Feels Like the First Time Read online

  “Hey, sweet pea,” her dad said. “I thought I heard you pull up. I was around back, getting ready to fire up the grill for the steak.”

  “You mean the fish and vegetable kabobs from the recipe I e-mailed you yesterday?” Ali said, giving her dad a kiss on the cheek.

  Marty shrugged. “The cod didn’t look fresh, so I went with the steak.”

  “Funny since the market advertises fresh cod caught daily. Right from there.” Ali pointed over the steep cliffs that jutted out from behind her childhood home, to the ocean crashing below. “Can’t get any fresher than that. And what about vegetables?”

  “I got corn bread. The doctor said I can eat corn, and you girls love it with my special honey butter.”

  “Corn is a grain, not a vegetable, and when you bake it in a buttered skillet then smother it in liquid sugar, I don’t think it meets the guidelines Dr. Cortes was going for.”

  Ignoring this, Marty took the bag from her hand and followed her inside. “Is this the pie?”

  “No.” Ali smiled. “That’s my just-in-case-you-bought-something-else.”

  Marty peeked in the bag at the marinating kabobs and frowned. “What kind of man celebrates his daughter’s big news with cod and zucchini on a stick?”

  “A man who doesn’t want to go into a diabetic coma,” she said, walking into the kitchen, hiding her grin at the grumbles Marty was letting loose behind her. “And don’t worry, Kennedy is bringing the pie with her.”

  Kennedy was also bringing a buffer—her fiancé, Luke Callahan. If Ali was to make it through an evening with her sister without losing it, then she needed a distraction. And nothing distracted Bridget quite like a handsome man.

  Kennedy Sinclair wasn’t just Destiny Bay’s newest celebrity baker; as Ali’s best friend, she also had her back. It had been a long while since someone had Ali’s back—and it felt damn good.

  “Coconut cream?” Marty asked, sounding like a kid at a candy store.

  “Special order.” Meaning it was high in yum factor—if one liked coconut, which Ali did not—and low in sugar for those glycemicly challenged. Marty would never know the difference. “But only men who eat their cod get dessert.”

  More grumbling ensued, but this time Ali ignored it and went right to the fridge, stacking the casseroles and pulling out all the ingredients needed to make a healthy garden salad.

  “Where’s Bridget?”

  “Running a little behind.”

  Ali looked at the clock above the stove, then over her shoulder at Marty. “I thought you were going to take her out on Chasing Destiny?” Ali asked, referring to her dad’s pride and joy—a forty-two-foot Catalina sailboat he’d spent the better part of the past decade rebuilding.

  “Too windy. Bridget was afraid she’d get seasick,” Marty said and Ali wanted to call bullshit. Yes, Bridget did suffer from the occasional motion sickness, but only when they were out in the open ocean. And since Marty had been restricted to sailing within a few miles of home, doctor’s orders, Bridget would have been fine.

  “I reminded her that I still have some pills left over from the last time she came up,” Marty said.

  “I don’t think they make a pill for what Bridget suffers from,” Ali joked, because it was the perfect day to go sailing. And the perfect day for Marty to spend time with his other daughter. The sun was bright, the sky clear, and there was a gentle breeze coming up from the south.

  The only reason Bridget didn’t want to go sailing was because Ali was better at it. And everything in Bridget’s world was a competition. Even father-daughter time.

  Marty gave Ali a stern look, but his grin ruined the scolding. “I’d better check the corn bread.”

  “I’ll get the corn bread,” Ali said, choosing to let it go. “And I’ll prep a nice green salad while I’m at it, so you can get the fish going on the grill.”

  “The casseroles, dessert? I’m supposed to be cooking you dinner,” Marty objected.

  “I don’t mind cooking for you, Dad,” she clarified.

  Marty had been taking care of Ali her whole life, always going that extra step to show her that she was loved. After her parents divorced and split everything right down the middle—including the kids—Marty had done everything he could to ensure Ali had a happy childhood. So what if their roles were a little reversed now? It felt nice to pamper him for a change.

  “But it’s your big night,” he said quietly. “You should be sipping a cold one on the porch and letting me take care of you.”

