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“Oh, Hunter, my boy…” Nona’s usually whip-solid voice wavered. “I missed you at the wedding.”
He offered a tight laugh, a shadow flitting across his face. “That’s probably for the best. It wasn’t my finest moment. Or Evan’s.”
I watched the exchange, blinking tears back. Then I took a step backward to let them lead the way inside. The threshold of the Big House felt like a border between past and present, and watching Hunter cross it brought a swell of hope to my heart. Maybe this time, things could be different.
We moved down the hall toward the kitchen, the center of our family’s universe, where the murmur of voices grew louder with each step. When Hunter appeared at the doorway, the sounds hushed as if the ocean itself had pulled back before building into a wave.
“Son,” Dad said, striding forward. His warm, strong voice was the first to break the silence. He wrapped Hunter in an embrace that seemed to pull him back through the years, back to when he eased scraped knees and sunburns. The resemblance between the two men was striking, though Gabe was the dead ringer for Dad. Warren Markham was a fit man in his mid-sixties, his body bearing the evidence of a life lived outdoors, of boat lines pulled and fish wrangled alongside Gabe and me. Pulling back, he clasped Hunter’s shoulders, his eyes not shying from the man his son had become. “Welcome home.”
Hunter maintained his poker face—one I knew all too well—but the frantic pulse beating at his throat betrayed him. I caught his eye and offered a silent nod of solidarity.
Maia came next, her own hug enveloping Hunter with an affection that seemed to thaw the chill of his absence. Next to her, her husband, Wyatt, shook his hand and shot my brother a somewhat awkward smile. He swept back his trimmed light-brown hair and nodded.
“You and Wyatt didn’t get to meet at the wedding,” Maia said with a smile. “And Skye’s with a babysitter. You’ll see her soon.” Maia and I had decided it might be better for Skye to stay out of this initial reunion in case things didn’t go as we hoped.
Then it was Gabe and April’s turn. Hunter stared at them, his feet rooted to the spot. “I’m… I’m sorry about your wedding,”
April stepped forward and grasped both of his arms. Her eyes were warm and caring as she stared up into his. “You’ve already told us that, so no more apologizing! You didn’t ruin anything, and we’re so glad to see you again.”
After giving her a shaky smile, Hunter turned his gaze to Gabe, who agreed with his wife and gave Hunter a hug of his own. The two men, so alike, embraced in the reunion that Hunter had undoubtedly wished for at Gabe and April’s wedding. His hand lingered on Gabe’s back a long moment before he stepped back and let it fall to his side.
At last, Hunter’s eyes settled on the far side of the table.
Where Evan stood stiffly with Liv beside him, her hand resting on his tension-wrought shoulder. The tableau was fraught with the weight of unspoken words, and memories best forgotten yet never able to be erased. Evan looked planted on the wooden floor, unable to move, so Hunter walked casually around the table to stop before him.
“Hi, Evan.” Hunter’s voice was steady, but his weight balanced evenly on the balls of his feet.
“Hey,” Evan returned, equally terse. Their gazes locked, a silent conversation in a glance. I held my breath, along with everyone else in the room. Liv slowly moved her hand to press against the small of Evan’s back. Then, firmly, deliberately, Evan extended his hand. “Good to see you, Hunter.”
As the two brothers shook hands—albeit a stiff, formal handshake—the sharp edge of tension around the room lessened. The air was still quiet, but the invisible currents moved more freely. I watched the two of them, these pillars of my world, each trying to navigate the space between what was and what could be. Hunter exchanged a somewhat shy greeting with Liv, who was sweet and polite, trying to balance being supportive of Evan while welcoming Hunter.
Turning his focus back to Evan, Hunter slid his hands into his back pockets. “You look good.”
Evan stiffened even more. “Were you expecting—” He broke off when Liv softly pressed against his side and stroked his arm. “Thanks. So do you.”
Hunter’s nod was even more rigid, but his expression was cool, unruffled.
“Let’s eat,” I suggested, rallying my troops with practiced cheerfulness. Raising my head toward the other end of the kitchen, I called out, “Martin? I think we’re ready to start.”
Martin was a chef at Dorado, one of several who rotated to cook meals at the Big House, and had been with us a long time. He had outdone himself with this family lunch, knowing the weight of the moment. I hadn’t discussed the menu with him, trusting his judgment. And I wasn’t disappointed.
“All right, everyone,” the chef announced in his Caribbean accent as he crossed the room, balancing platters of aromatic food that immediately drew our attention. His white smile lit his face. “Hope you’re hungry.”
No fancy entrees here. Martin had made comfort food, designed to make eaters feel welcome and relaxed. The smell of rosemary and garlic filled the air as the chef set down dish after dish—roasted chicken glistening under a golden-brown skin, a kaleidoscope of grilled vegetables sizzling in their own juices, and a mountain of fluffy mashed potatoes crowned with melting pats of butter.
“Smells amazing!” My experienced eye favorably evaluated the spread as my stomach seconded the motion with an audible growl.
“Thank you, Stella. Enjoy, everyone.” Martin disappeared through the back hallway where we kept the kitchen staples.
I took charge, reaching for serving spoons and passing plates that everyone took generous helpings from. The clinking of silverware and the quiet murmur of appreciation for the food provided a comfortable backdrop to relieve some of the underlying tension.
“Can’t beat a home-cooked meal,” Dad said, his voice a deep timbre that resonated with authority and warmth. He sat at one head of the table, while Nona graced the other. Evan and Hunter sat as far apart as possible, which was probably a good thing given the circumstances.
“Definitely different than I’m used to,” Hunter agreed, digging into his plate as if he hadn’t eaten for days. As worried as he’d been about this lunch, maybe he hadn’t.
“Everything’s delicious.” Evan’s words carried the weight of effort, like each syllable was a stone he had to lift. “Martin always does a great job.”
I watched as Hunter paused in his eating, catching Evan’s eye across the table. There was a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or the beginning of understanding. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, hidden once again behind his stoic façade.
