It Takes Heart Read online

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” She climbed into the passenger seat. “Thank you for taking me home.”

  “My pleasure. I know you don’t like help.” He turned on the cart.

  “It’s not that. I don’t want to put anyone out.” She fiddled with the rolled-up sketches on her lap.

  “You’ve never put me out, Gen.” He turned around out of habit and slung his arm behind Geneva, for when he didn’t have a vehicle with a backup camera. As he did so, his skin brushed the back of her clothing.

  His own words caught up to him, and the intimacy within their meaning caused him to pause. They were shrouded in darkness now, and he couldn’t tell what her expression was. He could, however, hear her breaths, and detected the slow rise and fall of her chest.

  An owl hooted in the distance, and it broke the spell. Brandon shifted gears, made a U-turn, and began the descent down the middle of the driveway, where the moonlight hit. Still, it was so dark that he couldn’t see past ten feet in front of him, and he focused on keeping the outline of the road in his mind, especially as the driveway began to curve.

  As they got closer to the end of the driveway, the full night sky came into view.

  It was this big sky that his father had loved. On their vacations, he used to lie out at night, looking straight up into the night sky. He’d said it put life in perspective, to feel so small and to believe that their troubles were actually tiny in comparison to the rest of the world’s.

  Sometimes, his mother used to join him, and under their murmured breaths they would discuss the Philippines and what they’d left behind. They’d giggled and reminisced, and Brandon, despite his want to be out there with them—because being the youngest always seemed to put him on the outs on everything—had kept out of their way. Those moments seemed sacred.

  “So romantic,” Geneva said.

  “What?” He did a double take.

  “Sal and Jonathan. They’re so romantic.”

  “Yeah, they are.” He pressed the brake slowly as they got to the gate, which opened at their arrival after a quick press of his key fob.

  “They seem happy.”

  “They do, like they’ve known each other forever.”

  “How old do you think they are?”

  He glanced briefly at Geneva and mulled the odd question. He was no good at gauging age. If he didn’t have his nieces, he’d think that a five-year-old was ten and vice versa. “I dunno. Midfifties? Sixties maybe?”

  “Do you think they’re your parents’ ages, or mine?”

  “I don’t know.” He tried to picture his mom and dad. They’d been dead seven years.

  Seven years.

  Brandon waited for the sucker punch of pain. But instead of the dread that used to descend upon him when he thought of his parents’ accident, it was awe. Awe at how fast time had flown by and what had happened since. Brandon had been immature and naive at twenty-five. He was just starting to . . . if he was being perfectly honest . . . just figure out how to live on his own.

  He had his parents and then his siblings, who had taken care of him, attended to all his needs. His hand-me-downs consisted of clothing, cars, and lessons passed along through three sets of sibling hands.

  He had been so young. His parents had been so young.

  “Know what’s so funny?” he said, a memory flying in. “Whenever I asked how old my dad was, he’d always say, ‘Thirty, iho. Thirty forever.’” He snorted.

  “Tito Joe’s dad jokes were always on point,” she said.

  “His hair, too, and maybe that’s why I always forgot how old he was. I think he dyed it.”

  “Well, Sal’s and Jonathan’s were undeniably gray. Maybe they’re in their sixties. They’re both physically well, though. They’re lucky about that.” After a pause in which they went over a bumpy part of road, she said, “I miss my parents. They’re in their seventies now. Can you imagine? I mean,” she followed up in a rush, “I’m sorry.”

  Brandon shook his head, used to this kind of conversation with folks. Except he knew that in Geneva’s case, she meant her apology. It didn’t come off as pitying or apologetic because she wasn’t sorry for him. She was sorry, because she had her own loss. “Do you think our parents ever thought we would be riding around in a golf cart in the middle of the night on a private resort?”

  She laughed. “I think both of our parents just hoped we’d dream big and make something of ourselves.”

  “Speak for yourself. That was what everyone thought of me, but not you. Not perfect Geneva. You were the star.”

