Page 97

I found out about it because of something I’m working on that I’m not at liberty to discuss.
Ethan:
I’d like to fly back out so we could talk about this in person.
Ethan:
I truly want to make amends.
Ethan:
Fal, baby. Please. Give me a chance to explain.
As quickly as I’m sending texts, I don’t realize each and every message is coming back one at a time with an angry “Not Delivered” notification. My hands shake when I realize the implications immediately. “She blocked me.”
Furious as Fallon was with me six months ago for not sharing with my family she and I had a friendship that existed outside the confines of our family parameters, she still never blocked me when she refused to talk to me for those two weeks. For her to have done so now tells me she doesn’t want to listen to any apologies. She wants me out of her life.
Right now, I can’t say I blame her.
“If I’d just let her speak, maybe this mess could have been avoided.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
SEVEN VIRTUES, NORTH CAROLINA
Per the Mayo Clinic, broken heart syndrome is a heart condition often brought on by stressful situations and extreme emotions. It is usually temporary.
Usually.
—The Fireside Psychologist
I’m desperately trying to keep my mother tethered to this world. I’ll do anything, say anything, to prolong a life that’s being cut far too short, but there’s one thing I know: the love flowing between us will last forever. I lay my head next to her hand and by a miracle, she manages to weakly thread her fingers through the crown of my hair. The memory of how she’d do something just like this when I was a little girl prompts me to ask a question I used to ask when I did anything to beat back the time to go to sleep.
Now, I’m trying to keep her talking as long as possible. “Mama, tell me again about Papa.”
There’s a weak cough. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Paige reaching for the cup of water to offer Mama a sip. She rasps, “Thank you.”
Paige murmurs a response and then slips back into the shadows. Mama continues to stroke my hair. “My Herb.”
I pull up a mental image of my father. Tall, dark, with piercing blue eyes like mine, my memories of Herbert Brookes are little more than a man in pictures. But he was very real to my mother. “I’ll never forget the first time I saw him.”
“Which was when, Helen?” Paige asks.
I twist my head, uncaring if my hair becomes a nest of knots. I want to see my mother’s smug little smile one last time when she admits, “When I”—her coughing interrupts her—“saw him at a bar. He was playing the guitar on stage. Snuck…” Another cough. “In to see him. Underage.”
I can’t prevent the giggle that escapes at the shock on Paige’s face as her eyes bounce between the two of us—likely comparing our enjoyment of older men. “How much older was he?”
Then, because I can’t help myself, I tease both Austyn’s and my mother. “Mama doesn’t enjoy her men to be as—seasoned—as I enjoy mine, Paige.”
Mama’s dull eyes brighten for a moment at me revealing my truth. Austyn cackles, but Paige doesn’t get it, judging by the confusion written on her face. I ask my mama, “Did he fall for you right away?”
She wets her lips. “He…made fun…of me. Herb…hoped… I had more of a clue than my…twin.”
Austyn gasps in outrage. “What twin?”
“Helen? You have a sister?” Paige is appalled as she glances around the room to not see another family member.
I grin. Since I know this story by heart, I help my mother tell it. “She doesn’t. He was trying to flirt with her.”