  “Just because they’re shooting my work doesn’t mean it will make it in the magazine.”

  The purpose of the article was to showcase the bold and innovative design of one of the Pacific Northwest’s most renowned architects, Nolan Landon. Who had commissioned a piece of garden art from Ali, for his personal residence, last year.

  “No sense in getting our hopes up until we know anything,” Ali said, her hopes so high it was hard to contain herself. The issue focused on the art of repurposing, a high concept design with minimal environmental footprints—Ali’s art in a nutshell. Making the cut would not only allow her to check off a major career goal, it would transform her career. “There are so many pieces in Nolan’s house to choose from.”

  In fact, he had commissioned repurposed art from several different artists, Ali being the only unknown name. But, and this was what gave her the courage to hope, her work was the centerpiece of his property.

  “I’d be thrilled to even be mentioned.” Ali turned around to find Marty standing right behind her, an expression of embarrassment mixed with sincere pride that made Ali swallow. She eyed the two ice-cold beers in his hands and lifted a brow.

  “Just a sip,” he assured her, then handed her a beer, “to celebrate my daughter.”

  She was too focused on the elegantly set kitchen table to argue.

  Made from distressed white wood, it had a blue and green table runner to match the nautical theme of the house, with glass tapers filled with sand and seashells. There were even flowers on the table, picked from the yard and haphazardly arranged—but they were flowers.

  Twinkly lights twisted around the two paddles that hung above the wall of windows that looked out over the Pacific Ocean. When Ali had been little, she’d drag a sleeping bag out on the back porch and let the waves crashing against the cliffs lull her to sleep.

  The sound was calming, hypnotic. Yet today, they didn’t seem to help the building tension that came with seeing her sister. Or how many place settings there were.

  Parties were supposed to be a compilation of the honoree’s tastes and requests. Ali was the honoree, and had requested a small, cozy, casual dinner. Yet she couldn’t help notice that Marty had brought in the extra table leaf from the garage. A leaf that took it to a party of seven.

  “What’s up with all the place settings?” she asked.

  “Oh, your sister sent those ahead and told me how to decorate the table,” Marty said. “Posted video instructions online and everything. She’s got a good eye, that one.”

  “It looks great.” Very elegant, very posh, very her sister. “But I meant, why so many? Who else is coming?”

  “Whoever you put on that list,” Marty said.

  “There were four people on my list.”

  Marty’s brows puckered in confusion. “Bridget told me to plan for seven.”

  “If we’re being technical, Bridget was never invited, she’s crashing.”

  “A girl can’t crash a dinner in her own home.”

  Spending a mandatory two weeks a summer somewhere didn’t make a place a home—one of the few things about their childhood Ali and Bridget could agree on. Whereas Destiny Bay would always be Ali’s safe place, Bridget’s had been a two-story McMansion in a gated community with their mother and stepdad number two in Seattle.

  Ali gave a stern look. “Who else is coming, Dad?”

  Marty lifted a hand in surrender. “I can’t answer what I don’t know. With you girls, I never know who’
s going to show. I just man the grill and hope for a good time.”

  “It will be a good time, no matter who comes,” Ali said softly, not wanting her dad to be disappointed over cooking for a family, when the odds of Bridget actually coming through were slim.

  Every Saturday, Marty hosted a family dinner, and every Saturday he invited Bridget to come. Until she’d married Hawk, she’d never once shown an interest. And since their divorce, she’d appeared only a handful of times. So even though this wasn’t the ideal dinner for her sister to crash, for Marty’s sake, Ali hoped Bridget came through.

  “But just in case, maybe you should make up some extra of that special honey butter of yours. You know how Bridget loves it,” Ali said.

  “Bridget doesn’t do honey butter or corn bread,” a voice sweet enough to cause a glycemic overload said from behind. “She’s gone Paleo.”

  “Since when?” Ali asked, turning to find her sister, Bridget, standing in the doorway. Her dress was couture, her shoes designer, and she had enough bling to accessorize the Kardashians for the Grammys. Her sister looked ready to walk the red carpet or have cocktails with the mayor. Not a family BBQ on the patio.

