She curled her hands around the warm mug and blinked away the emotion wetting her eyes. It was lovely of him to say so, but he was her dad, so of course he had to say that. She knew the truth. She had overreached. Again. She tried so hard to make things work the way she thought they should that she never saw the errors most folks would have spotted right away.
“I should have known better. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve overreached.” The words poured out, all the ones she’d kept stored away in a dark cupboard. “Manchester should have taught me better than to try to rise above my station. I’m a publican’s daughter. Not village council. Not a city girl. Not an earl’s heir’s girlfriend material.”
He added milk to his tea and stirred. “And what’s wrong with being a publican’s daughter, might I ask?”
“Nothing.” Way to go, Brooke. Nice how you made your dad feel like shite there.
“I should think not. And as far as the rest of it, your time will come. From what I hear, it’s already here. I understand Brian Kaye asked you to run for council.”
“That’ll change after he sees the latest photos.” Her cheeks flamed hotter than the mug in her hands.
“What photos?”
Oh God. How was she going to explain this? She took a fortifying drink of her tea and decided to get on with it in the most British way possible—by just going forth and not making a big fuss about it. So that’s what she did. And by the time she’d finished, she and her dad were both looking into their empty mugs, avoiding eye contact for fear of seeing each other’s embarrassed reactions. Finally, though, she couldn’t take it a moment longer and peeked. Her dad wasn’t looking at the dregs of his tea, though, he was staring straight at her, looking as fired up as Phillip Chapman-Powell had ever looked. The only other time she could remember was when one of the other pigeon fanciers tried to get his best flyer, Cecil, disqualified from a race.
“The pictures won’t matter,” he declared, his voice firm.
Wouldn’t it be nice to think so. “They’ll say I’m just a slag.”
“Some might, but if they do, they’re a bunch of stupid twats,” he said, one corner of his mouth curling upward in a crooked smile. “However, those who know you will set them straight. Nick, for instance.”
“He’s gone back to America for good.” For such a big thing, the words came out tiny and small—a squeak of an announcement.
“Oh, poppet,” her dad said with a hefty sigh. “I’m sorry.”
Her chin wobbled, but she lifted it a tad higher anyway. “I’m not. If it hadn’t been for him and my reaction to him, none of this would have happened. I should have known better—especially after everything that happened with Reggie. When I came back here with my tail tucked between my legs and everyone took me in, it was more than I expected.” She took in a shaky breath whilst looking around to make sure no one was leaning in for a listen. Luckily, they weren’t. “I just wanted to pay everyone back for the kindness, to help Bowhaven like it helped me. That’s why I took the job with the earl when no one else would. That’s why I pushed so hard for the village to make changes. That’s why I fought against falling for him, for Nick. And it happened anyway and now he’s leaving because none of this matters to him. Bowhaven doesn’t matter to him. I don’t matter to him. He said he doesn’t believe in fairytale endings.”
She sucked in a ragged breath and blinked back the tears she refused to give in to. She’d never considered herself a princess type, looking for a knight to fight by her side. But the hole in her chest proved just how much she’d been keeping secrets from herself.
“Is that what I’ve put my faith in?” she asked. “Make believe? Is that what I should have learned from the horrible mess with Reggie? That happily ever afters are only for kids’ books?”
Emotion clogged her throat and no more came out, but really, what was left to be said? All she’d been doing for the past few years was trying to create a happily ever after. First with Reggie the toad. Then by bringing back Bowhaven. Then with Nick. All of it had failed. Maybe it was time she took the lesson to heart, grew up, and closed the book on fairy tales forever.
“This is your home and it always will be.” Her dad covered her hands with his, the callouses—signs of a life of proud hard work, not fanciful ideas—hard against her skin, and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “People may not always enjoy the way you push, but they respect you for it—a lot more than some tabloid photographer spying in windows. We know what you’ve done for us by nudging the earl. People in this village are set in their ways, it’s true, but they know what you have to offer, and you’re a shoo-in for the council. And as for Mr. Vane…” His voice turned hard at the earl’s heir’s name. “Well, if Mr. Vane can’t see what a lucky man he is in having you, well, then he’s a right git and he can just go buy his pints somewhere else.”
Brooke didn’t know what to say—or really if she even could say something. That was just about the most emotional and hopeful speech her father had ever given. It was most un-Yorkshire-like in its lack of taciturn acceptance of the worst in life that she didn’t know what to say. The arrival of Brian Kaye armed with a sheaf of papers saved her and her dad from confronting the moment that they would both cherish—even though they’d never speak of it again in their lives.
“There you are, Brooke,” Brian said, laying the papers down on the bar. “I’ve got the forms you need to fill out before you can run for election.”
And poof! There went that soft, fuzzy feeling. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Brian’s smile faltered. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind.”
“I think you might,” Brooke said, girding herself for what would come next. “There are some pictures and—”
Brian stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Doesn’t matter. We know all about them, and if we catch another photographer in the area, you can be sure we’ll dispatch them with haste.”
For one of the few times in her life, Brooke was speechless. All she could do was blink, which got pretty awkward very quickly. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Now that’s something no one will ever believe if I were to tell it.” Brian laughed at his own joke and nudged the papers closer to her. “I’ll leave these here, but be sure to get them to the council office by the end of the week.”
After giving her an encouraging wink and a pen from beneath the bar, her dad went back to pouring pints for the villagers who, thanks to the rash of calls from movie and TV production folks, were more optimistic about their economic prospects since she could remember. Looking around, Brooke realized there was something there that hadn’t been there a few months ago—hope, a belief that things were going to get bette
r. She glanced down at the election paperwork, excitement starting to build in her chest because she’d be a part of turning that corner. She couldn’t wait to tell Ni— She gritted her teeth and stopped herself before she could continue.
He whose name shouldn’t be mentioned was gone. He wasn’t coming back. She needed to shove his memory into the cupboard under the stairs and leave it there to rot as if her last name was Dursley. Biting down on the inside of her cheek to keep from letting the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes fall, she promised herself that she’d do just that.
…