It Takes Heart Read online

  She rummaged through her bag for her Apple Pencil, pulling out a swatch of fabrics from her bag as well as sample wood. “Now that I’ve lived in Ligaya a couple of days, I’m really feeling the vibe of—”

  “Whoa. What more do you have in there, Mary Poppins?”

  Confused for a beat, she realized she was holding three fabric swatches in her hand. “Oh, ha!”

  “Do you have power tools too?”

  “Actually . . .” Amused, and slightly proud of this fact—because preparedness was her best trait—she produced, with a flourish, a Gerber tool.

  “All right, all right, I’m impressed, probably because . . .” He fished something out of his pocket. “I have one too.”

  “Yeah, but is yours engraved?” She flipped her tool over and pointed at the deep grooves of her initials in calligraphy on the handle.

  When he didn’t answer right away, she looked across to see his shoulders shaking. His hands were on his hips, lips pressed together, eyes alight.

  “What?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you . . . are you laughing at me?” Except she, too, felt a giggle coming on. “Okay, I got a little carried away. I wanted to make sure no one took mine.”

  He wiped his eyes and coughed out a laugh. “I mean, I’m not even surprised.”

  “Only-child problems.”

  “Well, well, well, what is this, a bonding session?”

  The voice came not from either Geneva or Brandon but undeniably from Beatrice at the dining room entrance. And while absolutely nothing shady was going on, Geneva froze, her gaze momentarily meeting Brandon’s eyes, who reflected the same guilt.

  Guilt from years ago, rushing up. Guilt that now reminded her of her proximity to Brandon, that somehow in their conversation they’d moved so they were inches from one another.

  She spun swiftly toward the doorway and found that not only was Beatrice there, but Chris was too. “Hey! How long have you both been standing there?”

  “Enough to see that you two are hard at work.” Beatrice’s eyes flashed, a grin on her lips.

  “Was that work?” Chris asked in his usual wry tone.

  Next to her, Brandon grumbled.

  “You have perfect timing, Chris. I’d love to share what I have.” Geneva waved him over to decrease the tension rising in the room between the brothers. Chris was very much like her mother, whom she had always called a Nurse Ratched: all mean on the outside, soft and gooey on the inside. Chris just needed a little softening up.

  She swiped through the furniture choices. All the while, she discussed the truck fire and reinforced that they were still on track in the timeline.

  Geneva loved this part of her work; she loved painting the picture and watching her client’s reactions to it. The magic was in the transformation, and with sometimes little intervention. A tweak here and there, a coat of paint, a switch in perspective, and voilà: a brand-new room, a new identity, a fresh start. Her favorite reaction above all: surprise, at falling for the unexpected. And that was what Geneva was reading on Chris’s face.

  That she’d surprised him.

  “I like it. I like all of it,” Chris finally said. “I won’t love it until I actually see it come together. But you had a quick solution, and you acted on it.” He tapped the table with two fingers. “I want the budget in my office in the next couple of days. If we have to, we can take it out of the restaurant budget.”

  She nodded. “You’ll have it.”

  “Since we’re talking about the restaurant,” Brandon chimed in. “Kuya, I was going to bring it up tomorrow, but since you’re here . . . I’d like to bring in a restaurant consultant.”

  “No.” Chris’s answer was swift.

  “You’re not going to hear me out?”

  “There’s nothing to hear out. Everything is down to the dime.” Chris’s eyes flashed, and in them, Geneva read his unsaid words. That it was postdinner, that his shirt was already untucked for the day. And while he tolerated Geneva’s presentation because she was a guest, this wasn’t time for a brother’s request. Timing was everything.

  “A good consultant is worth their salt,” Brandon asserted.

  Geneva cleared her throat. “I . . . I can see if I can help. I’ve got some experience in restaurant design.”

  Next to her, Brandon grunted.

  Chris nodded. “See, you have a resource right here.”

  “It’s not the same,” Brandon said.

