It Takes Heart Page 4

  She gingerly climbed down the loft ladder as the hammering continued.

  There wasn’t supposed to be anyone around her tiny beach house. The houses to the left and right of her, all west facing and located where the top of the heart met, were in bad shape from the tropical storm, with this one miraculously spared. Now, granted, it was indeed tiny and minuscule, and challenging even for a minimalist such as herself. At a total of three hundred square feet, the loft adding another hundred square feet, it was just small enough that a couple would have no choice but to work out their issues. And the current design—two wing chairs instead of a love seat, wooden kitchen chairs instead of padded ones, zero counter space in the kitchen, so only one could prep coffee at a time—wasn’t conducive to couplehood.

  In the lead-up to her arrival, she’d ordered initial pieces of furniture to be sent to the resort. But furniture was simply the foundation. The theme, her inspiration for Heart Resort, still remained elusive. This was why she’d asked to stay in one of the beach houses rather than at the Puso home; it was to understand the vibe. After all, the best design took into play how bodies moved in spaces. After fire and life requirements—nonnegotiables—it was then about flow, vibe, energy, and other intangibles.

  As she pulled a sweatshirt over her head—she couldn’t find her bra for the life of her—she was struck by a thought.

  She spun around for her pen and notebook to write it down. Ideas like these flitted in and out of her head throughout the day, and she would soon forget it if she didn’t record it somewhere prominent.

  She spotted the corner of her brown leather journal cover under some papers that she had unloaded from her messenger bag when she’d arrived the other day. She fished it out, the leather smooth and cool against her fingers. It was worn, slightly wrinkled from years of travel, mostly with her dad, its original owner. She flipped it open, where two slim notebook inserts were nestled into the front and back flaps; one insert acted as her brainstorm notebook and sketchbook for this Heart Resort project, and the other insert was old, its pages delicate.

  Out of instinct, she flipped the pages of the old insert first, three-quarters of the way through, to a list, each item preceded with a box. Some items had been checked off, others not.

  Another clang sounded, shaking her from her thoughts. She flipped to the first page in the Heart Resort insert, above her small rough sketch of the resort, and wrote: It takes two.

  Geneva stuck her feet into flip-flops and opened the wooden door to the screen door, grabbing the binoculars hanging on the wall. Stepping out onto the narrow front porch, just large enough that one round table and a chair fit next to the door, she raised the binoculars to her face and was bowled over by a sight.

  It was a man. A shirtless man. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled down so it created a shadow, and his golden-brown skin shimmered with sweat.

  Okay, Geneva hadn’t been in a convent; she’d seen her share of shirtless men. But she’d been told this part of the resort would be empty. That there weren’t guests around. Especially shirtless guests who’d have the thought to shake one of the wooden pilings of a tiny house on its last legs like they had a beef with it. Furthermore, the man was by himself and was not wearing the requisite hard hat. And when he turned his back . . .

  Geneva gasped.

  The right side of the man’s back bore a tattoo. The way it wiggled on his scapula was familiar, and in that instant, Geneva’s memory dragged her back, four years ago, to a tattoo parlor on U Street in Washington, DC, during a whirlwind three-week romance.

  On instinct, Geneva touched the base of her neck, where a matching tattoo resided.

  She lowered the binoculars.

  It can’t be.

  She took another step so she was flush against the porch railing and lifted the binoculars once more. Her view magnified the tattoo of two black-eyed Susans entwined at the stem.

  No way. No freaking way.

  Geneva had known it was a risk that Brandon would be at the resort, but with Beatrice confirming that he had been keeping to himself—her assessment had been that the risk was low. Low to almost minuscule.

  She also had this tool called social media, and Brandon’s real estate business had just posted a photo of a home in Maryland that they’d purchased to flip.

  From inside, Nita’s voice was laced with panic. “Geneva! What’s going on? Do I need to call for backup?”

  At that moment, Brandon turned in her direction.

  Geneva backpedaled and ducked into the house, stumbling over her feet. She pressed her hand against her heart. It pulsed like a hummingbird’s.

