It Takes Heart Page 8

  “I’ve got to go. I was just on a quick break, but I have furniture to pick up,” she said. “You free tonight? To get together and talk about plans? I know I suggested we would only communicate via text or email, but things . . . changed.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  Her face lit. “It was at first, but I have a solution. So does tonight sound okay? Twelve days and all.” She gave him a pensive smile.

  “Right. Twelve days.” In true Geneva fashion, she’d refocused the conversation. There were only twelve days for them to finish up this project. Geneva was being a professional, and he . . . he needed to step up. If she could let the past go, for now, he could too. “Yeah, I’m free.”

  “I should be back from Nags Head about seven. But I’ll text to keep you posted.”

  “All right. See you . . . later.”

  With a final smile, she turned and dragged the kayak behind her. She wrangled it like it was a body pillow, with what he knew was her stubbornness, her strength, and her ambition.

  Brandon watched Geneva go, soft curves against horizon, until she became an outline. Her shadow climbed the stairs to her beach house, where he imagined she began undressing, piece by piece, before stepping into the shower.

  A wave lapped onto his feet, waking his runaway thoughts.

  Then, with one last look at her screen door as it slapped closed, he high-kneed into the water to cool himself down.

  Brandon stepped out of the bathroom, finally clean of sand and dirt from the day’s work, and was greeted by the cool AC of his bedroom.

  Correction—not his bedroom but the guest room, which was sparse but pleasing. From the white cotton sheets to the textured beige walls to the hand-painted dresser and the french doors that led outside to a porch with rattan furniture—their mother’s favorite—the decor was thoughtfully arranged.

  The room, however, was a reminder that he wasn’t home. He had nothing to ground him. His clothing was still in his duffel bag next to a growing pile of dirty laundry he had yet to wash because that meant going into one of his siblings’ apartments. And without a single framed photo—he didn’t belong. Except for three shells he’d found that day, set in a line on the desk, it was a far cry from the family home, where every piece of furniture or clothing was a memory that he had a part in.

  Another correction—Heart Resort was now the family home. So what did that make the town house?

  His house? A home simply for storage?

  In all cases, Brandon had no choice but to ride out this parole. Chris’s icy barrier was melting, though Brandon wasn’t sure if he was happy about this. Without that boundary, Brandon was more exposed. By letting in the person who was the biggest critic and cheerleader in his life, he would be encumbered by his expectations.

  His phone sounded while he made his bed, and the screen lit with Geneva’s text.

  Geneva:

  Doing a final load. Should be a little after 7.

  His annoyance at his brother flipped to thrill, but he tamped it down. Talk about boundaries—whatever anger and shock he’d felt yesterday were nowhere to be found. It was as if, as he crossed into the Heart Resort property, he was overwhelmed by everything. It was an introvert’s nightmare of meetings, forced family time, memory lane, and watching his back all at once.

  Bottom line, tonight’s meeting with Geneva was simply a step forward in their work relationship. Nothing more and nothing less. Even if he couldn’t get her—in her swimsuit and standing so close that he could count the freckles on her face—out of his mind.

  He texted back.

  Brandon:

  See you then.

  Brandon opened the french doors and stepped out to the wooden deck and breathed in the warm air. The sun wasn’t yet on the horizon despite it being almost 6:00 p.m. He took in the sounds of birds trilling and leaves rustling to push his lingering thoughts of Geneva away and focused on the rough weave of the outdoor rug beneath his feet.

  He felt the fuzz of fur around his ankles, and he jumped back. “What the hell!”

  A black dog circled his feet.

  “Goodness, it’s just Roxy,” Beatrice said, joining him on the deck.

  “You have a dog?” He bent down and offered the dog his hand; it had initially retreated but trotted around the corner of a chair leg, its fur shimmering. “Hey, Roxy, come here.”

  “We have a dog, yes.” She sat on the cushioned chair and without fanfare picked up Roxy and set her on her lap. “A dog, a stray cat, and the same cardinal-and-blue-jay pair that seem to travel together. They like to hover around over there.” She pointed to a bird feeder, so far away that Brandon had to squint. “You should have binoculars next to the french doors.”

