It Takes Heart Page 2

  Geneva blew him a kiss. “Do you want me to leave with you and hang out?” She hadn’t been to her parents’ retirement community home in Tennessee in about a month while she managed Harris Interiors, her start-up design and organization business. “We can have some quality time.”

  “No, anak, we’re fine. You stay here and spend time with Beatrice and the rest of them. This was such a wonderful day. It’s the first time you all have been together for a while—you have to celebrate.”

  The double doors opened, and the Pusos entered from their photography session outside, disrupting her train of thought. She watched them crowd her father like puppies to a papa dog vying for attention. “Tita Marilyn and Tito Joe would have been so happy.”

  “I like to think they’re around still.” Lisa smiled. “Okay, I’d better save your father. Unlike me, he is an introvert. Have you read about the Myers-Briggs—”

  “Yes, Mother. I have.” She kissed her mom on the cheek and turned Lisa by the shoulders before the woman dug into her E trait. “I’ll be by your hotel room for breakfast tomorrow.”

  Geneva had turned to the bartender for another bottle of sparkling water when a body sidled up next to her, back against the bar. A little too close for comfort, she’d say, but when she turned, she was faced with Brandon, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Hey, that was fast. Need a refresher?”

  “In more ways than one.” His voice was gruff and low, and her skin tingled. Earlier, when they were sitting together, she’d detected the beginning of flirtation, and at first she’d thought it was just in her head.

  Perhaps not?

  And nothing thrilled her more than trying something different, discovering something new. It was what she loved most about design. It was the shiny, the fix. With Brandon, it was more. She knew his core, which made this both exciting and safe.

  “Is there a way,” she heard herself say with a shaky voice, for with doing something new, there was always a risk, “I can help with that?”

  Brandon stilled. His face tilted ever so slightly toward her, his profile undeniably handsome, full lips with a hint of a smile.

  Yes, Brandon, you heard correctly.

  She sipped her water. While she wasn’t much of a drinker, she kind of wished it was something stronger. She wasn’t sure what she was asking, specifically, but she wanted to get to know this adult version of the boy she’d grown up with.

  “I was thinking of calling for a cab, actually.” He turned around and rested his elbows on the bar. “Everyone’s headed out to an after-party after this, but my knee’s killing me.” He winced and shook his leg out.

  “I’ve got a rental and am more than happy to give you a ride to your hotel. An easy favor, from a bridesmaid to a groomsman.”

  “I’m not at the hotel with everyone else. I’m at an Airbnb. It’s super private—I’ve got the whole house to myself.” His voice dipped almost to a whisper.

  “Oh. How convenient.” It was as if Geneva had looked down after climbing up one more rung in the steep ladder of their banter. She was breathless. “I can . . . tell everyone I’m hanging out with my parents.”

  Now this . . . she was entering recklessness. They both knew what “everyone” meant: his siblings, and most of all Beatrice. This was lying. A small lie, because Geneva was planning to hang out with her parents tomorrow, but a lie nonetheless.

  But Brandon, so close, was temptation. He was a reminder of what had been the good times, of youth, and all the possibilities despite the struggles both their families had endured. She wanted to immerse herself in that comfort, especially now, thrust into the vast world of entrepreneurship.

  She stepped in closer to test their connection. His shirt brushed her, and her entire body sparked. Then the formerly shy Brandon boldly turned so he faced her and, after a smooth examination of their surroundings, kissed her bare shoulder and raised the ante with a smoldering expression.

  Inside she gasped, her decision made. “Let’s get out of here, Bran.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Day 1

  Heart Resort, North Carolina

  Weather: clear skies, 97°F

  Brandon Puso set down his duffel, took off his sunglasses, and hooked them onto his black shirt. He peered up at the large mahogany marker of his last name, nailed above the double doors of the Heart Resort headquarters office.

  Wherever that marker, which had been handmade in the Philippines, had hung in the duration of Joe and Marilyn Puso’s thirty-five-year marriage, that residence had been considered home. Apparently, it was now this elevated three-floor southern colonial beach home, rather than the Annapolis town house Brandon had driven from.