  Brandon’s here.

  Which meant that she couldn’t be.

  “Geneva! I’m going to call 911!”

  “No! No need,” Geneva whisper-yelled, making her way back up the ladder. Luna paced the loft like a guardian, eyes on the front door.

  Could Brandon hear her in this tiny house?

  Sweat had blossomed on her forehead from the humidity, the climb up to the loft, and the past that had landed squarely on her doorstep.

  She didn’t need a backup but an exit.

  Geneva wasn’t good with the past. The past memorialized her mistakes and her worst, most impulsive decisions. Geneva wanted to be a woman who moved forward, onward to the next challenge, to the next experience.

  But it didn’t mean that the past didn’t come back to poke her every once in a while.

  Geneva sipped the cold iced tea and licked her lips, a reprieve from her thoughts and from a day that had gotten hotter and more humid. Though she was under a pop-up lunch tent temporarily erected and staffed by the resort’s chef for those working on the resort, it was still torturous. Nothing could outrun the thick fog of humidity of the Outer Banks.

  Though she couldn’t beat the restaurant’s location. From where she was sitting, she had a perfect view of the Roanoke Sound’s waves as they rolled and crashed on the rocks. Earlier, after seeing Brandon, she’d stuck her feet in the water, and it had instantly eased her worries. After this conversation with Beatrice, she would need waist-high water therapy.

  “Hey!” Beatrice came around the corner, black hair in a high ponytail. She wore a maxi dress with a geometric pattern, and large sunglasses concealed half her face. The other half was her bright smile, so much like Brandon’s that it caught Geneva off guard.

  She jumped off her seat and hugged Beatrice. “I love what you’re wearing.”

  “Thank you. Beachy,” she said in a singsong voice and struck a pose.

  Beachy was Beatrice’s subscription fashion-box side hustle. There was always a side hustle with Beatrice. She had been the girl who’d sold full-size candy bars in high school, all tucked into her JanSport backpack. She’d made a killing for herself and donated the rest to the school lunch fund.

  “Impressed,” Geneva mused. Beatrice’s endeavors, at first glance, had always seemed out of reach but in the end materialized into something concrete and fulfilling. Her commitment and process were worth studying, especially as an entrepreneur.

  “I should say this about you, calling for a meeting. I thought we agreed that you take at least a day off. And you even ordered me a drink. Thank you.” With both hands, she reached out to Geneva’s arm as she sat in front of her iced tea. “But, before you begin. Guess what?”

  “Spill it.” She’d had enough of a shock this morning.

  “Beachy hit our five-hundred-subscriber mark.”

  “Holy crap. Congrats! When are you not doing something amazing?” Geneva raised a hand for a high five. When they slapped their palms together, they kept their fingers intertwined, as was their way. She couldn’t have been prouder if Beatrice had been her blood sister. A part of her wished that she could have been there to witness it all along, to be by her side as she grew Beachy from one customer to ten, to one hundred. They’d kept in touch as best they could, but this was the first time they would be together for more than a day or two.

  Her tu
mmy churned with guilt. Beatrice was the last person she wanted to disappoint.

  Geneva took that back—the second to last.

  “Thank you. But you’re the one who’s amazing, coming out here to help us,” Beatrice said. “Anyway, what’s up with you? Your text sounded very businesslike.”

  “I have something to tell you.” Geneva bolstered herself.

  “Oh?” Her eyebrows plummeted. “Is there something wrong? Oh goodness, I had a feeling last night that I couldn’t shake. Then I had this weird dream that the resort hosted a wedding during a hurricane, and I was trying to get the officiator to speed it up. Ugh, I think the stress of everything is catching up to me.” She shook her head.

  Geneva scoured her mind on what to say. This was already proving to be harder than she’d thought.

  When Brandon had finally left the neighboring house that morning after spending an hour examining, hammering, snapping pictures, and taking notes on his phone—she couldn’t help looking because he’d made such a commotion out there!—her decision was solidified. She had to chat with Beatrice. She would tell her that she needed to leave; she would use another client as the reason and make up one if needed.