  “I was the star because I was the only star. And Tito Joe and Tita Marilyn thought so highly of you, Brandon. You brought sunshine into the room. You still do.”

  The last part of the sentence dipped into a whisper that made Brandon swallow a breath. He girded himself against falling into her spell. She was being nice; that was all. So he decided to call her bluff. “My mother always made it seem like each one of us was a favorite. She even used to say, ‘You are my favorite bunso. The last and the greatest.’”

  She laughed. “No, I mean it! You always lit up a room. Everyone felt your presence. I was under a lot of pressure to succeed, because I was the only. Then, of course, after my dad had his stroke . . .” She paused just as Brandon turned onto the little gravel path that would lead to Ligaya. The sound of the wheels over gravel was loud, and Brandon sped up. He wanted them to continue this conversation because Geneva didn’t talk much about Thomas Harris specifically. She always referred to her parents, and most times only to her mom, Lisa.

  The motion sensor light turned on, flooding the area around the cart, when he finally parked.

  She grabbed her things. “Thanks for inviting me over. I’ll call—”

  “Wait a sec.” He reached out and lightly touched her forearm. “You weren’t done.”

  Her lips were pressed into a line. “Yeah, I am.”

  “Geneva, you are never done talking. In fact the moment that you clam up is when I know there’s more to it.”

  She settled back into her seat. “It’s just that when my dad had his stroke, I felt more pressure to be better than what they expected. To be better than I had expected for myself.”

  “The total s’more,” he mused.

  “I guess? I didn’t think of it that way. But on top of all that, seeing them get older . . . it’s a reminder that there’s more to do.” She looked down at her things.

  “I think you’re doing just fine.”

  “Eh.” She returned a weak smile. “Anyway . . . thank you for meeting with me. I’ll send you a linked calendar request, and let’s keep each other abreast via text, especially about design issues.”

  And in a classic Geneva maneuver, she didn’t leave Brandon any room for response. He could only watch her gather her things. She jumped out of the cart without pleasantries.

  He said the first thing that came to his mind. “Hey!”

  She spun around. “Yeah?”

  “I’ll make sure to get your ride fixed!”

  Finally, finally, a sincere smile appeared on her face. A thankful smile. “Okay. Have a good night, Bran.”

  “I will.” Now, especially, because for that one moment, he knew that that smile was because of him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Twelve years ago, December 16

  Paris, France

  Weather: cloudy, 45°F

  Geneva clutched a baguette wrapped in a napkin, and flecks of its crispy crust dotted her black knit gloves. From over the top stuck out a long sausage nestled in the bread.

  “This is the most refined hot dog I have ever seen,” she said, admiring it.

  “Oh, before you take a bite, I want to take a picture,” her dad said, while holding his own baguette. “Here, take mine for the shot.”

  Geneva cocked a hip, holding the two baguettes, while Thomas Harris backed up to encompass the Eiffel Tower behind her and lifted the camera hanging from his neck. It was a massive thing, with a long lens, so t
hat his neck always bore the markings of the camera strap. Sometimes he carried two cameras for work as a freelance photojournalist.

  “Ready?” He counted off, then took a series of shots. His specialty was portraits, which meant Geneva had learned from being his subject in every holiday and family event in her twenty-two years that taking a photo didn’t mean one snap but several from varying angles.

  So she stood still for a beat, then switched positions at his cue. Smiled at his encouragement, then pouted when he instructed. She imagined herself blending into the background of tourists, who were all doing the same thing.

  From behind her dad, her mom arrived, coming from a shop. This was how they traveled: Geneva sketched, Thomas photographed, and Lisa Harris shopped. It was no surprise that she was holding a couple of bags.

  Thomas lowered the camera. “All done!”

  “Thank God.” Geneva bit into her baguette and hustled to her parents’ side, and the three slumped onto an open bench.

