When informed about his divorce, Didi’s first question had been, “What about the holidays?” After all, if Lucas wasn’t a son-in-law anymore, odds were low that his aunt and uncle would get an invitation to the famous Forbes New Year’s Eve party, the amazing Thanksgiving dinner for thirty of their closest friends.

Frank and Grace Forbes—and Ellen—had stayed close with his sister, Steph, and her girls since the divorce, because they were really wonderful, not about to cut off five people—six, counting him—they loved. His divorce was more than amicable, not to mention Ellen’s idea.

“How’s Joe today?” Lucas asked Didi.

“See for yourself,” she said, turning away. “Take off your shoes first.”

He obeyed, then started upstairs.

“He’s in your—the room off the kitchen,” she said. “It was easier that way.”

Of course. Joe was weak, that was true. Also, Didi was a bitch.

Lucas went through the vast chef’s kitchen to the small hallway that led to the laundry room and his old room. Knocked gently on the door, which was open a crack.

The room was crowded: the hospital bed, a night table covered with the detritus of sickness—pill bottles, a half-filled glass of water, tissues, a magazine and Joe’s silver pocket watch, which had been handed from father to son since the Civil War. A desk with a large-screened computer was wedged against one wall. The room didn’t have windows, and Lucas remembered how dark it was in here. Like a grave, he’d often thought, and now more than ever.

His uncle was sleeping. Lucas hadn’t seen him for a few months. The kidney disease made Joe appear tan, and he was thinner than he’d ever been, though a little puffy from fluid retention.

But now, even asleep, he looked old. And tired.

A lot like Lucas’s father the last time he’d seen him. The family resemblance was strong.

Joe was dying. The reality hit Lucas like a tanker, and his eyes stung all of a sudden. Despite Didi’s ceaseless resentment, Joe had always been a good uncle.

Joe stirred, then opened his eyes. “Hey,” he said, struggling to sit up. “How are you, buddy?”

Lucas gave his uncle a lean-in hug. Cleared his throat. “Good to see you, Joe.”

“You, too! You look great. When did you get in?”

“Last night.”

“You see Bryce yet?”

“Sure did. Found him at O’Rourke’s.” And not just him, either.

“Yeah, he goes there a lot.” Joe smiled. “So.”

“So.”

“Don’t tire him out, Lucas,” Didi said, appearing in the doorway, hands on her bony hips.

“He won’t,” Joe said.

“When’s Bryce coming back? He wanted to do something with you this afternoon.” Her eyes flickered toward Lucas. This was typical for her; any time Joe and Lucas might have a bonding moment, she was there to interrupt and remind Joe that he had a son, a wonderful son, a real son.

And the thing was, it generally worked. Joe was a nice guy, but he was no match for Didi. There were other terms for it, meaner terms, but it was clear that Joe generally did what Didi told him to do.

“Give me a few minutes with my uncle,” Lucas said, and without waiting for an answer, got up and closed the door in her face.

The door flew open again immediately. “Just because you breeze into town whenever you like, I’m still the one who has to take care of him. My whole life is doctor’s appointments and hospital visits these days. I don’t have a minute to breathe—”

“Then breathe now,” he said, and closed the door again.

Apparently Didi couldn’t find a way to argue that. After a second, her heels tapped away down the hall, though Lucas would bet she’d tiptoe back and eavesdrop.

“What can I do for you, Uncle Joe?” he asked, taking his seat again.

Joe sighed. “Here’s the thing, Lucas. Bryce...well, he’s just not really grown up yet, you know what I mean?”

He nodded, his hand on his uncle’s. Joe’s arm looked odd, courtesy of the fistula he needed for dialysis.

“I’d like to leave this world knowing he had a plan, at least. I don’t want him—” Joe glanced at the closed door and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I don’t want her to have her hooks in him forever. You know what I mean?”

“I do.”

“So maybe you could hang around for...well, till the day comes. I know he’s gonna take this hard.” Joe’s eyes filled with tears.

