he earth.
I shouldn’t have stayed away for so long. Eight years was a long time.
But Brooke was here, and I certainly planned on getting to be very good friends with her, so maybe I’d be coming here a lot more often.
Blackwater had been built in 1890 by my great-grandfather, Nathaniel Blackstone, who was a direct descendent of the man who’d founded the city of Boston in 1625 as Brooke reminded me on the phone earlier.
My great-grandfather made his fortune in the continental railroad, and in early oil-well development in Texas. He built Blackwater after he’d made his fortune and wanted to return to where he’d been raised as a child—Blackstone Island. I guess so he could reminisce about simpler, more innocent times.
I had my own memories of simpler times during holidays on the island as a kid with my brothers and sisters. I recalled those times as happy and innocent. Dad taught us all to sail and went with us boys on Boy Scout campouts. He taught the girls how to shoot a bow and arrow and to swim. He was a hands-on father. Mom was not as enthusiastic about the island, but she was always there with us that I remember—organizing clam bakes and beach picnics with my aunt Cynthia who was also her cousin. Yeah, we’re an incestuous mess of a family. Money likes to keep with money. The law of averages is in your favor that way.
So, as I stood staring at the historic stone mansion that had been in our family for more than a hundred years, I couldn’t understand why my mother would sell it off. Especially without having a family meeting first, to ask her children if they had any interest in it for themselves.
Something was off with this situation—I just hadn’t found out what.
Yet.
I took a photo of the realty sign and texted it to my attorney who handled property acquisitions. I could always buy it outright, but that didn’t seem like the correct move when I had four other siblings to consider, and also what our dad would want for all of us.
The house was still solid, with a strong foundation laid high on the cliffside overlooking Massachusetts Bay. It had been created by my family for my family. The value had to be in excess of thirty million dollars, but that part didn’t concern me at all. The legacy was much more valuable.
My mother was dreaming if she thought I would ever let Blackwater go to strangers.
Brooke
The black clouds screamed their intent to release angry rain at some point in my near future as the ferry pulled into its berth in Boston Harbor.
Monday morning.
It felt as if the weekend had passed in a complete blur after Nan and Herman’s big announcement. Eduardo had shown up on Saturday and stayed with me until Sunday afternoon to help plan the wedding. We’d gone to the hospital and consulted with Nan, talked through all of the major points, and managed to decide on the venue, the flowers, and even a dress. She found exactly what she wanted, so I placed the order online with a bridal shop in Boston. Her friend Sylvie would do the alterations if any were needed after I picked it up later in the week. My grandmother would be a beautiful bride when she said her vows in Stone Church with Herman. The wedding might be small with an intimate guest list but that would only make it more romantic in my opinion.
So, after only one little weekend of planning, I felt accomplished as I left Starbucks with a latte warming my cold hands before the start of my workweek. I stepped through the tiny alley that separated Starbucks from my building and saw the alcove where Caleb had paused to take a call out of the way of the streaming street traffic. He’d seen me that morning, he’d said.
I was having dinner with him tonight.
That fact alone surprised me. Because I had absolutely no intention of dating anybody right now. It was a date, right? Handsome man who flirts mercilessly asks girl to dinner who accepts his invitation. That qualified as a date in my book. I didn’t know Caleb at all, but in some unbelievably weird way, it very much felt like I did. He didn’t push me the way ninety percent of the men I might meet would, but he didn’t give up easily, either. I really hadn’t expected him to ask me out after I’d been so obnoxious about the division of wealth on the island. So, Caleb goes one further by accepting my apology point-blank—on the condition I go to dinner with him. How could I say no to him? And if I was honest, I wanted to go. He was really charming and very polite—a true gentleman. I didn’t have a lot of experience with men, but I recognized something trustworthy in him. I recalled how he’d been almost tongue-tied with me at the cocktail party, which was ridiculous really, especially given the sophisticated world he came from. But he’d stood up for me gallantly and offered his help. And then he sent me flowers. So very thoughtful. Could I trust him? I felt I could.
Don’t measure every man to him. Caleb was nothing like that.
For the first time since I’d left LA, I wasn’t fearful to be alone with a heterosexual male who clearly appeared to be showing the usual signs of pursuing me.
I’d just have to see how it went with him at dinner tonight. After he’d asked me the customary questions tested out on a first date and heard my story, I was certain his curiosity would be swiftly, but politely, satisfied. My past was so very untidy in so many ways, the recent past a literal slag heap of a mess that had nearly ended me.
When Caleb Blackstone heard that bit?—and I would answer truthfully so that nothing was left out.
I couldn’t imagine he, or any man, would want to be involved with me. No. Happiness with a man is not in the cards for you at the moment. Someday, but not right now.
EDUARDO showed up after me, which hardly ever happened. “Ay Dios mío, my head hurts, condesa.”
“Too much partying to get in and not enough weekend, huh?” I had taken up the majority of his “lifestyle” time. “Sorry you don’t feel well, but that pumpkin button-down you’re wearing this morning is very autumn-festive. Do you want me to go next door and get you a pumpkin latte to go with it?”
He groaned dramatically and waved me off. He would go lie down on the sofa in the back for a bit and then reappear later as a new man. Eduardo cracked me up continually.
“Brooke, good morning. Do you have a minute?” Jon asked from my doorway.
“For you, Jon? At least two or three, and good morning to you as well.” I usually didn’t see him first thing because Jon was not a morning person. He needed to be plied with coffee and a pastry before he came ’round to the land of the coherent any time before 10:00 a.m. I think he suffered from the same condition Eduardo did—a very busy social life after hours, which I suppose applied to most single people. The only person at work who wasn’t single was Carlisle. He was married to a heart surgeon at Massachusetts General named Colin. Colin and Carlisle were shortened to CC whenever they were discussed as a couple. Absolutely adorably in love with each other.
Jon eased himself into my pink velvet slipper chair, causing it to give out a small squeak of protest, which I politely ignored. “What’s up, Jon?”