Flowers on Main. Sherryl Woods

warned.

      “I can live with that.”

      “Bree, my darling, you’re making such a terrible mistake,” he said.

      “It’s mine to make.”

      “And there’s nothing—” He cut himself off with a heavy sigh. “No, I am familiar with your streak of Irish stubbornness. I can’t change your mind now, can I?”

      “No.”

      “Will you come if I send a ticket when the next play opens?”

      “It’s yours, isn’t it?” she said, remembering how thrilled the theater had been to get the play for its pre-Broadway run. Rehearsals had just begun when she’d left town.

      “The first in five years. I want you here. You were my inspiration, my muse, when I was writing it, after all.”

      The flattery was deliberate, she knew. She was also aware he’d probably said something similar to other women. Marty was like that, scattering little hints about his gratitude far and wide, so that everyone thought they owned a share of his success.

      “I’ll think about it,” she promised. In a few weeks, perhaps she could go back for a visit without feeling like a failure. She’d made friends there, people other than Marty she would miss. It would be a chance to catch up.

      By then, too, she’d have her business up and running. She’d have her fresh start, an exciting new beginning. Marty’s seductive charm wouldn’t be a match for that.

      “I’ll be in touch, then,” he said to her.

      Only after they’d hung up did she realize that not once in the entire conversation had she sensed even the slightest hint of surprise on Marty’s part that she was closing the door on their relationship. Unlike Jake, whose passions still ran high over their breakup after six long years, Marty had let her go with barely a whimper of regret. For all of his claim to miss her and need her, she didn’t doubt for an instant that he would move on by the end of the week, if he hadn’t already. He was the kind of man who couldn’t survive for long without the adulation of a woman.

      For the first time since she’d fallen, awestruck, into his orbit, she actually felt a little sorry for him. She didn’t miss the irony that it was seeing Jake again, hearing the anger in his voice and seeing the heat in his eyes, that showed her just how deep real love was supposed to run.

      And despite many good memories, just how shallow her relationship with Marty had truly been.

       4 _____

      Bree glanced around the kitchen table where her father, Gram, Jess and even Abby were seated. It was such a rarity to have them all here at the same time these days—especially Mick—that she regarded them with suspicion.

      “This is a surprise,” she said carefully. “Jess, why aren’t you at the inn?”

      “Gram wanted to have a family dinner,” Jess replied casually, though she didn’t meet Bree’s gaze, which pretty much contradicted her attempt at innocence.

      Bree turned to her older sister. “If that’s so, where are the twins, Abby? Where’s Trace? He’s practically family now.”

      “Busy,” Abby said tersely. Her cheeks turned a guilty shade of pink, which immediately told Bree she was right to be suspicious. Her family was up to no good, and it had something to do with her.

      “Besides, the girls are always exhausted after a day on the beach,” Abby added a little too quickly. She had a telling habit of going on too long when she was nervous, which was exactly what she was doing now. “And you know how hard it is for the grown-ups to talk seriously when Carrie and Caitlyn are chattering nonstop.”

      “And just why would the grown-ups need to talk about something serious?” Bree inquired, turning her attention to Gram.

      Gram deliberately ignored the question and passed a bowl mounded high with mashed potatoes. “Mick, carve the chicken,” she ordered. “We’ll talk after we’ve eaten.”

      “About what?” Bree persisted. “Does everyone at this table know what this is about except me?”

      Mick reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “It’s nothing for you to fret about, girl. Everyone here is family. We all care about you.”

      Bree stared at him long enough for the words to really register, then shoved back her chair to stand. She was trembling so badly her knees wobbled, so she clung to the edge of the old oak table. Even if she hadn’t been a private person who kept her problems to herself, she would have been deeply offended by what was happening.

      “Then this isn’t a pleasant family dinner at all, is it?” she said, scowling at everyone there. “It’s some kind of weird O’Brien intervention. Well, I don’t want any part of it. I don’t need your questions or your sympathy.”

      She ran from the room and made it all the way out the front door before she allowed the tears gathering in her eyes to fall. She brushed at them impatiently so she could see well enough to make her way down the steps and across the lawn. She was at the edge of the grass and at the top of the steps down to the beach before Abby caught up with her.

      “Bree, wait!” her big sister pleaded. “I’m so sorry we ambushed you. I think we all agreed to it for Gram as much as for you. You have her worried.”

      “I’m old enough to figure things out for myself,” Bree said with a sniff, accepting a tissue that Abby handed her. Maybe because Abby was the mother of twins, she always seemed to have some in her pockets, while Bree never did.

      “Of course you are,” Abby said, accompanying her down to the beach.

      There was still plenty of light to see clearly, though shadows were starting to fall. In an hour or so the sun would drop below the horizon behind them, setting the water on fire before it went. For now, though, the sky was mostly puffs of white and bits of mauve against the blue-gray of twilight.

      Bree dug her feet into the cool sand at the water’s edge, allowing the gentle waves to wash over them. She sucked in a deep breath of sea air and waited for the calming effect to kick in. This wasn’t Abby’s fault. It wasn’t Gram’s, either. Or even Mick’s or Jess’s. If anyone’s, it was hers, for expecting to keep her turmoil to herself, to find her own way without anyone’s help or interference. She should have known that sooner or later it would come to this.

      “Want to hear the biggest irony of all?” she asked Abby.

      “What’s that?”

      “I figured everything out today, made a decision about what I’m doing next. An hour ago I could hardly wait to share that news with everyone. I was so excited.” She sighed. “And then I walked into the kitchen and there you all were, ready to pounce.”

      Abby nudged her in the ribs. “Don’t be so dramatic, Ms. Playwright. Nobody was going to pounce.”

      “Ha,” Bree scoffed. She hesitated, then added, “You got the rest of that wrong, too. I’m not a playwright anymore.”

      Abby’s step faltered, but she kept her expression neutral. Bree had to give her credit for that. She’d make a fine actress if she ever decided to change careers. Then, again, maybe that’s what made her an outstanding stockbroker, the ability to maintain a calm facade when the market was falling apart around her.

      “What happened?” Abby asked eventually.

      “It wasn’t working for me anymore,” Bree said simply. “Not the work, not Chicago, not my relationship with Marty. I think when I came home for the opening at the inn, I already knew I wouldn’t be going back. It just took me a few weeks to sort through everything and figure out what was going to come next. I knew the only way to keep all of you from worrying would be to have a concrete plan.”

      Abby stared at her, her expression stricken.