Page 22 of Jack
“I didn’t dare her?—”
“‘Brontë, you couldn’t keep a pig alive—’” Steinbeck finger quoted the words.
Jack held up his hand. “I know what I said. At the time, I thought it would keep her from doing something stupid.”
Steinbeck cocked his head. “You do know her, don’t you? You might as well have driven her to the audition.”
Maybe he didn’t know her. Maybe he just thought he did, based on his own fears and assumptions. But it wasn’t like he’d stuck around..
“That show completely derailed her, wrecked her life.”
“I know.”
“So, could be it might take more to get to awe’re good.”
“You guys need to be separated?” Conrad had walked—no, swaggered—up, the hockey hotshot he was. He wore a black button-down, black pants, his hands in his pockets, and now bumped shoulders with Jack. “Glad to see you made it.”
Steinbeck held up a hand. “Apparently it’s all good.”
Conrad raised an eyebrow. He’d grown his ruddy beard out, his hair behind his ears, deep in the middle of hockey season. “Boo’s changed.” He looked at Jack. “You might consider that she’s grown all the way up, big bro. She’s not the little girl who got lost in the woods when she was eight.” He clamped him on the shoulder, squeezed. “Doesn’t need you to find her anymore.”
Jack nodded. “I know.”
“Hey. Was that Aggie I saw sitting in the market parking lot?” Doyle came up, wearing a blue dress shirt, a suitcoat, dress pants. Looked like he might be on his way to a fundraiser.
Probably wished he was.
“Yeah. I stopped in Ankeny last night to see West and Nat and forgot that I use water in my radiator hoses.”
Even Steinbeck made a face.
“You blow the head gasket?” Doyle asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I might need a tow to the inn.”
“If you can find a parking space,” Doyle said.
They headed toward the dining-room entrance.
Conrad’s attention seemed to fall on Penelope, who stood by the entrance, talking with Harper, of course.
The Pepper woman was a heart-stopper for the right guy.
Which, of course, was why Conrad stopped to talk.
Jack headed inside the restaurant. The party had rented out the entire space, and now long tables held candles with greenery nestled around gold chargers. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and country music played in the background. A fire flickered in the massive hearth on the other end of the room.
Servers walked the room with silver trays of appetizers. Fish on a cracker, white cheese, arancini with ham.
Brontë—the name Boo just stuck to his mouth after their epic fight—stood with her hand in Oaken’s. He wore black dress jeans and a crisp gray shirt, a fancy bluish suit jacket. Her fiancé seemed fit, with light-brown hair and an affable smile. The tame side of country music, apparently. He was missing his Stetson, though.
They talked with a man with brown hair, early thirties, holding hands with a woman wearing pants and tied-back auburn hair.
Jack walked over, waited until Oaken stopped talking, and then stuck out his hand. “Jack.” He nodded at Brontë. “Oldest brother.”
“I know,” Oaken said, but smiled. “Good to meet you. We missed you at Christmas.”
Him too? Wonderful.