  With the binoculars—that’s what I used. Not that I was snooping or anything.

  Brandon focused on the horizon. If he did, it would help him stop thinking of Geneva. “You and your binoculars, Ate Bea.”

  “You know I like to know what’s up ahead,” she said, running a hand down Roxy’s back.

  “Another word for that would be nosy.” He grinned.

  “It’s to ease curiosity! And I don’t know. I tend to think that messages are sometimes a little beyond what we can see. Binoculars help.”

  He nodded. To him, Beatrice was otherworldly. She always had a reason for her actions, and sometimes the reasons weren’t so clear from the get-go. She acted on intuition that disguised itself in outbursts of fuzzy motivation. To others, his sister might be perceived as emotional and irrational, but Brandon had witnessed it himself—that frisson of excitement that would arise from nothing and then a jolt of action. In the end, they would realize that it was for some important reason.

  Brandon moved to the railing and wrapped a bicep around one of the posts. His eyes caught on the heart carved into it. Sure enough, upon inspection of the other posts, there were hearts carved into every one.

  “Did you just notice?” Beatrice asked with a wry smile.

  “Yeah, I did. He spared no expense in the details.”

  “Kuya Chris wanted our name and brand everywhere. Not only is this our business, but this is also our home.”

  Brandon felt a pang in his heart. If Heart Resort was home and he wasn’t here, then what, exactly, was he? He decided to test the waters—was his sister open to letting go? “Is our town house home too?”

  “Of course it is. That’s a silly question.” She peered at him.

  “There aren’t any hearts carved on the porch.”

  “But it has Mom and Dad’s things. It has all their stuff.”

  Brandon shook his head, wishing she’d said something else, something to realign his topsy-turvy thoughts on how to manage a home he both loved and needed to get away from.

  He couldn’t bring up the possible offer now.

  His gaze lowered to the flagstone walkway that led from the house to the driveway. Located in the middle of the peninsula, Puso was its heart, amid foliage but built tall so the roof balcony had 365-degree views. The crape myrtle–lined driveway led to three other cottages, some for permanent residents and employees of the resort.

  Under the bright sun, the walkway shimmered with red and gold.

  “Good-luck colors, according to Mom.” Beatrice answered his thoughts.

  “I saw those colors and the logo everywhere on the way here. Billboards, road signs. On every one of those vans. It was on the mug on Kuya’s desk the other day.”

  “I won’t argue that the branding can get a little bit too much, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “But what?” Irritation seeped into his words, prompted by the thought of his brother’s ambitions, his motivation to produce, and the pressure Brandon carried on his shoulders to please him—and ultimately, his inability to do so.

  “Our last name is all we have. There’s only us and the California Pusos that are in our family tree. What most people see as branding is us really making a mark here, and not just for us but for our parents. After all, it’s w
hy they immigrated, right? They’d wanted us to blaze our own trail. And what more than our name?”

  Brandon never knew what to say to lectures such as this. What could compare to the dreams and sacrifices of his parents? It was true—he’d been raised with this idea that he should accomplish more than his parents ever had. That he would help take their family name and rise above, honorably.

  But Chris assumed this effort single-handedly, and sometimes, his martyrdom was tiring. His attempt at parenting was also old hat—because Brandon, at thirty-two, didn’t need a father. He needed support, advice, and friendship. He needed someone who didn’t constantly remind him of the things he’d done wrong.

  Brandon did this enough for himself.

  You knew the plan. You and I made the plan.

  The moment at the yoga studio had replayed itself over and over in his head, and each time, it reminded him of what had happened between him and Geneva, of the snippets of conversations he remembered in full clarity, of what they’d wanted in life. Geneva was like Chris—she was ambitious. Her goalposts moved, and she’d written down what she wanted in her life; she carried them in that leather Traveler’s notebook. Four years ago, that list hadn’t included him.

  “You’re right. And who am I to stand between our name and greatness,” he said, with disdain.