  Geneva and Brandon hadn’t had a playful, light affair. It had been hot and emotional, and hindsight was a devil in pointing out that they should’ve never thought that they could have walked away without some kind of consequence.

  Splitting from Brandon, though a mutual decision, had changed her irrevocably.

  Beatrice’s worried expression, however, took Geneva off her game. Geneva wouldn’t be able to give a legitimate excuse, and with a straight face, when she’d bragged about her flexibility—and then proved it by arriving well before she was expected.

  And then where would she go to pass the time before her next job?

  Tennessee?

  She pushed the idea away.

  Bottom line, Beatrice was Geneva’s ride-or-die, though they hadn’t lived on the same coast for years. Their text messages had been the kind that ran like marathons. They knew everything about each other.

  Correction: Beatrice knew everything about her but her relationship with Brandon, which was a pure miracle, with how Beatrice could sniff out trouble and lies.

  Which meant Geneva had to be careful. She couldn’t be rash. She couldn’t upset her.

  “Um, actually . . .” Geneva reconfigured her plan; she couldn’t bail. If Brandon was just around for a couple of days, Geneva could technically hide out until then; she could find reasons to spend time in Nags Head, in Duck, perhaps to shop for decor. Worst-case scenario, she could find ways to sidestep his moves. So long as she didn’t see him again or, worse, speak to him for any long periods of time, she could handle it.

  That hour spying on—er, looking at—him through her windows had been enough to rile up too many NC-17 memories.

  With a sliver of confidence, Geneva sat a little straighter. “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to chat, about timelines.”

  After taking a long pull of her drink and pausing to swallow, Beatrice sighed. “Oh, okay. Whew. Yes, speaking of. We had a meeting yesterday about timelines . . . which didn’t go so well because guess what?”

  “What?” All Geneva’s insides winced.

  “Brandon’s here! He’s taking lead on all the construction project management, which we really needed. Gil had no idea what was up versus down, to be honest. We’re now in the process of reallocating duties, and thank God. The stress dreams are probably because I’ve been dealing with both the HR and the customer side of the house.” She took off her shades and set them on the table. Ruffling her bangs, she blew air up into them.

  “Oh, wow,” was all Geneva could say.

  “Yeah, right? Anyway, Kuya Chris and Bran have to hash out the details still, but let’s just say that the tension is thick. Those two are like oil and water. The dynamics of yesterday’s meeting was exactly how it was when we were kids except we’re taller, everyone’s wearing more expensive clothes, and we all have much better haircuts.”

  Geneva threw her head back in laughter as the memories of the Puso family cycled through her head. She and Beatrice had spent equal amounts of time in each of their families’ homes, but the Pusos had been infinitely more lively. They had been chaotic and loud, while hers was intimate, quiet, and calm. They’d both sought the opposites, and Geneva had found a little bit of solace in disappearing into the fabric of Beatrice’s rambunctious family. Being the only child had had its perks, but having the sole attention of her parents had, at times, been overwhelming.

  “How is Brandon?” Geneva slid into the question, curiosity gnawing at her. She brought her drink to her lips.

  “Fine, fine, as usual. It’s going to take time, but the mere fact that Bran came on his own—”

  Geneva coughed. “So it was a surprise? You didn’t call him?”

  “I mean, I did. Of course I did. He and I spoke and texted almost every day. But no, he didn’t let anyone know he was coming down, and especially to stay for a while.”

  “Chris must have been . . .”

  “He was.” Beatrice took another sip of her drink, then winced. “Personalities, am I right? Listen, I don’t know how I would have survived my family without you to even things out. You always had your eye on some prize. You were always trailblazing and kept me on the narrow path and not down the wide road of my family drama.”

  Geneva tore her eyes away from her friend’s face and bit her bottom lip. Trailblazing also meant day-to-day effort, and at the moment, all she felt was tired. But wasn’t this exactly what she wanted? Work and acknowledgment for it? “You’re selling yourself short, Bea. You kept me going too. You are so good at looking at the big picture, in everything. Except you’re a lot more type B.”