Yes. Last night, Bryce had acknowledged that his dad was sick, but he also talked about how much better Joe was looking these days. Dialysis was amazing! And besides, a kidney would come along any minute.

The fact that Joe wasn’t on the organ registry—and indeed, wasn’t eligible for a transplant, thanks to the tumor in his lung—was not something Bryce would admit.

“I’ll stay however long you need,” Lucas said. He owed it to Joe, after all.

“You can get off work that long?”

“Yep. I’m leaving the company, remember?”

“Right, right.” Joe paused. “Where will you stay when you’re here?”

“I’m at the Black Swan right now,” he said. “Just called the Realtor about a short-term rental.”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Joe offered, but they both knew that he wasn’t. Didi would hate having him here, and if Didi wasn’t happy, no one was allowed to be happy.

“That’s okay.”

“So you think you could help Bryce? Maybe help him find work? He hasn’t ever had a job he really loved, aside from the dog shelter stuff.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Just having you here is going to be great. He’s always worshipped you. Always wanted to do what you did, whatever that might’ve been.”

Lucas nodded. That was certainly true; from baseball cards to a paper route, if Lucas had it, Bryce wanted it. And Didi made sure he got it.

“There’s another thing I need you to help me with,” Joe whispered, and Lucas felt a flash of anger that the man had to whisper in his own home.

“What’s that?” he asked, adjusting Joe’s blanket. It was meat-locker cold in here. Another thing he remembered too well.

Joe glanced at the door, then picked up a notepad and pen. Wrote something down and passed it to Lucas.

I want a divorce before I die.

Lucas looked at his uncle. Back at the notepad. Back to his uncle. “Well, holy shit, unc,” he said, then grinned. “I’ll get right on that.”

“Thanks, Lucas.” Joe smiled, but his eyes closed. “I’m glad you’re here,” Joe said, his voice fading into sleep. Then his eyes opened. “Maybe you can see some old friends while you’re here.” He winked, the ghost of his old self, then fell asleep, just like that.

CHAPTER SIX

“OH. COLLEEN. IT’S you.” Carol Robinson, one of the local Realtors, gave Colleen a jaundiced stare. “Fine, come in. I’m not showing you around, though. I know you won’t be buying.”

“Lovely to see you, too, Carol.” Piña colada, very old-school, Carol was. “Bursitis flaring up again?”

“No. I just don’t want to waste my time. Hi, Jeanette, how are you?”

Colleen’s mother pulled her shirt away from her chest. “It’s so hot in here, Carol! How do you stand it?”

“You’re having a hot flash. I still get them,” Carol said. “It’s ridiculous.”

“Satan’s barbecue,” Mom said. “Don’t make that face, Colleen. You’ll see.”

“I can’t wait. Carol, do you have a fact sheet on the house?” Carol handed her one with a sigh. “By the way, do you have to walk in the middle of the road every morning? I almost hit you the other day.”

“Oh, that’s right, I saw you speeding by. Jeanette, your daughter and that red car of hers...”

Colleen had brought her mother to an open house, and yeah, fine, she had a bit of a reputation with the real estate people. It wasn’t her fault. Yes, she wanted to buy a house, very much, in fact. She was thirty-one, for heaven’s sake. She didn’t want to live above her brother forever. Their house was adorable; it was just that it was their house, and she wanted a place of her own. A place where, yeah, she’d have those adorable tots and Rufus could frisk and frolic, and her husband and she would have lots and lots of great sex.

And since Lucas Damien Campbell had walked into her bar the other night, she felt considerably more motivated to find that husband and bear those children.

Today, she’d taken her mom with her, because (a) she was a saint, and (b) it was one of Mom’s many Significant Dates, of which there were many, 99 percent of them marking some dire event relating to Dad.

This house was a white farmhouse with a porch, a horseshoe driveway and big, beautiful yard. Not too big, not too small, not too new, not too old. Remodeled kitchen with white cabinets and glass fronts, lots of counter space, should she take up cooking (which she wouldn’t but it could happen, if hell froze over). The living room had lots of windows and a really pretty fireplace.