  “Since I learned how important it is to only eat things that once had a soul,” Bridget said, tossing her purse on the counter.

  “Butter comes from cows and honey from bees. Both murdered souls,” Ali pointed out.

  “Great, then I will spread it over my steak.” She crossed the room and gave Marty a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, Dad, sorry I missed our sail. I got caught up in a meeting.”

  She said it as if her meetings didn’t include mimosas, a country club, and the latest “cause” of the moment.

  “That’s okay, we’re all here now,” Marty beamed, pulling Bridget into his arms. “All of us together again, and with so much to celebrate.”

  “That’s why I brought the bubbly.” Bridget pulled a bottle of champagne from her purse. Correction, not champagne. Cristal.

  “Isn’t that nice,” Marty said, giving Ali the same Just go with it look he’d given her every birthday when she opened her present from her sister and mom to find a doll or tutu or, the worst, a new dress.

  Unless it was Jack and Coke, Ali wasn’t all that big on drinks that fizzed. But her dad was right—the idea that her sister had thought to bring a present was kind of sweet. “Thanks, B.”

  “Are you kidding? This kind of news requires a toast. I was just excited that we could all make time to get together.”

  “Me too,” Ali said, a little confused by her sister’s genuine excitement. “Here, let me put that in the fridge so it gets cold.”

  “Thanks.” Bridget handed over the bottle and took a seat at the counter. “I’ve been dying to post about it on Facebook, but we wanted to toast with you guys first.”

  Ali and her dad exchanged looks. “The pastor’s wife, Bitsy, already told her quilting group about it, and that almost acts like a press release around here, so I don’t care if you tell anyone. But speaking of we, who else is coming?”

  “Mom, of course,” Bridget said with a bright smile. “Oh, and perfect timing, she’s here.”

  Ali’s heart slammed against her chest, each pound bringing a clarity to the situation, and everything hit Ali at once. Marty’s panicked expression, the way her heart pinched with insecurity, the reality that she was wearing Converse high-tops that said BALL BUSTERS on the toes, and that her mother was there. At her celebration.

  And no one had warned Marty.

  Gail never came with a warning. She came with a sweet smile, big dreams, and left with your heart. So Ali secured hers then turned to her sister.

  “Why did you invite her?” she hissed.

  Bridget rolled her eyes. “Because I knew she’d want to be here for this.”

  Somehow Ali doubted that. Gail was about as supportive of Ali’s chosen field as she was about her fashion choices. When she’d gone off to art school, Gail had envisioned easels and watercolor landscapes, not abstract steel structures and welding equipment. “But it’s Dad’s house. You should have asked.”

  “Don’t get mad at you sister,” Gail said, walking through the front door as though she still lived there. “Proper dinner party etiquette states that everyone is allowed to bring a plus one. She was only invoking her right.”

  Forcing a happy smile, an emotion Ali had become a pro at faking, she turned around. “Mom? What a surprise.”

  “You say that like I’d miss this big moment,” Gail said as she waltzed into the kitchen, a long scarf draping over her shoulders and billowing behind her.

  Gail Marshal-Bowman-Stevens-Marshal-Goldstein-Fletcher looked like a cover model for Serene and Sexy After Sixty. Her hair was still fire red, her dress sleek and black and designed to cling, and her attitude was dialed to cougar on the prowl.

  Fitting since husband number six was twenty-five years her junior.

  “Hi, Marty, you’re looking as rugged as ever,” she said with an appreciative once-over.

  And the way she looked at Marty, like he was tonight’s prey, had Ali taking a protective step between them. But it was too late, Marty was already entrapped by the silky voice and copious amounts of cleavage on display. “Gail, glad you could make it. I’m sure Ali is over the moon. Aren’t you, sweet pea?”

  “I don’t know, she seems put out,” Gail teased. Then, as if Ali wasn’t standing right there, looked at Marty with her heart in her eyes, “I would hate to think I ruined her plans. Did I ruin her plans?”

