Page 41 of Blood in the Water

He couldn’t find it in himself to care about any of it, but he would try to be more considerate next time they spoke, try to show an interest in her life even if it wasn’t a life that appealed to him.

It’s about the woman you were seeing some time ago — Bridget Monaghan…

What could his mother possibly have to say about Bridget that she hadn’t said the last time around? He wondered if she’d had a change of heart. If she’d begun to realize her judgement of Nolan’s life was driving a wedge between them, making their already challenging mother/son relationship even more difficult.

Somehow it didn’t sit right. He wanted to believe his mother was capable of change, but it wasn’t an easy sell.

I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.

He couldn’t help feeling she was wrong.

22

Bridget lay in bed, listening to the sound of the wind howling outside the house’s windows. It rattled the panes in the old frames and sent a series of subtle groans through the house’s frame, eccentricities that only made her love the place more.

She’d expected a house like Nolan’s apartment in the Millennium Tower, something slick and sterile, with lots of glass and marble and steel. But when she’d stepped off the boat and started up the path from the private pier to the house, she’d been happily surprised to see a cedar shingled structure of modest size, its roofline varied in pitch, as if it had been added onto over the years.

The inside had been even more pleasing, furnished with wicker chairs, patinated wood, and original wavy glass in some of the windows. The bedrooms were comfortable and simple, with brass beds and wardrobes big enough to crawl inside.

If she had to run for her life, if she had to take her family on the run with her, she couldn’t have asked for a better place to hide out.

The only thing missing was Nolan.

He’d sounded tired when they’d spoken on the phone earlier that night, and he’d been understandably cryptic about his plans with the Syndicate. It wasn’t a good idea for them to say too much on the phone. They’d filled their time talking about the house and Owen, about the impending storm and the precautions Bridget should take with her father’s help to insure the house was secure.

Their love had been left unsaid. It lingered under her skin, wrapping itself around her bones like a vine until she knew she would never be able to eradicate it again.

She sighed and turned over in bed for the hundredth time. She’d spent the last few years not daring to hope that things could change. Now change was close enough to touch, and she suddenly couldn’t wait — to tell Nolan everything and start their life together, to have the mental space to talk to Owen about things that mattered, to cook with her mother and give her more time away from the house.

The whistle of the kettle sounded briefly in the kitchen, cut off quickly enough that she guessed whoever was making tea was trying not to wake everyone.

She sat up, threw her legs over the side of the bed, and wrapped herself in the old sweater Nolan had given her when they’d arrived. The floors were chilly even with socks on, and she stopped at the thermostat in the hall and turned up the heat before making her way into the kitchen.

Her father stood with his back to her, his plaid bathrobe hanging on his large frame as he poured hot water from the kettle.

“Is there enough hot water for me?” Bridget asked.

He looked at her over his shoulder. “Of course there is, love. What would you like?”

“What is there?”

He tipped his head at one of the cupboards, its door hanging open. “Take a look.”

She sorted through the boxes and tins, settling on lavender chamomile. She put the tea bag into one of the mugs and leaned against the counter as her father poured.

“Your mother would have a fit,” he said, regarding the tea bags in both their cups. Her mom thought tea bags were sacrilege.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Bridget said, picking up her steaming mug and carrying it to the adjoining living room.

She sat on the sofa and tucked her feet up under her as her father set his cup down on a coaster. He tended to the dying fire, stoking the embers and putting fresh wood on top before taking the opposite end of the couch.

“Blanket?” he asked, removing the colorful afghan off the back of the couch.

“Please.”

He spread it over both of them and picked up his cup. “Can’t sleep?”

“I’m worried about Nolan.” She smiled. “What’s your excuse?”