  The marker had been restained, too, from its natural finish to a rich black cherry. A sign of the times.

  He scanned the foyer and the reception area; its interior woodwork and design were at full blast with hand-notched hardwood floors and shiplap walls—this was all different too. The last time he’d been in this house, it had been a shell. It had been a box segmented into dreary basic rooms, and now . . . now the house—at least the first floor—was magnificent.

  The only thing that kept his excitement from overflowing was that it wasn’t he who’d helped build this place. His exile had prevented him from stamping a fingerprint on the final touches of this new Puso home, despite his expertise in building and design.

  Voices from inside the office woke Brandon from his thoughts. Their pitches ranged from a mezzo-soprano to a tenor to an alto, and the cadence and flow of the conversation placed a smile on Brandon’s face. For despite his frayed nerves, the familiarity was a relief. The last couple of years of his self-imposed solitude had placed too much time and space between him and the people on the other side of the door. Complicated relationships or otherwise, what they’d all endured, from Hurricane Dorian in ’19 to, most recently, Tropical Storm Maximus two months ago, had left him with greater perspective.

  With a breath, Brandon reached out to the bronze doorknob, squeezed it, and stepped inside. With what he’d imagined and practiced as a gleaming Crest-white smile, adrenaline rising with anticipation, he dialed up his voice. “You all started the meeting without me. What’d I miss?”

  The conversation halted.

  “Bran?” a voice said, coming from his right side. Chris stood from a chair behind an ornate wooden desk. His hands rested against the desktop, arms locked straight, and a curlicue of smoke trailed from a cigar in his right hand. His brother was smoking now? And something more—he had a trimmed beard and mustache.

  “Surprise!” Brandon wiggled out a hopeful smile despite his slight shock and insecurity and Chris’s incredulous expression. Arms spread apart, he said, “What, no hugs?”

  Silence cloaked the room for an uncomfortable beat, long enough for Brandon to regret that he’d driven three hundred miles without telling anyone in this room of his plans. That he would be subjected to his family’s raw reactions. That, perhaps, he wasn’t welcome after all, despite their insistence that this was his home too.

  Brandon’s tummy dipped just as a woman’s voice cried out, “Oh! My! God!” He turned to the clattering of footsteps on his left as Beatrice, two shades darker and a vision of color in a patterned dress, rushed at him at full speed. Relief invaded his body a second before she launched herself at him. He burst out a laugh while he steadied himself, rocked by her electric five-foot-two frame. “This must be how it feels to get tackled by the color wheel.”

  “I knew it, I knew it! I knew you would come. I told you, all of you!” Then, back on her feet, she promptly pinched Brandon on his left triceps.

  “Yeouch!” Brandon grabbed his arm. “What was that for?” Beatrice and her pinches—he swore the pinch was an inherited weapon from their mother to forever torture him with.

  “For the color wheel comment. And for not telling me you were coming.” Then Beatrice wrapped her arms around his torso. “I haven’t seen you in months.”

  “I came as soon as I could. The storm
did a number on us up north too. The town house roof leaked, so I had to take care of that,” Brandon said, avoiding Chris’s eyes, the town house a sore spot. “And Mrs. Ling’s garden flooded, and I didn’t want to leave until that was taken care of.”

  “Then I guess you’re excused. Anything for our old neighbors.”

  MY neighbors was what Brandon wanted to say, but he refrained.

  “It’s about time we’re all together.” Gilbert muscled his way through. He hooked Brandon around the neck and hugged him. “Hey, Bran.”

  “Hey, Kuya Gil.” He fell into his second brother’s hug, then stepped back, impressed at the change in him. The last time he’d seen Gil was after a quick meetup four months ago, and he had looked worse for wear after his divorce. Now, with a linen button-down and slim-fit shorts, hair combed back versus the disheveled mountain-man look he’d sported back then, he seemed more like himself, every inch the actor and model. Brandon whistled. “You look good.”

