for the best. Brooke should have gone to her brother right away. Idiot.

From the front seat, he could hear her soft breathing and knew she was still fast asleep. If he closed his good eye he could forget the stack of magazines under his knee, he could forget the duct-taped seat cushion and forget the hurt in her eyes.

If he closed his good eye, he could see her welcoming him in his bed, remember the way she felt in his arms.

But sex was a dangerous drug. Brooke was a dangerous drug so Jason opened his one good eye and climbed out of her car, the door creaking like an old woman’s knee. Her breathing caught, and he knew she was awake, but she didn’t say a word, not that he expected her to.

As he walked toward his house, he didn’t look back. He heard the sound of her engine, the sound of her wheels on the drive and, soon enough, Jason’s life was restored to the same place it’d been before.

B
ROOKE FOLLOWED
the map to the Hart homestead, excitement roiling in her stomach. This was her home, the place where Charlene and Frank Hart had lived together in bitter matrimony. She’d put off this part of the journey, the last part, out of fear. She had wanted the meeting with Austen to be perfect, but since Brooke had very little experience with perfection, she now recognized the flaw in her plan.

The Captain hadn’t thought she was capable. No, the Captain thought she was certifiable. Excitement changed to a hollow emptiness, and she got angry with him all over again. However, today was for new beginnings and she made herself smile at the bright, sunshiny day.

A new start with a new brother, a new home, and what did the Captain know, after all?

After she took the last turn onto Orchard Drive, she drove two long miles seeing nothing but trees and grass. When she finally spied the house, she stopped, stared. Frowned.

There was no picket fence, no charming garden, no bounding dog. Frankly, as a home, it lacked just about everything.

There was a man and a woman working on the house, actually it seemed more like demolition than renovation. Considering the condition of the place, demolition seemed optimal. Her brother, Austen Hart, was swinging a sledge hammer, destroying one of the two interior walls that still remained. A very pretty, stylish woman was using a chain saw to slice through some rusted out pipes.

Welcome home, Brooke,
she thought, and then laughed at herself. She’d seen worse, she’d survived.

After she parked the old Impala, Brooke climbed out, prepared to see her brother. Hopefully he would remember who she was. “Austen! It’s Brooke! Your sister,” she added, mainly as a reminder.

Austen put down the hammer, the chain saw shut off, and Brooke made her way past what was left of the porch steps. The woman looked her over, and Brooke wished she’d taken the Captain’s advice and sprung for new boots.

“I’m his sister. Brooke Hart.” She held out a friendly hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”

The woman shook her hand, and Brooke noticed her fabulous nails and tried not to be jealous. “Gillian Wanamaker.”

With the back of his sleeve, Austen wiped the sweat from his brow, but didn’t offer his hand until Gillian Wanamaker nudged him in the side.

Instead of shaking her hand, her brother pulled her into a hug, and it was the world’s most awkward hug. Brooke knew this because she had experienced more than her fair share of awkward hugs, some wanted, some not.

“I didn’t know you were coming to visit. Hell, we would’ve put out a welcome mat.” Austen glanced toward the house and laughed. It was an awkward laugh. “What are you doing in town?”

“I came to see the house,” Brooke told him.
And maybe stay forever.
Austen walked her through the remains, and she wondered what it had been like when her mother and father had lived there. When Austen and Tyler had lived there.

“Not much to see right now. It’s a work in progress. The old structure was condemned and the lawyer gave me the green light to tear down the place.”

Gillian pointed to a freshly poured slab in the distance. “The new house is going up over there.” Then her attention returned to Brooke. “Austen didn’t mention where you lived, or maybe he did, but in this whole getting-married hoo-doo, it probably slipped my mind.”

“I’m from New York,” Brooke answered, then nodded to the house. “It looks great.”

“Have you talked to the lawyer?” asked Austen. “He was trying to track you down.”

“That’s why I came, but he’s out of town. Do you know what he wants?” Brooke asked, trying to sound casual.

Austen began to laugh. “This is your inheritance.”

Brooke swallowed. “I’m in the will? My father knew about me?”