  “Don’t be like this, Bran. We’re already great, but don’t tell me you don’t want to make a mark for yourself. It’s just that you have a different idea of what that is.”

  Beatrice’s blunt accusation assuaged the argument brewing in his belly; his sister was used to dealing with his complaints.

  “Why are you here? Was it to give me a hard time?”

  She grinned. “It’s my privilege to do so, yes. But right this second? It’s to let you know that dinner’s starting in, oh”—she twisted the watch on her right hand—“now, actually. At Kuya Chris and Ate Eden’s. Which I think is right on time because by the sound of it, someone’s hangry.”

  Brandon allowed the tension to pass; it wasn’t his sister who he had a beef with. “Hangry and dark. Look at this.” He lifted the sleeve of his shirt, showing the shameful mark of delineation between his DC-area light-brown skin and the dark brown of three days in the Outer Banks.

  “Ew!” she said. “That’s awful.”

  He snorted a laugh. “Anything else? Any other orders? You could have just texted me to come down.”

  “Yeah, actually.” She thumbed her phone and handed it to him. “This is the Instagram account for the resort.”

  Brandon spied the picture of the yoga studio with the bright sky behind it and an outline of two figures, the shadows of their hands blending into one another.

  The figures were him and Geneva.

  “Tammy took it, obviously. If you look at the pictures before it, it’s of the Hinga construction. Did you read the caption?” Brandon said. “‘Soon, soon, lovebirds! Imagine yourself on our man-made beach, surrounded by the calm waters of the sound.’”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  The need to quell Beatrice’s suspicions superseded the alarm that was blaring in his ears. Because the picture was . . . nice. He waved the photo away. “Kuya Chris wanted in-progress pictures.”

  “Okay, but—”

  To veer the conversation to the logical, Brandon said, “We probably have to set some rules, though. Geneva’s not huge on social media.”

  “How do you know that?” She peered at him.

  “She told me.” While we were talking about our affair.

  “It’s exactly what I thought when I saw this, honestly.”

  “Oh, that’s all?” His chest sagged with relief.

  “Yes. I don’t want her to feel pressured to do more than she needs to. She’s helping us pro bono. I’ll bring it up with Kuya.” Seemingly satisfied, Beatrice picked up Roxy and stepped into the guest room.

  But before they crossed the threshold, she said, “Kuya Chris is very much like a cat. Unlike this cutie, who will throw herself at you.” She rubbed the top of Roxy’s head. “Our brother doesn’t do well with surprises; you know that. And, he doesn’t want to admit that he’s not on top at the moment. Tropical Storm Maximus humbled him.” Beatrice’s lips quirked into a smile. “If only it wasn’t a storm that took out part of the resort, I would actually laugh at that. He needed it, the humility. But the bottom line is that he’s happy you’re home. So hang in there. You’ll be out of this room soon enough. I know that it’s bothering you.”

  Brandon halted at the doorway. “How do you know that?”

  “Oh, Bran, I’ve known you since you were born. And besides, whether or not you know it, or whether or not you say it, your emotions are so on your sleeve, even if it’s marked with an embarrassing farmer’s tan. It just takes the right person to pay attention.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Geneva hissed as she pulled her hand out from under the table leg. It had caught her pinkie finger in a moment’s inattention, when her Apple Watch had buzzed with a text from Brandon.

  “Ms. Geneva, are you okay?” Rhiannon’s high voice echoed from the other side of the resort storage warehouse.

  “Yes. Just . . . nothing . . . ,” she said, face burning, though it was anything but nothing. She had been unfocused all day; she couldn’t get the image of Brandon’s shirtless torso and low-slung cargo shorts out of her head. And that despite her best efforts to paddle away from him, as she’d done four years ago, fate, this time in the form of waves and wind, had led her kayak straight to him.

  Beyond that was her anticipation of seeing him tonight.

  Rhiannon came around the dresser Geneva was standing next to, with Sal at her side. By means of sheer proximity the two had become Geneva’s helpers. Yesterday and today, they’d assisted her in loading and unloading the smaller pieces of furnishings into the warehouse, with the larger pieces being delivered by Mr. Barnes.

