“Same.” He’d come in here seeking solitude, but Meg’s presence had turned out to be the balm his soul needed.
His gaze tracked her form as she crept to the exit, bathed in a sliver of light that seeped through the edges. He watched her press an ear to the door, listening for voices. “Sounds like the coast is clear,” she murmured.
“Good luck.”
She pushed open the door, and Kyle heard the clamor of voices coming from upstairs. Light washed over the inside of the closet, and he stepped back a little, not wanting anyone to spot him if they happened to walk by.
But the hall must have been empty, because Meg stepped out into the light. She turned and gave him the barest hint of a wave, then pushed the door shut behind her. He listened to her footsteps echoing down the hall as she walked away, and he felt a pang of sadness that had nothing to do with the memorial service he’d just attended.
Your brother’s memorial service, you disloyal ass.
Kyle closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, listening to the thud of his own heartbeat. He waited until it slowed down a bit, listening at the door as a pair of voices trickled past talking about a memory of a time Matt shared his glove with another player at a Little League game.
That was me, thought Kyle, not sure if it mattered. Me who shared the glove, not Matt.
But it had been Matt who made the kid laugh. The boy had a drunk dad and a dead mom and a lower lip that quivered when he looked up into the stands and saw his father hadn’t come. Matt took him under his wing, telling him filthy jokes and glowering at anyone who mocked the kid’s hand-me-down uniform.
That’s the Matt I want to remember, Kyle thought, his throat swelling tight with the memory. The Matt who gave wedgies to defend a poor kid’s honor.
He wasn’t sure if five minutes had passed, but the coast seemed clear and he was sure he’d heard Meg’s footsteps fading up the stairs several minutes ago. He pushed the door open, squinting as the light hit him in the face.
A woman was walking down the other end of the hall toward the bathroom, but she had her back to him, so Kyle slipped out the door. He shut it softly behind him, hoping he didn’t smell too much like cleaning products. He lifted his shirt sleeve and sniffed, but didn’t notice anything especially fragrant. Maybe a trace of Meg’s perfume, but that was probably all in his head.
He took the stairs slowly, not eager to get back to the crowd upstairs. He hadn’t hit the bar yet, so maybe he’d grab a beer or a plate of food and?—
He froze at the top of the stairs. Ten feet away, Meg stood at the edge of the railing, her fingers clenched so hard around it her knuckles had gone white. Beside her, his mother was talking fast, her cheeks flushed as she thrust an envelope at Meg.
Kyle stepped forward, a cold prickle creeping up his arms as he heard his mother’s words.
“This is your official notice of legal action,” Sylvia said. “You can contact our attorney if you have any questions.”
Meg’s face was ashen, and she looked at the envelope like Sylvia had just blown her nose on it. She reached out and took it, and Kyle could see her hands were shaking.
“What’s going on here?” he asked. He took in his mother’s red-rimmed eyes with dark circles beneath them, and his heart twisted. He looked at Meg, feeling his chest clench tighter at the sight of her pale, bewildered expression.
His mother was first to speak. “I’m protecting your brother’s legacy,” she said as tears glinted in her eyes. “I’m making sure his work wasn’t all in vain.”
“How are you doing that?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“By claiming his half of the cookbook.”
Chapter 8
“So what did your agent say?”
Kendall grabbed one of Meg’s cucumber and salmon crudités and took a bite, propping her feet on the edge of Meg’s coffee table.
“She said it’s after ten p.m. on a Saturday on the East Coast, so she needed a little more time to track down the legal team.”
“But does she think you ought to fight it?”
“Of course,” Meg said, glum at the thought of fighting anything. She just wanted to curl up in a ball and savor the notion that someone besides her mom and her best friend had read her cookbook.
“Good,” Kendall said, taking another vicious bite of the crudités. “You did all the work on that damn book. You deserve to reap the benefit.”
“Not all the work?—”
“Honey, you paid off your debt to anyone else who had a hand in it. That graphic designer you bartered with to lay the whole thing out—she’s not showing up on your doorstep demanding a cut, is she?”