  “That’s why we make such a great team, especially at a time like this, when it’s going to take a whole lot of different kinds of people to open up this place.” Beatrice perked up. “Anyway, that’s all to say that you’ll be working directly with Bran. He’s got a great head for design, too, but don’t let him boss you around. You were here first.”

  Geneva pressed her lips together and willed a neutral expression. “How long is he staying?”

  “For as long as we need him, through the grand opening at least.”

  Geneva stilled. Brandon was planning to be around the entire two weeks of her stay. There would be no way to hide. “That’s . . . great!”

  “Yep, and thinking now, he might have been on your side of the resort sometime this morning! God, with everything going on, I completely forgot to warn you. I know you’re a night owl.”

  Geneva wiggled out a smile. “I . . . must have slept through it.”

  “Or maybe he was on the northern side? Anyway, you remember Bran. He’s an early bird and can’t sit still. He was up before the sun rose, knocking on my door, asking where the good coffee was.”

  A memory flashed of her waking to Brandon, a cup of coffee for her in his hand. Chipper, he had already completed most of his admin tasks of the day with his 5:00 a.m. wake-up, ready to take on work outdoors. Her cheeks warmed. “You Pusos are all alike.”

  “I guess we are.” Her eyes rounded in concern. “Are you okay? I’m sorry. I’ve just been babbling. You asked me here. Oh, wait.” Beatrice’s hand shot up, her gaze now over Geneva’s shoulder. “How long has it been since you were back in Maryland?”

  “Years . . .” Geneva turned toward where Beatrice was looking—at a couple of Heart Resort employees in their uniforms.

  Then they stepped off to the side like a curtain being parted, unveiling Brandon Puso, in a white T and long cargo shorts. His gorgeous face was split into a smile, eyes lit at the sight of his sister.

  It was contagious, his smile. The tiredness she felt? It was swept away with it like a gust of wind.

  But when Brandon registered Geneva’s presence, his jaw seemed to drop in slow motion.

  “It’s my brother.” Beatrice waved. “Brandon! Look
who’s here!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Brandon tripped over his own feet as his sister leapt from her chair.

  “Now it’s my turn to surprise you.” Beatrice wrapped her hands around his bicep and pulled him toward the round table. She was laughing, enthused.

  But Brandon, simultaneously exhausted from a fitful sleep and amped from laborious work that morning, could not grapple with what was before him. He was seeing a ghost. Or, rather, he was seeing the living, breathing apparition of the woman who had all but ghosted him.

  He shut his eyes for a beat to clear his vision, but when he opened them and refocused, she was still there.

  “Geneva,” he breathed out.

  The Geneva Harris he’d fallen for four years ago after a stunning three weeks together. The same Geneva Harris who, after an argument, had left him to wake alone the next morning with her side of the bed all tucked back into place as if she’d never been there. Like she had been a vivid dream.

  The memory yanked Brandon’s heart out of his chest, leaving a cavernous space. He’d had a myriad of feelings over the years after their breakup: loss, anger, sadness. Now, all he felt was nothing—was this shock? No, shock was the brick wall he couldn’t get around when his parents died. This felt like . . . emptiness.

  He was dumbfounded even as he got close enough to reacquaint himself with the details of her face: her high cheekbones, which even without makeup carried a muted shade of pink; the one tiny mole next to her nose; and what he now knew was a forced smile because it was this exact same smile she had placated him with the night before she had taken off.

  “Hi,” Geneva said.

  Beatrice dragged him down to sit in the chair across from Geneva, then took the third seat at the table. “You remember Geneva, right?”

  The cue threw him off his running thoughts. Time had passed. They were not in Las Vegas but in Heart Resort. His family didn’t know about them. “Oh yeah. Hey. Sorry, I’m just a little . . .” He stuck a hand out.

  What looked like relief played across Geneva’s features. She shook his hand. “It’s okay. It’s the ocean air. Nice to see you again.”