  Gil waved the comment away.

  Chris entered their circle, followed by the smell of smoke. His brother wasn’t a man of games, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t complicated to manage. Brandon’s greatest worry had been this interaction.

  His self-exile was from Chris and Heart Resort, not from the rest of his siblings.

  Heart Resort had the reputation of fixing relationships; if clients only knew that the family who ran it had issues that ran deep.

  “Hey, brother.” Chris offered a hand.

  That’s it? Brandon stiffened at this formal greeting. Yes, a hug was rare on his brother’s good days. Chris wasn’t about PDA. But it had been two years since they’d stood in the same room. Wasn’t Brandon’s trip down to the Outer Banks meeting Chris more than halfway?

  Still, Brandon took his hand. He’d imagined this interaction and practiced this first meeting in therapy. He wouldn’t be thrown off course. He gripped Chris’s solid handshake, refusing to let up first. Although they were the same height, Brandon felt the difference in power and stature. Chris was a force; he was intimidating, to say the least. He was eight years Brandon’s senior, forty now, but was as wise and as cold as a vampire.

  “How did you get through the gate?” Chris asked after letting go.

  A wrought iron gate and a bank of trees encircled the main house and three tiny guesthouses, isolating the Puso family and the staff offices in the middle of the private peninsula. “I parked the Rubicon at the reception parking lot. Got a ride in on one of your handy resort golf carts. Sal, your head of security, remembered me from the last time I was here.”

  “Ah.” He shook his head. “Still, he should have let us know. Better late than never, I suppose. You might as well get caught up.”

  Gee, thanks.

  “C’mon. Sit by me.” Beatrice pulled him to the couch, properly yanking him from his thoughts. Ten minutes he had been in this house, and already he was deflecting underhanded comments.

  Once seated, she poured a glass of ice water and pressed it into his hand. “Welcome back to Heart Resort, dear brother. You’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

  Brandon distracted himself by taking in all the details of the office, which, by the looks of it, had become central command. On one wall was a large projector screen; on another was a whiteboard with tasks scrawled in Chris’s distinct left-leaning handwriting. Floor-to-ceiling shelves of books on the third, and on the fourth was a pair of large windows that led to views of a tree-shaded backyard. In the middle of the room was a diorama of the resort in all its glory, dotted by little figurines and houses, ridged with landforms and foliage.

  The most prominent of details: the resort was built on a heart-shaped peninsula on the Roanoke Sound, connected to Highway 12 south of Nags Head by a narrow land bridge.

  It had been this detail that had clinched his brother’s attention when it had come time to purchase the property five years ago; Beatrice had called it serendipitous since the Outer Banks, and especially 12 South, had been their family vacation destination since childhood.

  There were also small personal touches in the room: A Santo Niño statue sat atop a sofa table. Palm-size crucifixes hung over light switches. Chris’s wide-brimmed gardening hat perched on top of his desk, which was littered with papers. All tiny sensibilities that were so reminiscent of their parents’ vibe that, for a moment, Brandon’s heart faltered. If their parents could have seen them, would they have been disappointed at how distant they’d become, or proud that they’d overcome their differences?

  “Are you listening, Bran?”

  Brandon spun his head to the front of the room and met Chris’s eyes. “Um, yep. Tiny houses.”

  His brother sighed. After a beat, his gaze shot up to the whiteboard listing the ten tiny beach houses and two common-area houses and their statuses. “From the six out of the ten beach houses that need to be rebuilt from the storm, three have been completed. The last three modular homes are en route. The four that weren’t affected by the storm are in process of getting an interior facelift so all of our clients will feel like they’re being taken care of. As for the common areas: The yoga studio needs new flooring. The restaurant needs a rehab, according to our chef.” He rolled his eyes. “But that restaurant is the last of our worries, since we have an extra commercial kitchen on the property. And I’m hearing of a storm brewing, on its way to Puerto Rico. Oscar.” He meandered to the windowsill next to the whiteboard and gazed upon his precious pots of thriving orchids. “Bran, we’re gearing up for a grand reopening at the end of the month, and we want to be efficient, no fuss. I’m assuming that you’re home to help us out. Because if you are—”

