The High Tide Club

He stopped talking once or twice. Sat back, sipped his beer, and seemed to be taking measure of her, puzzling something over in his mind. Had he guessed? Did he know?

After the waitress brought their order, Pete dove into his crab cakes, and Brooke picked at her sandwich, tearing off bites and offering them to her drowsy son like a mama bird feeding her chick. She had no appetite, although she would have loved a glass of wine.

Finally, Pete stopped eating. His face was unreadable. “So. Got any news you want to share with me? Your child is three, and that’s about how long it’s been since we last talked.”

“Pete, I’m sorry,” Brooke started.

“He’s the real reason you wouldn’t come to Alaska that Christmas? The reason you quit Skyping and then just quit answering my phone calls and emails altogether?”

The lump in her throat felt like concrete. She nodded, miserable.

“And his father? Anybody I know?”

Brooke felt herself tense. How could Pete look at Henry and not recognize his own DNA? How could he gaze into the boy’s eyes and not see in them a mirror image of his own smoky blue eyes, fringed with lashes so thick and lush they seemed to weigh down his eyelids?

“Are you married?” Pete asked incredulously. “When did that happen? Were you seeing this guy the whole time we were together? Damn it, Brooke, don’t just sit there, staring at me like that.”

“I’m not married,” she managed. “He … Henry’s father isn’t in our lives. He hasn’t been in a long time.”

Pete frowned. “The guy just left you? Pregnant with his kid? What kind of swine does something like that?”

“It’s not his fault. I’m the one who let myself get pregnant. You know how I am. I decided I could do it all by myself. And I have. Mostly. I found a place to rent at St. Ann’s, hung up my shingle. I’m practicing law again.”

He pushed his plate away. It was dotted with the breading from the crab cakes, and the streaks of ketchup from the french fries reminded her of blood, and the stabbing pains she felt in her chest as she so artlessly avoided telling Pete the truth about his son. Not lying. Just not being entirely honest.

His voice was hoarse. “Any chance you and this guy will get back together? For Henry’s sake?”

She saw Hope approaching. She’d applied fresh makeup and her braid was brushed out, with blond hair flowing loose over her shoulders. She wore black jeans and a spotless white T-shirt and looked as fresh and lovely as a wildflower. Brooke was painfully aware of her own appearance, the large damp spot over her left breast, her shirt and lap covered with bits of Henry’s sandwich. She was a hot, unwed mother of a mess.

“It’s not looking good for me and Henry’s dad. Not right now anyway. What about you and her?” She jerked her head in the girl’s direction. Pete turned and flashed her a smile as she neared the table, then backed away, aware that she was interrupting something intense.

“She’s a colleague,” he said firmly. “She’s been collecting data on caribou from another location on the tundra, and we’ve collaborated on this paper we’re presenting at the conference in Miami.”

“And there’s nothing between you?” Brooke raised an eyebrow, hoping she sounded as though she didn’t care.

“We’re colleagues. And friends. I thought, I mean, I hoped, maybe, there was still some chance of us, you know, you and me, reconnecting. I successfully defended my dissertation three months ago. When I get down to Miami, I’m meeting with the head of a nonprofit foundation that has funding to study the deer population on all the barrier islands—Talisa, Sapelo, Ossabaw, Cumberland. They’ve got deep pockets, and it’s a great opportunity for me.”

“Pete! That’s wonderful,” Brooke impulsively reached out to grasp his hands in hers.

“Hey, Pete,” Hope said, edging toward their table. “I hate to break this up, but Ralph just texted me. He’s parked in a no-parking zone at the curb, and he says if we don’t get our butts out there right now, we can find our own way to the conference.”

“Coming.” He stood and threw money on the table. “This should cover the check.”

Brooke made a move to stand, but she was trapped in the booth with Henry, sound asleep with his head in her lap.

“Don’t wake him up,” Pete said. He leaned over and touched the top of Henry’s messy curls. “Cute kid.” Then he straightened. “This was probably a bad idea, huh?”

“Not at all,” Brooke said. “It was great to see you. I just wish we’d had more time to talk. My mom was going to take Henry, but this morning she woke up with some kind of bug.” Her mouth was dry, and she didn’t know what to say.

He hesitated. “I’m flying out of here next week. This time, the ball’s in your court, Brooke. If you call me, we’ll meet. If not, I’ll know it wasn’t meant to be.” He brushed his lips against her cheek, turned, and hurried out of the lounge, with Hope following.

* * *

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” Marie’s tone was more resigned than accusatory. They sat at the kitchen table. It was a dark Irish Georgian oak with carved ball and claw feet, and the chairs were of the same wood, but in a Chinese Chippendale style.

Her mother squeezed lemon into a glass of iced tea and handed the glass to Brooke.

“How are you feeling? You look a little better than you did this morning. Have you taken your temperature?” Brooke asked.

“I’m okay. Now, did you or did you not tell Pete that he has a son?”

“I wanted to,” Brooke said, sipping her drink. “But when he didn’t even notice how much Henry looks like him, I don’t know. Something inside me just shut down.”

“Your backbone?”

“How could he not recognize his own child?” Brooke cried. “Even that alleged colleague who was with him, the enchantingly lovely Hope, I know she saw the resemblance the minute she laid eyes on Henry.”

Marie sipped her own tea. “Oh, Brooke, you know how clueless men are about stuff like that. When you were born, your father stood outside the nursery window at Candler Hospital proudly telling everybody within listening distance that a total stranger’s newborn was his beautiful new daughter. And get this—the child was a boy, and he weighed twelve pounds, eight ounces, which was exactly twice what you weighed.”

“I’ve never heard that story before,” Brooke said. “Are you sure you didn’t just make it up?”

Her mother slid her phone across the table. “Call and ask him if you don’t believe me.” She glanced fondly at her grandson, who at that moment was happily coloring at a child-sized table Marie had brought down from the attic for him. “Did Pete even get a really good look at him?”

Brooke shrugged. “You know how shy Henry gets around strangers. He sort of buried his head against my shirt when Pete was talking to him. But he did tell Pete he was three, which, if the man had any brains in his head, should have told him that Henry was the fruit of his loom. He even had the nerve to ask me if I’d been seeing Henry’s father while we were together!”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him the father hadn’t been in our lives in a long time, which was the truth.”