  “That’s it. The van’s empty,” Rhiannon said. “I also called up to Mr. Barnes like you told me, to let him know that we’ll be back up there in the morning. He said he put aside the pine tables so no one would take them.” She crossed her arms and lowered her voice. “Though don’t say I said so, but I don’t think anyone was really going to take them.”

  “Thanks, to both of you,” Geneva said to the sweating individuals in front of her. The warehouse had high ceilings, and the space itself was expansive, but to say it was claustrophobic from the humidity was being nice. “You guys didn’t bargain for this kind of work.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Sal said, still very formal despite his dusty shirt. “I am very curious as to how all of this will work out.”

  “To be honest? Me too.” She led the way out of the warehouse, and Sal locked up behind her. “I’ve got measurements but only have walked into a few of the homes, though I’ve got a good sense of what needs to be placed where. Not to mention, I still need approval from the big boss.” She winked. “Beatrice gave me the okay, but Chris could very well not like it. We’ll find out tonight—I might be able to catch him.”

  “That’s why you asked about returns,” Rhiannon said. “That was smart.”

  “This isn’t my first time dealing with particular clients, though I’ll feel bad if I have to send all this back. There’s also the lost-time component. But I’m putting my bet on Chris seeing it my way.” She turned and caught Rhiannon’s eye. “Sometimes you have to make a decision on the fly knowing that you’re taking a risk and possibly making a mistake. But that’s okay, because most mistakes can be remedied.”

  Her own words pierced at her.

  Was there a way to come back from mistakes? And if so, was there a statute of limitations?

  The click of the van doors snapped Geneva out of her thoughts, thank goodness, and she climbed into the passenger seat. Rhiannon jumped into the back.

  After Sal buckled in, he said, “Where to?”

  Geneva pulled down the visor, and sure enough, dirt marred her right cheek and forehead. She ru
bbed it, thinking of her schedule tonight. She had her meeting with Brandon, but before then she had a list of admin tasks on her to-do list: Following up with Nita about Helena’s B and B. Getting together the accounting for the items she’d purchased. Coordinating outreach to past clients for referrals.

  But seeing Rhiannon in the mirror, who was staring out the window, looking just about as haggard as Geneva felt, with her wispy hair askew and cheeks red, her heart squeezed. Rhiannon reminded Geneva of herself at that age, eager to please, willing to get dirty to learn something new. At that age, Geneva also hadn’t known of the ups and downs she would experience, and if she had a chance now to say something to her younger self, it would be to take the moment to chill out and enjoy the ride. “My place . . . for some dessert. Will the both of you join me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Ms. Harris,” Sal said.

  “C’mon, Sal. We’ve been working all afternoon, and you’ll keep me company.” She pressed her hands together in a prayer pose. “It’s really yummy.”

  Rhiannon’s face lit up. “Oh, Mr. Medina. It’s dessert.”

  Geneva watched Sal’s face change from hesitance to acceptance, his wrinkles accommodating a small smile.

  “Great, it’s settled.” She clapped.

  It took five minutes and a quarter of a mile to get to Ligaya, where they parked the van behind the house. They were greeted by a lively surf, and in an instant, Geneva’s tiredness lifted. While kayaking earlier today, she’d been enamored of the expanse of the sound. She hadn’t lied when she’d told Brandon that she was out of practice kayaking, but her drifting wasn’t due to the waves but rather to her joy in allowing the water to take her where it wished.

  To not have to steer, even for just a moment, was freedom.

  As Geneva unlocked her door with the two behind her, she realized that unlike at her previous apartments, where she could fit a handful of friends comfortably, there wasn’t ample seating inside.

  “Why don’t you guys wait out here? I’ll come out with blankets.”

  She entered Ligaya, chilled from the AC. Luna greeted her with a meow, comfortable on top of the small refrigerator in the kitchen. It was as if she read her mind. “Hi, baby girl.”