  “Well,” Beatrice chimed in like the bell at the end of a round. “I’m headed up. My show’s about to start. Paradise Island. I love watching who’s going to hook up with whom.”

  “God, I haven’t watched TV in forever,” Geneva said to lessen the tension.

  “It’s all garbage.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Yummy garbage, and quite informative of the human condition. Drama, am I right? C’mon, Kuya, leave them alone already.” She turned her brother by the shoulders, and as they walked away, Beatrice shot them a glance and mouthed, Sorry.

  Once alone, Geneva looked down at her iPad, opened to a panoramic photo of the furniture in the warehouse. Furniture that might have taken up Brandon’s budget.

  The entire encounter between the two brothers replayed itself in her head. It was obvious that the exchange stemmed from something deeper.

  She lifted her gaze to Brandon’s clenched jaw, and the truth settled around them along with the heavy weight of his silence.

  Geneva had messed up.

  She’d interfered in his life. Which she didn’t want to do; she wasn’t on the resort to do more than her job. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that—”

  “No, you shouldn’t have.” He shook his head. “Wanna go for a walk?”

  “What?”

  “A walk. I need some air. I mean, you don’t have to, just—”

  “I . . .” Her first instinct was to say no. Because walking led to more talking, and it would lead to sharing of feelings—and this was Brandon. But then again, this was Brandon. He was a man who didn’t bare his emotions to just anyone at any time.

  And admittedly, she didn’t want to return to her beach house, where nothing waited for her but Luna, who would have reflected her conscience. That she should be right here. “Yeah, a walk sounds good.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Brandon had been having a great day—an excellent day. A fantastic few days, actually. He was getting things done. Tonight was supposed to be an easy meeting, and he’d had every intention to remain rational and cool around Geneva.

  But he’d been filled with embarrassment that he, at his age, still struggled to get ahead of his brother.

  Once they were outside, the warmth was a relief. The soft wind was a bit of consolation, soothing what was white hot inside him. And as he continued up the hill, the chatter in his head dissipated so he could properly hear the rustle of the trees and the sound of crickets, and he could smell Geneva’s perfumed lotion.

  “It’s so pretty out here,” she said, looking up at the sky, lit bright by stars. “You have to get pretty far from the city to see this sky.”

  The way she knew how to steer the subject was something he always appreciated, so Brandon went with it, leaning into the ease instead of the defensiveness that he carried around like a brick. He strolled up the main driveway toward the back of the house, deep into the weeping willow trees, where it darkened save for the solar driveway lantern lights that were gentle reminders of the path. He slapped at the random mosquito on his arm trying to make a meal out of him. “Kind of reminds me of those art classes we took, when we poked holes on a black sheet of construction paper and shone the light from behind to make the solar system.”

  “Ha! The great Mr. O’Rourke,” she said.

  “You had him too?”

  “Yep. He taught at the middle school for forever. I got him in seventh grade.” She smiled. And though it was dark, Brandon could make out the shine in her dark eyes.

  “Are you okay?” she said af
ter an extended pause.

  He rested a hand behind his head. “It’s the same ol’ same-o with my brother.”

  “I know. And you fall right into it.”

  “Me?” He peered at her.

  “Yeah, you. It takes two to get into a fight.”

  “Not always.”

  “Most often,” she said. “Especially with the both of you. You didn’t have to bring up the restaurant consultant. You could have done research, had names to throw out, and yet . . .”

  She wasn’t lying. He couldn’t help but say something. He’d wanted to see if his brother would have extended the same allowance to him as he’d done to Geneva just then. Yes, he was a masochist. “It was a business meeting.”

  “You were testing him and used me to do so, but I’m going to give you the pass. Look, I’m sorry about coming in between that. I won’t do it again. But you were just raring to get into a fight. You’re not thinking of what it’s even about or what you could lose.”

  She was right. Of course she was right.

  He shook his head, finally.

  “It’s also massively awkward. When one of you digs, another one punches the other below the belt, and it’s painful to watch. It hurts right in the puso.” She pointed to her heart.