Austen shook his head. “The state executed the will last spring because you have a legal claim and it’s only right that you get your share. We’re sitting on four acres, so you get one-third of that and one-third of the house.

“One-third of the house?” asked Brooke, trying to look excited.

Austen wasn’t fooled and he laughed, and she liked to hear him laugh. “It doesn’t work that way,” he explained. “Once you sign the papers, I’ll write you a check for the cash equivalent. I should warn you, it’s not a lot, probably nothing more than a couple of haircuts for you.”

Brooke wasn’t disappointed. Much. A couple of New York haircuts went a long, long way. It’d keep her in peanut butter until she could find a new job. And maybe she could spring for a motel room.

“And one-third of the mineral rights,” Gillian added, which perked Brooke up. Certainly the house wasn’t what she was expecting, but still, one-third of something was infinitely preferable to one-third of nothing. She was about to ask her brother more when he noticed the Impala parked at the end of the road. “You drove from New York, or is that a rental?”

“I borrowed it from a friend,” Brooke told him because she could see he didn’t approve of the car’s ramshackle condition.

“Must have been some friend.”

“What do you do in New York?” Gillian asked, smiling at her, not nearly as awkwardly. “It must be so exciting.”

“I, uh…” began Brooke, not wanting to lie, because this was her fresh start, and she wanted to make the right imprssion, but…

“She works for an art gallery,” Austen replied.

“I quit that job,” Brooke stated quickly.

“You’re in art?” Gillian asked, and Brooke knew that she was going to have to give some sort of response, but her already frayed nerves were starting to go, and the sun was very hot, and this wasn’t going nearly as easily as she’d planned, and Gillian was watching her with concern.

“You’re looking really pale. I bet you’re not used to this weather.” Gillian glanced at Austen and clucked her tongue. “You don’t look so good, either, sugar. You know, let’s ditch this place and go somewhere hospitable to chat. I’ve got some chocolate cake at my place. Are you hungry? I don’t mean to brag, but it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”

Then Gillian Wanamaker grabbed Austen’s hand, linking them together, and Brooke approved and the panic faded. “Come on, sweetie. We need to show this one how real family is done.”

T
HE
W
ANAMAKER HOUSE
was far more in line with what Brooke considered a home. Needlework pillows covered the sofa, family pictures hung from the wall, and from the kitchen came the smell of warm chocolate cake. It was the perfect place for Brooke to get to know her brother better. And hopefully he would want to know her as well, not that she was making any progress there, judging by the closed expression on his face. However, if ever there was a place that would make a non-family a family, the Wanamaker household was it.

Gillian’s mother, Modine Wanamaker, was a plump maternal type with a flour-dusted apron and a welcoming smile.

Emmett Wanamaker was a man of few words, as apparently were most of the men in Tin Cup. He finished his cake, pushed back from the dining room table and fled for the football game in the other room. Austen appeared to want to join him, but Gillian stopped him with a look.

As Brooke finished the last crumbs of her cake, she put down her fork and smiled at her brother, who smiled warily back. “Congratulations on your engagement. I love the ring, and I imagine the wedding is going to be fabulous.”

At the mention of his fiancée, some of the wariness disappeared, and Brooke mentally patted herself on the back. Apparently all the Harts were romantics.

“I’m lucky to have her,” he said, taking Gillian’s hand, his feelings apparent on his face.

“When’s the big day?”

“Middle of November.”

“Will you be living in the new house or here? This is such a nice place.” Brooke ran her finger over the embroidered chair rests. She’d never learned how to create such beautiful things, and she had always wanted to, but it seemed frivolous unless she had a wall to hang it, on a sofa to throw it over or a chair to decorate. Like this one.

“Originally the new house was going to be for Gillian’s parents,” Austen said, “and we were going to live here, but then Gillian and I decided that a new place would be good.”

“This is Gillian’s house,” Modine explained.

“Don’t explain, Mama.” Gillian smiled at Brooke. “Our housing situation has always been complicated.”

Brooke nodded because she understood that. Still, this was like the best of all worlds. It had the feel of family, of home, of love. Austen must have had that at the old house, as well. “I’m sure you had some wonderful memories growing up.”