Colleen and her mother went upstairs as Carol went back to reading her fat spy novel.

Coll felt a tingle of hope. If she was busy moving into a new place, painting and shopping for a new couch and plates, she’d have less time to lie in bed and think about a certain tall, dark un-stranger. “Black-haired boy, work of the devil,” her grandmother used to say, and it was flippin’ true. Lucas had black hair and had broken her heart. Jeremy Lyon had black hair, and he’d broken Faith’s heart by coming out of the closet on their wedding day. Dad had black hair and broke Mom’s heart.

Connor, on the other hand, had brown hair, taking after Mom’s side of the family, with no broken hearts in his past. Levi Cooper, police chief and decorated veteran—dark blond, making Faith very happy these days. Gerard Chartier: bald, a cheerful man-whore and very well liked. Grandma had known what she was talking about.

The master bedroom was at the end of the hall and utterly gorgeous. Slanted ceiling, a long window seat, built-in bookshelves. Even space on the wall for a TV, if she was so inclined. Not that she approved of watching TV in bed; in her mind’s eye, Tom Hardy would be waiting, na**d and impatient, for her, his beloved wife. In reality, however, she and Rufus put in far too many hours watching HGTV and Game of Thrones. (Was Jon Snow too young to lust after? Probably and oops, another black-haired boy.)

“This is lovely. What do you hate about it?” Mom asked.

“Nothing,” Colleen said.

“You’ll find something. You always do.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ma.”

Her mother wandered into the bathroom. “Oh, Collie, come in here, sweetheart.”

The master bathroom was vast—tiled floor, walled-in shower area and a huge, triangular tub, big enough for Colleen and Tom Hardy and his muscles.

“Uh-oh,” Mom said. Her face flushed bright red, she began flapping her shirt again. “Oh, dear! Oh, man! I think I might be having another hot flash!”

“Really? You hide it so well.” Mom had always been the type to detail her physical woes. “Bleeding like a stuck pig” had been popular back in the good old period days. “Ovaries the size of grapefruits” was another. “That Chinese food went through me like a knife.” One of the many ways Mom was so much fun.

Mom continued flapping, then climbed in the bathtub. “This porcelain feels like ice. Thank God, too.” She lay there, red-faced and panting, and Colleen waited, used to her mother’s menopausal adventures by now. After a minute, Jeanette lifted her head, her hair damp with sweat, and surveyed the tub. “So how many jets does this thing have?” she said speculatively.

“Icky, Mom.” Quite a few, though. Handy, in case marriage to Tom Hardy didn’t work out.

“Why? Just because it feels like tumbleweeds are blowing through my—”

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” Colleen began. “The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou who can make my mother stop talking, and blessed—”

Her mother gave her a martyred look. “You know, Colleen, just because I’m suffering through menopause, and just because your father left me for That Whore doesn’t mean I don’t have certain urges.”

“Mom! Come on.”

“What? Am I not a human all of a sudden? Not allowed to be lonely? Hey, did you know that John Holland got married a couple weeks ago?”

Another maternal habit: announcing facts known by everyone as if it was big news. Of course she knew. She was the best friend of the man’s daughter, and if there was a more beloved man than Faith’s dad, Colleen didn’t know him. She herself wouldn’t have minded being the second Mrs. Holland. Well, not really. But it had always been fun to flirt with him anyway.

“He’s been widowed for twenty years,” Mom said.

“Ma, I know. I grew up with Faith, remember?”

“Of course I remember. You girls were at our house half the time. The point is, both he and Mrs. Johnson are older than I am.”

“True. Want to see the other bedrooms now?” Colleen asked. So far, the house had given her no reason to reject it. But the tingle was fading. This bathroom was possibly too large. It always seemed to her that when she found the right house, she’d know. Instantly.

Just as she’d known with Lucas the day he walked into her English class.