  “Oh, you’re getting deep now, Geneva.” He snorted, deflecting, and purposely doing so. As usual, she was seeing right through him. “Kuya Chris is just him, and I’m just me. It’s just that now we don’t have to pretend. There are no forebears to please, and especially none to keep him in check. But I knew that coming here. I’m here to do a job and get out.”

  “Wow,” she whispered.

  “Isn’t that what you do?” Except when he said it, it came out harsher than he intended, and he regretted it. “I mean—”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I know what you meant.”

  They’d come upon a fork in the road, where a hammered wooden sign read SECURITY CABIN. A few meters up, a light shone through the windows of a tiny house, and the scent of something sweet reached Brandon’s nose. It was a reprieve; he didn’t want to talk about his and Chris’s roller-coaster relationship, nor did he want to delve into their drama. “Someone’s cooking.”

  “Sal?” Geneva asked.

  “Yep.” He took another step forward on the path, when he was suddenly blinded by white lights.

  “Whoa!” Brandon turned toward Geneva. He held a palm up to block the light.

  “Who’s out here?” a voice said. “Mr. Puso?”

  “Sal, it’s Brandon.”

  “Ah, Brandon.” Sal waved them his way, toward the shadows. “I’m sorry about that. We have motion sensors all up and down this main driveway. It’s rare that this one goes off. Oh, and Ms. Geneva. I apologize.”

  “It’s okay, Sal. We were just on a walk.” Geneva had gotten ahead of Brandon and was already by Sal’s side. “We’re sorry to bother you.”

  A shadow of a person was at Sal’s door.

  “Not a bother at all. Are you in the mood for food?”

  “Well, n—” Brandon began.

  “We’re having s’mores.”

  “That’s what I smell,” Geneva said.

  With a quick glance at Geneva, Brandon relented. He’d been taught to never say no to an elder. Though he’d only encountered Sal briefly throughout the resort, he was enough of a mainstay. “Sure, okay.”

  After a quick stroll up the pathway, they reached another man at the door. They made quick introductions. Jonathan Chang appeared to be Sal’s age, dressed in a tropical shirt and board shorts. He had a deep tan from the sun; his thinning hair was white. They went around to the backyard, to a metal ring aglow with a small fire.

  Sal grabbed folding chairs and opened them side by side, then set Brandon and Geneva up with sticks with marshmallows at the tips.

  “I haven’t done s’mores in forever,” Brandon said to Geneva as he sank into the camp chair.

  “Perhaps the sugar can pep you up a little,” she said just loud enough so he could hear.

  “Ha.”

  “Jon and I were just arguing on the best type of burn on a marshmallow. I like it barely dark but melty. He, on the other hand . . . ,” Sal said, handing Jon a stick.

  “We weren’t arguing. It was a discussion.” Jonathan loaded up marshmallows with a crooked grin. “I like my marshmallows burnt to a crisp. Why not go for it? Life’s too short to wait for perfection.”

  “It’s not about perfection but function. You can’t make a s’more from something you can’t smoosh,” Sal countered.

  “I beg to differ.” Jonathan eyed Brandon, who had just retrieved his stick from the fire, the marshmallow sizzled and charring. “See, Brandon has the same theory.”

  “Don’t waste your theories on that guy. He doesn’t even like chocolate. He just eats the marshmallow from the stick,” Geneva jumped in.

  The two men gasped.

  “That’s blasphemous. No chocolate or graham cracker?” Sal asked.

  “Nope,” Brandon said. “Purely marshmallow. Listen, when you’re the youngest in the family, it’s all about grabbing what I could. Beatrice ate the chocolate separately, and my dad loved eating the cracker on its own. But we always had marshmallows. Whenever they took out the s’more stuff, I grabbed those in a hurry. It’s the fight I knew I could win.”

  “That, too, says a lot about you,” Jon said.

  “You’re not kidding,” Geneva said. She carefully pressed her s’more together. The marshmallow oozed from the middle. “I, on the other hand, want every bite to have every single ingredient. It always drove me crazy, how the chocolate squares are smaller than the graham cracker squares, and the marshmallow is only half its size. So, I always do two marshmallows and six Hershey rectangles.”

