Secret Vow (3 page)

“Thanks.” Ian released a breath, relieved by her positive reaction. “I took a few courses years ago. Do you suppose I missed my calling?”

As she leaned in to study another of the photos—a row of villas lining a rugged coastline, gilded under the setting sun—he caught the faint scent of butter from her hair. “Well, I’m sure you’re an equally talented lawyer. You could still do photography part-time, right?”

Ian shrugged. “As a hobby, sure, but professionally? I don’t think I’m quite in that league.”

“You won’t know unless you try,” she pointed out lightly.

She then turned her attention to the painting hung above the stone fireplace. A watercolour landscape, it depicted a narrow stretch of the river behind Ian’s childhood home at the southern end of Eastport. Bright with autumn hues and diffused by filtered sunlight, the thickly wooded far shore reflected its mirror image in the glassy water. Nothing like Tuscany, but much dearer to his heart.

“This is pretty. Was it done by a local artist? Or are you a painter, too?” Brooke wondered, tucking her hair behind her ear as she turned her gaze on Ian.

He hadn’t expected her to notice it, but was gratified that she had. “My mother painted it, sometime before I was born. I never saw it until after she died, when I found it in a closet, along with a few others. I don’t think she thought her work was good enough.”

“It is, though,” Brooke said. “It’s quite eye-catching.”

He smiled, her approval pleasing him. “I’ve always thought so. Every day it reminds me of her, and the potential she had that most people wouldn’t have seen.”

His mother, in turn, had seen promise in Ian, and it saddened him to think of how she’d missed the chance to see him grow up successful, despite his troubled upbringing. Mary McCarthy had recognized her own shortcomings as a mother, and fretted over her son’s future—even as she couldn’t seem to resist the demons that drew her out of the house at night, leaving him alone while she walked up the road to pass her evenings at the local bar. Even as a young boy, Ian had worried more for her safety than his own—his fears being realized the night she died. But there were enough good memories to allow him to forgive her flaws.

A look of unease crossed Brooke’s features, but she said nothing.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No.” She paused, slanting him a cautious look. “Do you … do you still think about that night? I mean, do you wish you knew who the driver was that hit her?”

Though surprised by the question, Ian didn’t take long to answer. “Of course. I try not to spend too much time wondering about it—I don’t suppose I’ll never know, and I’ve accepted that. It was probably someone passing through town, who was long gone by the time her body was found.”

“Is that what the police thought?”

“I didn’t get the impression they cared that much. She’d been out drinking that night, and she must have wandered into the road, so naturally it was her own fault,” he added bitingly.

Brooke shook her head solemnly. “The driver … whoever it was should have called for help.”

Ian nodded slowly; he hadn’t talked about his mother’s death in years, and it felt both strange and cathartic to be discussing it now with Brooke. “I have wondered about that over the years—whether she might not have died right away, whether she was lying a while on the side of the road, still conscious, with no one to help her.”

Hearing Brooke draw a shaky breath, he glanced up to see a stricken expression cross her face—before she briskly turned her back to focus again on the painting. Immediately Ian regretted his words; Brooke had always had a great capacity for empathy, though he hadn’t expected his disconcerting thoughts to disturb her so deeply.

“I remember the day after it happened,” she said quietly, wrapping her hands about her forearms, though she kept her back to him. “You weren’t in school, but everyone was talking about it. When you came back, you weren’t the same boy. You were so sad. You wouldn’t talk to anyone.”

“You mean no one would talk to
me
,” Ian corrected, remembering all too well the agonizing weeks following the accident.

Brooke spun back to face him with a startled look. “What about your friends?”

“They didn’t know what to say to me. It was awkward. None of them understood what it meant to lose a parent. And my father, fresh out of prison, wasn’t exactly thrilled to have a twelve-year-old boy he barely acknowledged land on his doorstep.” Ian forced a smile, drawing his thoughts away from those memories. He’d invited her here meaning to reconnect as adults, and somehow he’d managed to steer the conversation back to the trauma of his childhood. “Brooke, I’m sure you didn’t come over here to talk about my mother’s death. That’s not what I intended. After all, there are much more pleasant memories to focus on.”

Her expression eased. “Yes, I suppose there are.”

“For instance,” Ian reflected, settling his hands in his pockets, “I’ll never forget the night, a few days before Christmas, when you found me wandering along the road in the middle of a snowstorm.” He’d been fourteen, and his father, enraged over some transgression, had locked him out of the house—but he would leave that detail out, to keep the memory a cheerful one. “You took me home and your family fed me supper. I don’t think you had any idea how much that meant to me, just sitting down to a home-cooked meal. And I couldn’t get enough of your house, decorated with a million coloured lights, and your parents were so friendly and relaxed—to me, it was nothing less than a Norman Rockwell painting brought to life.” His father’s house, after all, had few holiday decorations, save for the small tree Ian had cut down himself and adorned with a popcorn garland.

“I remember,” Brooke said quietly, and he saw her lip tremble ever so slightly.

“You were so sweet. You wanted to take care of me. Even though I think you were a little afraid of me. I get the sense that you still are.”

She let out a sharp breath, blinking at him. “Why would I be afraid of you?”

Ian lifted his shoulders. “I was a lot to handle in those days. My mother’s death sent me into a black hole that it took me a lot of years to climb out of. But I’m out of it now. I’m not the same as I was then.”

Brooke’s gaze softened as her supple mouth curved upward at the edges. “But you
are
the same. I mean, you always had this gentle side. Everyone could see that you were angry, but you were in so much pain—it wasn’t really you.”

Her words settled warmly in his chest. He hadn’t caused any serious trouble in his youth, beyond the occasional fistfight or skipped classes, but he certainly had allowed anger to guide his outlook along with his actions. He hadn’t realized how deeply she understood what he went through.

