“Great to meet you, Hope,” Brooke said. “This is my son, Henry, who was doing his best howler monkey impression a minute ago.”
“Oooh, Henry, is that Curious George on your shirt? I used to love him, and the man with the yellow hat.”
Henry peeped shyly at the girl, nodded, then turned his head and hid again. Hope’s face registered a flicker of recognition as she looked from Henry to Pete.
“Okay, well, uh, Pete, I’m going to hit the ladies’ room and then maybe find a magazine for the ride to Miami. I’ll let you two have some private time together,” Hope said.
“Thanks. How about we meet outside at noon?”
“I’ll see you there. Bye, Brooke. Bye, Henry.”
*
They found a corner booth at the bar. When the waitress arrived to take their order, Brooke gave her what she hoped was a winning smile. “Is it okay for me to have my little boy in here?”
The waitress looked around at the lounge, which was half-empty at that hour. “Okay by me, but if one of my other customers complains, you’ll have to leave.”
Pete ordered a beer, and although Brooke longed for something to quell her bad case of jitters, she ordered coffee for herself and orange juice for Henry.
“You don’t want any food?” Pete asked, scanning the menu. “I’ve gotta eat something. I’ve been on planes for twenty-four hours, and all I’ve had was some mini-pretzels and a stale bagel.” He ordered crab cakes and french fries, and Brooke ordered a grilled cheese to split with Henry, who was already curled up on the booth with his head in her lap.
They made polite, inane conversation about the weather in Alaska, southern Atlantic hurricanes, blue crabs versus snow crabs, and politics while waiting what seemed like an interminable amount of time for the food.
She tried not to stare at Pete. His hair was longer than she’d ever seen it before, brushing his shoulders and falling across his eyes. He’d grown a thick beard too and had lost weight so that the planes and angles of his face stood in sharp relief. But his biceps bulged beneath the short sleeves of his dark gray T-shirt, and his belly was noticeably flat.
Brooke was vaguely aware that Pete was talking about the GPS devices they’d implanted in the caribou to allow them to track migration patterns, but she was only half listening. Instead, she was mentally mapping the contours of his shoulders, the scar on his lower back where he’d impaled a fishhook in his own flesh as a kid, his chest and the way it had felt to lay her cheek against it that one fateful night more than three years ago.
She longed to reach out, touch a finger to his lips. Shh, she wanted to say. No more talk of caribou or grizzly bears or how they collected blood samples to measure hormone levels in the female caribou. Later. All that can come later. Tell me about you, she wanted to say. Tell me it was lonely without me. Tell me you love me.
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.