  “Basically you want it all. Interesting,” Jonathan said. “I like you.”

  Brandon thought about this as Geneva bit into her s’more, and as they chatted with Sal and Jonathan. While he participated—because he was always polite—her words, “You’re not kidding,” nagged at him. They were innocuous words, if cynical, and they were about marshmallows, for God’s sake. But for some reason, the meaning landed a certain way he couldn’t explain, except that he didn’t like it.

  By the time Brandon walked Geneva back to her golf cart, the moon was high in the sky.

  “I didn’t mean for us to overstay our welcome,” Geneva said, climbing in. The main house’s front porch lights were illuminated over his shoulder. She set her messenger bag on the empty seat next to her. “I can’t believe it’s midnight.”

  “I don’t think they minded at all,” he said, then laid a hand on his belly; it ached. “They kept going back to the kitchen for more, and you know I can’t ever say no to food. My mother would’ve killed me.”

  Sal and Jon had been masters of the outdoor kitchen. After their s’mores, they’d worked backward in the dinner party routine, grilling corn and brats. The last course was mango salsa with chips. All the while, each one of them told stories that seemed to have no start or end.

  As if reading his mind, Geneva said, “God, it’s been so long since I just sat there and shot the breeze.”

  “Same. I’m caught up most days.”

  “Same.” She returned his smile. “But I had fun. Thanks for a business meeting turned food fest. It’s definitely time for bed. You must be exhausted, Mr. Early Bird.”

  “Not really. I think I’ve got a little bit of a sugar high.”

  “Me too. Chocolate is truly my weakness.” She giggled. It was so sweet; Brandon wondered how he could fit in another s’mores activity. “When I get back, I think I’m going to make myself a cup of tea and work on some of the designs, sketch a little. I leave in eleven days.”

  “Eleven?”

  She looked at her watch. “Yep, it’s now day four.”

  Day four. Was it already day four?

  Then Brandon admonished himself for caring about this fact.

  Then again, of course he woul
d care, seeing that he needed to get his work lined up with hers.

  As he mediated between the angel and the devil on his shoulders, she started the golf cart. She pressed a button, and the headlights turned on, dim against the shrub in front of her. The right-side headlight flickered.

  Brandon peered down the pitch-dark driveway and then at Geneva in the rinky-dink golf cart that didn’t even have a seat belt. What was it, a ten-, fifteen-minute ride to Ligaya?

  “I should drive you home. Gil has the minivan parked in the back.”

  “I didn’t think anything but resort vehicles were allowed on property?”

  “If you saw how much effort it took to wrangle two kids into a car seat, you’d make a special exception. He brought the girls to art, and I guess they have something in the morning. But anyway, I can grab the keys from Gil real quick. He’s probably up.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “Of course you are. You always are. But this place is a whole different animal at night. Most of our street and building lights are off with the lack of clients. I would just feel better if—”

  “Bran, I can maneuver myself through this resort with one light bulb. I—”

  Then, as if the world, for once, had decided to side with Brandon, both headlights went out.

  From below, Geneva heaved a breath. “Ugh.” She was biting her bottom lip.

  Now this, this expression, he hadn’t seen before. This biting-the-lip thing was new, and it riled up something inside of him. It lit him up like the fireflies that inhabited the Outer Banks at night.

  It was adorable.

  Stop it.

  “I guess I can get a ride from you.” Her tone seemed remorseful. “But I don’t want to wake Gil and the girls.”

  “I’ll take you in my golf cart, then.”

  “Fine.”

  He snorted. “Jeez. You’re welcome.” He gestured her to his golf cart. Also known as the only one in the row, he had realized earlier that day, that wasn’t personalized. His was the standard white with gray seats, whereas each of his siblings’ was personalized. Beatrice’s looked like a mini-jeepney, Filipino style, with bling and lights and flags.