“That depends on the day.” He took another bite, shocked he’d told the truth, and went for a subject change. “How often do you hang out here?”
“A lot, but mostly after Ava closes it up for the season. I love it when it’s quiet like this. It feels like I have Sunset Beach all to myself. Soon it’ll be too cold to sit here, but until then, this is where I’ll come on most of my breaks.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and then she said, “It’s a shame that Ava let this place go. It could be really cute with a little attention.”
Unfortunately, Ava had found solace at the bottom of a bottle after Olivier passed away. She was a functioning alcoholic, but the last time Grant had seen her, about two years ago, she hadn’t looked too good. “She took it hard when Olivier died, and she’s never recovered.” He pronounced his mentor’s name O-liv-ee-ay, the way Olivier, who was from France, had taught him. “I don’t know if you remember him. You were pretty young when he passed away. I was fourteen, so you were what? Six?”
“Mm-hm. I only have bits and pieces of memories of him, but you know how close my mom and Ava are. They’ve told me stories about him, with his long white ponytail and scraggly beard. I think it’s funny that my mom calls him Ava’s French hippie lover even though they were married.”
“He was the greatest guy, and very much a hippie. He had the kindest gray-blue eyes, which were always happy.” He looked at Jules, hanging on his every word as she ate, and it reminded him of when they were younger, when he’d tell her stories about the military or Darkbird, omitting the details of the top-secret missions he carried out, of course. “Like yours, Pix.”
Jesus, what kind of floodgate had she opened? It was like she had an innate ability to lighten moods and draw out his secrets.
She looked down bashfully. “Thanks. Tell me more about him. I think people should always be remembered after they die, and if you tell me things my mother hasn’t, I can tell others.”
He looked at her for a long moment. She was truly remarkable. She made him want to share more of himself with her, which was fucking crazy. He had no idea what he was doing with his life, or where he’d end up. But once again, he found himself pushing that aside, wanting a little more of this with her. “When Olivier wasn’t cooking at the Bistro, he was talking with customers or standing on this deck painting. He’s the one who taught me to paint.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“No? It was a few months after my father moved out. But we were here as a family for dinner. You know, my parents always took us out together, like we were the perfect family, and I was in a crappy mood.”
“Can I ask you something?”
He cocked a brow, knowing she’d ask no matter what his answer was.
“What was that like for you? I would have been lost if my parents had split up, even if they ended up back together but living in different houses like yours. I’ve asked Bellamy what it was like, but she’s never known anything different. Was it hard for you?”
No was on the tip of his tongue, but she was looking at him with those caring doe eyes, and he couldn’t lie to her. “It sucked. One day we were a family, and the next we were pretending to be one. I’m glad Bellamy doesn’t remember what it was like when they first split up. She cried a lot, asking for our father. How the hell do you explain something like that to a two-year-old? All of my brothers and sisters were sad and confused.”
She put her hand over his again. “And you?”
“I was pissed off.” He gritted his teeth against the ancient anger pressing in on him, then took a bite of his sandwich to try and push that anger away.
“But you must have been sad, too. They’re your parents.”
His chest constricted. “I guess. But I was more angry than sad. A few months went by, and they started dating each other and my father started sleeping at my mother’s house again sometimes, but not all the time. Talk about confusing. We never knew if we’d wake up to one parent or two.” He heard himself bitching, saying things he’d never told anyone, and he bit back the rest of his confession, like how he never knew if he could trust their relationship, if he should hope they’d stay together or not. “If I ever have kids, I’ll never do that shit to them.”
“It sounds awful. I’m sorry you went through that. You said if you ever have kids. Do you want a family?”
He shrugged. “I used to, but how can I want a family when I can’t even see my future?” His gut knotted, and he took a drink. “What’d you do, put truth serum into this stuff?”
“Maybe,” she said sassily. “I can tell you don’t want to talk about that, so tell me about that dinner when you were in a crappy mood.”
And just like that, he could breathe again. “Olivier was painting right here on the deck, and I spent the whole evening watching him create this beautiful landscape with the sun setting over the dunes. The way he brought that canvas to life was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. When we were leaving, he struck up a conversation with me about how much he used to hate eating dinner as a kid because it took him away from what he really wanted to be doing, which was painting. He took me under his wing that summer and taught me everything I could soak up about painting. I found out years later that he loved eating, and he’d only said that he’d hated it as a way to connect with me. That summer is one of my best childhood memories. He opened a door and I ran through it, painting away all my anger and disappointment.” Just like you’re getting me to do. His thoughts stumbled for a moment. “As I said earlier, I was fourteen when he died, and I was devastated. I painted even more after that as a way to keep his memory alive, I guess.”
“I remember when I was working for Bianca in high school, and she sold the paintings you had made when you came home during breaks. I always loved them.” Bianca Quintaros had owned Browse gift shop, which Jules eventually bought and made into the Happy End. “Your paintings were raw and beautiful, more alive than other paintings I’ve ever seen. As I recall, you made a lot of money from those sales.”
“Yeah, I did. My mother also got some of my paintings into a high-end shop in Boston. The owner was probably doing her a big favor at the time, but he sold a bunch of my paintings for exorbitant prices. I gave all the money I made to Ava. You know how proud she is. She didn’t want to take it, but she was struggling, raising Deirdra and Abby on her own. It felt like the right thing to do, so I told her that Olivier had loaned me some money and I was paying it back.” Deirdra and Abby were his brothers’ ages, and he remembered how tough it had been for them after their father had died. Deirdra had moved away as soon as she’d graduated high school, and he’d heard that Abby had stuck around for a few years longer before finally packing it in and leaving to start a life for herself in New York.
“You did that?” Jules asked with awe.
He nodded. “That’s what we were all taught to do here, isn’t it?”
People pulled together on the island, and kids were raised by more than just their parents. Like Olivier seeing that Grant was having a hard time and reaching out to him, and Roddy Remington coming to the aid of angry and confused ten-year-old Grant. Jules’s parents had also been there for Grant during those trying times, inviting him to dinners and outings and doling out extra hugs and private offers to talk if he needed to get anything off his chest. He realized he’d been so angry about losing his career and the future he’d counted on and resentful of being stuck on the island, he’d almost forgotten that he’d once been part of that caring community.