After what seemed like hours, Bowie and his crew were finally tearing down walls, replacing pipes, and sanding down the dark wood that would eventually become white. Everywhere Bowie went, Brooklyn was there, either supervising or working. He watched her from afar, taking her in. She was dressed in shorts and a tank top and wore tan work boots. But it was her hat that really caught his attention. For as long as he’d known her, she’d always worn one. He didn’t find this odd, but soothing, as if his Brooklyn—the one he remembered—had come back. After high school, her hair was shorter than it was now and braided, like it had been yesterday when he’d seen her. The darker color truly highlighted her skin tone.
“She’s beautiful.”
Bowie cleared his thoughts at the sound of Carly’s voice. He didn’t know what to say to her and whether he should agree with her. He shouldn’t—that’s what he told himself. After the run-in this morning, he wanted to forget she existed, which was proving to be difficult. Still, he was determined to finish the job and walk away just like she had.
“I’ve asked her to stay.”
“Why?” He hadn’t meant for the question to sound rude, but it had.
“She needs to put down roots, and this is her home.” Carly was nonchalant about her statement. She left Bowie there to wonder if Brooklyn had given her an answer or not. He didn’t want her to stay, to clog up his mind with the past, and he would tell her as much when the opportunity presented itself. She needed to finish the job, get the hell out of town, and never come back, as far as he was concerned. Except, he wanted her here and was unwilling to admit that to himself.
By the time Simone yelled for lunch, Bowie had finished sanding the entryway. He went outside, dusted off, and followed his crew to the picnic tables. Simone stood there, dishing up plates with sandwiches, chips, and fruit and cans of pop. “Thank you,” he said as he took a plate from her. “You and Mrs. Woods didn’t need to do this.”
“Well now, you’re just being silly if you think she wasn’t going to feed you. She’s always fed the people who came to her home.” She had. There wasn’t a kid who went hungry around here, thanks to Carly.
Bowie sat down and whistled for Luke. He had felt confident that his dog wouldn’t take off or go anywhere near the construction happening outside once he had shown Luke the backyard. At best, he figured Luke was down on the beach chasing the seagulls and swimming in the ocean. He shouted his name, and moments later the pooch appeared at the top of the stairs that led down to the beach. He appeared ragged and ready for a nap. Bowie patted his own leg, beckoning his dog, but he didn’t come. Luke ignored his master and kept his attention on the stairs behind him. His tongue hung from his mouth, and his tail wagged excessively. Bowie watched as a young girl ascended. His breath caught, and the bite he had just taken felt like a lump lodged in his throat. He knew her, but from where? She crouched down and ruffled Luke’s mane before giving him a kiss on his nose.
He watched her every move, unable to take his eyes off her. Her presence mesmerized him. Luke, too, seemed to be enamored by her because he was following her toward the house instead of coming to see what his master was eating. When she was out of sight, Bowie sat there, staring at his food. He couldn’t eat, his appetite lost, and he couldn’t understand why. Clearly, she was a visitor or a neighbor, and it would make sense for her and Luke to bond. His dog was friendly; he loved people. So then why did she seem so familiar to him? The imaginary lunch bell sounded by way of his crew getting up and thanking Simone for the meal. Still, he sat there wondering what had just happened.
“Your dog is really sweet,” Simone said as she came to brush away the crumbs. “He’s made himself at home here.”
“Who was the girl?” he asked, ignoring the positive comments about his dog.
Simone continued cleaning and smiled. “That’s Brystol.”
“Does she live around here? I’ve never seen her around town, but I feel like she’s familiar.”
She shook her head.
“Simi, may I go into town with you?”
Simone glanced up just as Bowie turned toward her voice. “Of course, sweetie.”
The young woman was a few feet away, smiling. She had the same smile as . . . her mother. Bowie swallowed hard, but the lump blocking his airway stayed put. He was having trouble breathing. The miniature version of Brooklyn was standing there talking to Simone as if they’d known each other for longer than a day or two.