  They’d been on their feet all day. Yesterday was Munich, today Paris, tomorrow Calais, and then across the English Channel. A whirlwind, but she couldn’t get enough of it. Each new place filled her up. It didn’t matter where they went—fancy or otherwise—she gobbled up sights and sounds and smells like a vacuum.

  Her parents shared a baguette, and as Lisa ate, Thomas took out his leather Traveler’s notebook from his camera backpack. He’d purchased it a couple of years ago while on a trip to Japan. Three notebooks were nestled inside. Two were for work; he flipped the third open to a list.

  It was their family bucket list.

  With a flourish, he produced a pen and handed it to Geneva. The list was a mixed bag of items they all had come up with. From buy a convertible to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Geneva ran a finger down one page to visit the Eiffel Tower and checked off the box next to it with a satisfying stroke. She looked up at her parents, their cheeks bearing the chill of the cold wind as they grinned at her.

  Checking that box and seeing the looks on their faces took a close second to actually seeing these places.

  “We have something for you,” her mother said. With a brief glance at her husband, she retrieved a meticulously wrapped package from the bag.

  A sigh escaped Geneva’s lips. The wrapper was a deep, metallic ocean blue dotted with the occasional gold, topped by a sheer gold ribbon. Only her parents knew how hard she geeked over wrapping paper, wallpaper, scrapbook paper, and fabric. Anything that brought a sudden pop of color, an emotion.

  She almost didn’t want to open it, but with prompting she did.

  It was a set of notebook inserts similar to what was inside Thomas’s Traveler’s notebook.

  Her father then did the unthinkable. He removed his two work notebooks from the leather cover’s flaps and handed the leather cover to her. With the bucket list notebook inside.

  Geneva’s jaw dropped. “I don’t get it.”

  Her dad urged her to take the leather-bound cover. “Because it’s time for you to fly.”

  “But this is our list.”

  He smiled. “Sure it is. And we’ll keep adding things and keep checking things off as we do them together, but you don’t have to wait for us to get started. You can write down all of your dreams, to your heart’s content.”

  “This feels . . .” Geneva wasn’t sure what she felt, but it was familiar. It had started when she was filling out college applications and visiting colleges. Feeling a rush of independence at going away to college. Tagging along whenever her dad traveled. Knowing that it was only the three of them in their family. Good for the most part, though sometimes overwhelming. “Exciting.”

  “To mark today, let’s write something down. Something silly,” Lisa said. “Something wild.”

  Geneva bit the side of her cheek as she wrote: Live next to the ocean.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Day 4

  Weather: partly cloudy, 92°F

  Hurricane Oscar: Category 1, approaching Dominican Republic

  It was as if Geneva had intuited her mother’s phone call. She awoke the next morning to the shrill of her mother’s ringtone, Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer.”

  “Good morning, Neva,” said Lisa Harris in her singsong voice. Geneva still had only managed to open one eye. From her bright screen, she read that it was a good two hours before her wake-up time.

  “Hi, Mom.” Her voice croaked.

  “Iha, it’s eight a.m. your time, and why aren’t you up? I can hear it in your voice. You’re still under your covers.”

  “I worked late last night.” She raised the covers off her face and brushed the wisps of hair that had flattened themselves across her cheeks. “Okay, I’m over the covers now.” Sort of.

  “Good, good. How are the Puso kids?”

  “Good. Same.”

  “Uh-huh. Helloooo! Good morning! Nice to see you!” Her mother was yelling, which only meant . . .

  “Are you on a walk?”

  “But of course, at Springtown Mall, my usual. But if I call you later, you’ll be too busy to take my call.” Her tone was like the sound’s waves, undulating, with a whole lot more meaning than what was seen or, in this case, heard.

  Geneva didn’t bite. Distraction would be her ally. “Guess who’s here?”

  “Mm?”

  “Brandon.”