Ian held her luminous dark gaze with his own. “I’ve thought about you from time to time, Brooke. I’ve wondered why you never came back here to visit your family or your friends. Faith hasn’t seen you in years. Did something happen between the two of you?”

Her brows drew together slightly and her lips pressed tight as she shook her head. “Not really. Friends grow apart sometimes.”

“And your family?”

“They visit me in Toronto. I was so busy with my job, it seemed to work out better that way.” Her gaze flittered away, and Ian sensed there was something more to her absence from Eastport than she was willing to say.

“Shall I make some tea now?” he asked, remembering his offer.

Brooke shook her head, her smile returning. “Why don’t we take a walk instead? It’s a gorgeous evening.”

“I’d love to.”

By the time they wandered past the marina the evening light had faded to a deep indigo. Brooke turned her head to scan the rows of pleasure boats moored at the docks, bobbing serenely, their slender masts merging with the darkening sky.

“I forgot how peaceful and lovely the river can be this time of the evening,” she remarked, gazing upward to admire the soft ribbons of cloud above, set aglow by pale moonlight and reflected on the still surface of the water.

“I walk along here almost every night,” Ian said. “You’re right, it is peaceful. Makes me feel like everything’s in place in the universe. Whenever something’s bothering me, I come out here and my thoughts seem to just sort themselves out. Sounds simplistic, I know, but it works.”

“I do the same thing on the downtown Toronto waterfront,” Brooke said. “Only there, even at night, there’s so much activity. You can get addicted to it.”

As they strolled side-by-side in an easy rhythm, she pulled the bulky wool cardigan he had lent her closer around her, grateful for its warmth against the cool breeze off the river. The collar held a faint scent of cologne—a comforting, masculine fragrance with notes of leather and sandalwood.

She snatched glances at Ian as she kept pace beside him, studying his strong profile and fitting it into her developing impression of the man he’d become. Though she’d heard occasional news of him from her parents over the years, she’d often wondered whether he’d been able to overcome his difficult youth and find success and happiness. It seemed he had, for the most part. Once they moved on from the topic of his mother’s death, his warm, engaging side emerged, and Brooke began to enjoy his company more than she’d meant to. It was tempting to imagine him as a stranger she was getting to know for the first time, with no history between them—but at the same time, she found herself reluctant to let go of the Ian she’d known. The boy she remembered still occupied a special place in her heart, despite the aching regret tied in with those memories.

“I’m sure you’ll find things haven’t changed much around here since you left,” he remarked.

“Well, let’s see. I’ve only been here twenty-four hours, but I noticed the old tea room has closed. There’s a new hardware store on Front Street. And, oh, our old high school quarterback is now the mayor.”

Ian chuckled. “Yeah, and married to Faith, the fiery little redhead who used to assault him with snowballs at the bus stop.”

“But she always did like him, you know. Do you see much of them now?” Brooke wondered.

His shoulders lifted briefly. “Not really. We run into each other from time to time. I haven’t talked to Faith since her father died. How’s she coping?”

“I think she’ll be okay,” Brooke replied, though she hadn’t had a chance to talk to Faith about how her father’s death had affected her.

“I think she’s worn herself out, caring for that man around the clock while he was ailing, along with having a young baby to look after, not to mention the landscaping business she and Ted own. I hope old Ross appreciated it, after everything he put her through.”

Brooke turned to Ian in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“It’s no secret Ross Kinley was a raging alcoholic, and he could make life pretty miserable for his kids.”

“Did everyone know?” Even as she posed the question, Brooke realized that the signs had been obvious, especially once Ross’s addiction led to a rapid decline in his health. “I mean, Faith was very careful about keeping her family problems private. She only really talked about it with me.” Ian was right—as a girl Faith had been terribly unhappy at home, but few would have known it; she carried herself with grace and an ebullient spirit, keeping even the strain of her mother’s battle with cancer to herself.

“You should know, it’s next to impossible to keep a secret in a small town,” Ian said.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“There’s something I don’t get,” he went on, stopping to face her. “Faith and I both had traumatic childhoods, and both of us are still here in Eastport. You had an ideal home life, from what I could see, yet you couldn’t wait to get out of town.”

They stood under the broad canopy of a maple tree, shielded from the marina lights. Brooke paused to consider her answer as Ian waited, his features hollowed by shadow, his expression barely perceptible.

“I suppose I was just restless,” she said at last. “I had dreams that were bigger than this place.”

“All right, I’ll buy that. So how was it, climbing your way through the fast-paced financial world?”

“Exciting, at first. I was good at it, and very successful. But it was all-consuming; I basically sacrificed my social life.”

“Hmm. So there’s no lucky man missing you right now back in Toronto?” he asked lightly.

“No one, lucky or otherwise.” Brooke released a gentle sigh as she considered how long it had been since anyone had so much as asked her out.

“I’ll admit, I’m not unhappy to hear that. You know I had a crush on you back in the day.”

Brooke suppressed a smile as she replied, his words stirring a flutter of remembered excitement in her chest. “I got that impression when you tried to kiss me at the school dance.”

“I’m not sure ‘try’ is the right word.” Amusement coloured his tone as he took a step closer to her, his eyes gleaming as moonlight touched his face. “You kissed me back. At least for a moment, before you pushed me away.”

“You caught me by surprise.” She still remembered it clearly—the sweet, soft press of his lips against hers. But the momentary, unrestrained pleasure of it had quickly dissipated, snuffed out by shame. How could she accept such open affection from him, while harbouring a secret that might have offered him some measure of comfort?

“You said I wasn’t your type,” Ian went on, his tone even. “You wouldn’t want to be seen kissing the son of the town crook, would you?”