  “No plans to be ruined, Mom. This was just a casual dinner to celebrate the news that I was in the running. The actual decision won’t be for a few weeks. If a miracle happens, I’m sure my friends will throw a party in town. If that happens, I’ll make sure you get an invitation,” Ali said, wondering why she felt the need to explain herself, make sure her mom didn’t feel left out.

  “That would be wonderful, Aliana. Now let me take a look at you,” Gail said, and Ali had the sudden urge to go wash up. “Oh, my! Is that a blister?”

  “Nah, just a little burn,” Ali said with a shy shrug, feeling all kinds of ridiculous.

  “Little burn? That is going to leave a scar.” Gail took Ali’s arm and inspected it further, like a mother would do. And something about the concern in her voice made Ali want to cry.

  Gail had been there two minutes and already Ali was being drawn into empty promises of milk mustaches and chocolate chip cookie afternoons. Gail had gone from Mrs. Robinson to Mrs. Cleaver so fluidly, everyone seemed to discount that she hated baking. She hadn’t even hugged Ali yet, and already the woman had her swaying.

  “Marty, the girl’s going to scar. Get me some ice to put on this.”

  And as if two decades and a handful of divorces hadn’t passed, Marty headed to the ice box to fetch a cube of ice and save the world from tiny scars. Or maybe he was running for the exit—either way, Ali wouldn’t blame him.

  Ali wasn’t one to give in to dramatics. Filling Hawk’s condom box up with lottery tickets or repurposing a few stolen cider kegs was about as dramatic as she got. But this whole doting mother moment was playing on all of her weak spots, making her want to give in to the fantasy.

  But that’s all it was. A fantasy created by a little girl who believed with all of her heart that her love could fix everything—even a broken family.

  “It’s fine.” Ali shoved her hands in her pockets. “I’m fine.” A state Ali had mastered—since it left little room for disappointment.

  “It might fester. That alabaster skin of yours is just like your grandmother’s.”

  “It won’t fester, Mom.”

  “I have this lotion that might help,” Bridget offered with a sweet grin. “My doctor gave it to me for the scars from the girls.” She gave her girls a jiggle and smiled.

  Ali smiled back, with a stealth finger scratch to the cheek. The middle one.

  “Seriously, though,” Bridget continued. “It is some kind of serum that promotes skin repair. A few
weeks of using it and the scars practically disappeared. I can send you some if you want.”

  “I don’t think it would help much. Scars come with the territory. One of the downfalls of working with metal.” Kind of like the blisters one got when thinking about an irritating man instead of how hot the metal had become.

  “You’re still working with metal, then? In Marty’s shop? How nice,” Gail said, sounding anything but nice.

  “She had the grand opening last year. I posted a picture on Facebook. Didn’t you see?” Marty asked, offering Gail a beer.

  Gail waved it off. “I’ll wait for the bubbly.”

  With a shrug, Marty took a hefty swallow. Ali didn’t bother reprimanding him. Gail was going to kill them both long before the diabetes.

  “Of course I saw it. I just didn’t know if she’d found her own space, maybe moved to that gallery in town.”

  “Some of my work is in that gallery.” Her work was in galleries all around the world. “And it’s not like I’m squatting in Dad’s shop. I bought it off of him last year when he decided to retire.” A huge difference in her opinion.

  An awkward silence filled the room at the word retire. Everyone there knew that Marty hadn’t welcomed an endless supply of sailing time with open arms. His diabetes had been the leading factor in his decision to sell the shop.

  And Ali had just been commissioned for her biggest project and needed the space. It had seemed a win-win all around. Only sitting idle, it seemed, was doing more damage to her dad’s mental health than the diabetes.

  Marty loved turning wrenches, fixing problems, chatting with the townsfolk. And being stuck this far out of town with nothing but his sailboat and Old Man Joe next door for company was wearing on him.

  “You know, Ali made that big arch over the highway when you came into town,” Marty said, his voice thick with pride. “Her design was chosen over a dozen other artists.”

  “It’s stunning, very unique,” Gail said, walking over to take her seat at the table, in the same place she’d sat for the first eight years of Ali’s life.