  Silence ensued on the other end of the line except for the swish of her mother’s workout pants. Geneva’s mother was a woman of many words. In person, she could talk one’s ear off, and if placed in front of a phone camera or on the phone, she rose to the occasion of the technology, using it as her personal karaoke machine.

  The silence meant that her mother was thinking.

  “How is our dearest Brandon?” she said finally.

  After she and Brandon had broken up, Geneva had had to tell Lisa. She’d had no choice—she’d fallen into a sadness that even she couldn’t outrun. Geneva had retreated to Tennessee for a few weeks, and her mother had nursed her back to emotional health.

  Geneva felt her body relax into her bed. Her eyes were open now, and she stared up at the low ceiling.

  Like most ceilings, Ligaya’s was white, with nothing to visually grasp onto, so instead of muddling with words, she scrapped the roundabout and crashed into the truth head on. “He’s beautiful, and sweet. And just everything.”

  Last night had sealed the deal. Their time together at Sal’s . . . it wasn’t the two men who made the time romantic and nostalgic; it was Brandon. In the way he was so open to it all, from tasting a little bit of each food to the conversations that flowed. Brandon had this soft confidence that she’d missed.

  “And?” Lisa asked.

  “We decided on a truce.”

  “Why do you need a truce if the both of you weren’t at odds?”

  She slung her arm across her face. “Are you getting technical now?”

  “I mean, yes. You’re not his nemesis. You’re not two worlds fighting for resources in order to save your people.”

  “Oh dear. You’re reading sci-fi again.”

  “Yes, but that’s not the point.” She sighed. “Maybe it’s not a truce but a peace. And I think that’s very good, Geneva. Being at peace is important. This makes me so happy.”

  “Okay, fine, a peace. And I’m glad you’re happy, Mom.”

  “Why do you sound irritated? What did I say?”

  “Nothing.” Because in fact, Geneva didn’t know why she was upset and irritated, except that sometimes when she spoke to her mother, the whole weight of the world fell on her shoulders. And while logic told Geneva that her parents had never put pressure on her, not in a way that was tangible, she was, in fact, not at peace. “I’m sorry. It’s . . . I got home late from this planning meeting with Brandon, and then there was this little backyard food extravaganza, and then he drove me home. And it was friendly, and it was also a little weird. It felt like it should have never ended. But then I remember why it did.”

&nbs
p; “And what’s that?”

  “Because of time. His time, my time. It all didn’t add up to our time.”

  “But right now? Is this the right time?”

  “Mom! Where is this conversation even going? I’m not saying at all that either one of us wanted it to be a time.”

  “It’s serendipitous that the both of you are there at the same time. Anyway.” Her mother’s voice dropped, and from there, Geneva picked up a hint that something wasn’t right.

  “Mom? What’s wrong.”

  “I . . . I miss you.”

  Geneva turned to her side, and through the loft window, she caught sight of the beach. She imagined her feet dug into the sand, grains in between her toes, and the warm sun against her shoulders. She breathed out the tension that had built up in her chest. “I miss you too, Mom. How are the both of you?”

  “We’re doing fine, iha. We’re doing so well. But it doesn’t take away that I worry about you.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “I wouldn’t be a mother who loved their child if I didn’t worry. I just wish . . .”

  “Don’t say you wish you didn’t make the decision.”

  It had been years since her parents had moved to Tennessee, but every few months, Geneva would hear the regretful tone in her mother’s voice. “Mom, it was the best decision to sell the house in Annapolis. It got you a better house in Gatlinburg and more reliable care for Dad. More financial flexibility for the both of you. You don’t have to deal with the cold in the wintertime, and you’re with your sisters.”

  It was so logical, what was coming out of her mouth, but she felt the same grief, from a daughter’s point of view. The loss of what had been their normal when her dad had had his stroke and then they’d left their family home. The growing anticipation of watching her parents get older, now in a retirement community. The fear Geneva carried that life was too short, and she had so many things to do, not only for herself but for them, so that they could be proud.

  “But moving here has kept you from coming home.”