Page 17 of The Lost Book of First Loves
“Sorry. That was crude.”
“But accurate. I’ve done the math and they must have connected right after his first book came out. June has a signed copy ofPurgatory River.”
Ali had come to Beck in shock after she received the results of the DNA test she and Carson had both submitted to find out more about their heritage. She had spent her life as an only child. For more than a decade, since her mother’s death, Ali and her dad had been a single unit, though he supposed her grandmother Loretta formed another link in that chain.
He understood why the idea of finding a long-lost sister appealed to her, especially coming so close on the heels of Carson’s unexpected death.
Beck had cautioned her against suddenly bursting into Juniper Connelly’s life, especially after he did his due diligence as both Ali’s friend and as her cotrustee in Carson’s literary trust.
He had learned Juniper had a reputation in business circles as smart and creative but also ruthless and determined.
Hehadn’tlearned that she apparently despised former prosecuting attorneys from San Jose.
“I’m waiting for a good time to tell her,” Ali said. “I want her to settle in here, heal a little more. It’s probably a good idea to make sure she feels comfortable at the ranch before I spring that kind of shocking news on her.”
“Secrets are never a good idea, Al. They always come back to bite you in the ass.”
She sighed. “I know. But I still think it’s for the best not to tell her quite yet. You won’t say anything, right?”
He worked his jaw, hating the deception but not seeing he had any choice in the matter.
“Fine. I hope you don’t regret it. Something tells me she won’t appreciate being lied to, whether overtly or by omission.”
“I know. I’ll tell her as soon as the moment feels right, I promise.”
“Is this everything of yours?” he asked once he had removed the two large suitcases from the back of his truck.
“Yes. The other two are June’s. You can leave mine on the porch.”
“I can take them inside for you.”
He picked them up and walked up the steps to the house then punched in the security code. Inside, the house smelled fresh and clean, but was still far too empty without Carson’s presence.
When he climbed back into the truck, he found Ali telling June about The Painted Sky.
“No. It hasn’t been in our family for long. Dad was raised in Wisconsin but always wanted to have a ranch in Wyoming. He and my mom bought it right after they were married, after his second book,Beneath the Dusty Sky, won the National Book Award.”
“It’s truly stunning.”
Alison seemed pleased at the praise of her home. “You’re lucky that you came at the most beautiful time of year, when the mountains still have snow on the tops but everything else is green and lush. Dad called this time of year nature’s Renaissance.”
“That’s lovely. I’ll have to remember that. Every time I read one of your dad’s books, I discover something new.”
He could only imagine how she would feel when she discovered Carson was actuallyherfather, as well.
A quarter-mile path led through the trees from the house to Carson’s writing cabin. He always used to say it was far enough away for him to be able to have room to think, but close enough that he could wander home for lunch when his brain needed a rest.
He missed his friend with a fierce ache. Carson had been gone six months, but Beck still thought of him each time he saddled a horse or drank a Scotch or gazed up at a star-kissed sky.
By car, the distance to the cabin was about twice what it took to walk the path, traveling along the paved driveway thatcurved around pastures and outbuildings. His own house was only about two city blocks in the other direction from the writing cabin, because of the landscape.
Whenever he drove this road, he had to admire the ranch all over again. It wasn’t really a working ranch, though Carson kept several horses and a small herd of about fifty cattle and liked to grow alfalfa in a few of the fields.
It was hard not to imagine him standing on the porch of the cabin where he spent so much writing time, a smaller log-and-glass structure similar to the main ranch house, that Carson had designed himself.
Carson, a man of many talents, had also built some of it. Beck could still remember the man showing off his carpentry skills: the window frames he had built, the writing desk made out of a tree that had been cut on the property and planed in town.
That love of carpentry had been one of the things that had solidified their friendship. Carson loved to watch Beck work on the tables he made for commissions across the world.