  It was a call to action. Brandon straightened with renewed purpose. He’d come down to the Outer Banks hoping he could lend a hand, among other things. This he was good at. “I’ll just need to be equipped with all the contacts, contracts, and plans. I’m not licensed for North Carolina, but I can consult, and you know me, I can build, and an extra hand is an extra hand. Whatever you need. But—” He fixed the words in his head before saying them. “Is a grand opening deadline wise? Especially with Oscar?”

  The thought of an upcoming storm shortly after Maximus triggered Brandon’s anxiety, and his heart rate rose. It wasn’t the rain that bothered him but the howling wind, the slap of leaves and branches against his window, and the dark, bleak night. He swallowed his thoughts and pushed through. “I imagine vendors are swamped bringing local business up to speed. Two weeks to get two common areas and three houses—that’s pushing it on a good weather day.”

  “I said the same thing.” Beatrice raised a finger. “But if we thought that way, Bran, then this entire region wouldn’t get back up and running until the wintertime. We have to do our best to open back up.”

  “Exactly,” Chris said. “We didn’t have a summer season. Our cancellations go out to about two weeks, and after that, we only have half of last year’s reservations. And what a great opportunity it will be for the resort to open before everyone else. Especially Willow Tree.”

  “Who’s Willow Tree?” Brandon’s gaze ping-ponged between his siblings.

  Finally, Beatrice, with a flat expression—which only meant she was rolling her eyes on the inside—said, “Willow Tree Inc. is another family-owned business that currently operates an adults-only summer camp in Myrtle Beach.”

  “Though rumor has it that they’re tapping into the couples resort space,” Gil added. “Which in my opinion shouldn’t be a big deal.”

  “I disagree.” The tone in Chris’s voice leaned toward bass. “We earned plaudits from the local community for bringing in more business to the Outer Banks than anyone else, and we’ve got to keep that up. We’ve got to show we belong. We can’t let them down now. Gil, from the maintenance side of the house, do you think two weeks to get everything together is possible?”

  Was Chris even listening? “Hello, I’m right here . . . I kind of know what I’m talking about. All the hard work you do from now until this storm arrive
s could be all wiped out in one fell swoop.” Brandon half laughed and then realized that no one was laughing with him. He clamped his trap.

  “Go on, Gil,” Chris said.

  Gil read his iPad. “We’ve done a lot of solid work the last couple of months. We can feasibly open once we have all the houses done. Yoga can be relocated, and restaurant services can be amended. But we definitely can’t have damaged houses for clients to see. And we’ll need a thorough cleanup of the beach, which should be done in about a week, and then again after Oscar blows through. We can all hope it won’t be anything but rain.”

  “How about client and employee relations, Bea?”

  “Our teams are ready to come back.” She turned to Brandon. “Admittedly it feels like we’re pushing it, Bran, but now that you’re here, I’m convinced everything is going to be fine.”

  Brandon’s cheeks heated at the idea that he could be that valuable. Then he remembered that each Puso sibling acted based on their assigned birth order: Chris as the decision maker, Gil as the mediator, Beatrice as the optimist, and Brandon as . . .

  He thought about it.

  The muscle, the follower, the doer.

  But to truly matter to them, to be with them, to be listened to . . .

  The hope allowed him to rethink the situation. “Did you say that the newly constructed houses will be modular, Kuya Chris?”

  “Yes, they’re custom tiny homes in the last stages of build from a manufacturer in Georgia. They’re quite strong and supposed to withstand the wind. They’ll be transporting the already-built homes and, once they arrive, can install the houses within a day.”

  “In that case, it might be easier than expected.”

  “Ah, finally he agrees.” Chris grinned and ran a palm against his beard. “This might actually work out, so long as we’re on the same page and a certain someone doesn’t go rogue.”