Reunion Beach Elin Hilderbrand (best selling autobiographies .TXT) 📖

marriage. Do you really believe she’d do that to a beloved brother and nephew, even if she disliked her sister-in-law?”

Exasperated, he runs his hands through his hair. “No, of course not. But it didn’t happen quite that way. Nellie Bee found what she thought was evidence of my affairs, which she shared with Jocasta. If only she’d come to me instead, I could’ve explained it.”

“Evidence? What evidence?”

He glances at me, then sighs heavily. “I got fan mail, Chris. Still do, but nothing like then. It’s what happens in the business—male or female, you get propositioned. And some of the notes and letters were pretty graphic. Nellie Bee’s always nosed through my stuff, and she found some of them that I’d hidden from Jocasta. I should’ve destroyed them, so it was my fault. Damn my male ego, hanging on to them! And look what it costs me.”

It’s a lot for me to take in, and finally I say, “But Bram—why didn’t you tell me this? All you said was that your wife left you to marry a former boyfriend. And how much it hurt when she was awarded full custody, and you saw your son so infrequently.”

“Well, I also told you about Michael blaming me for the breakup. His mother told him that I’d cheated on her and cared more about my sordid affairs than him. That part’s entirely on Jocasta, so don’t think I’m not holding her blameless in this.”

“I know you’re not. But you certainly didn’t tell me that you blamed Nellie Bee for any of it.”

He lowers his head. “I don’t blame her, exactly. But I know what she’s up to. My sister’s having a shit fit about Jocasta’s inclusion in the TV special. That’s what her so-called emergency meeting was about, wasn’t it? She’s trying to enlist your support to stop it from happening.”

“Frankly, her concern seems legitimate to me—considering you failed to tell me not only that you were seeing your ex-wife when you and I met, but that you were seriously considering taking her back.”

Bram’s face darkens. “I was afraid she’d tell you that. Did she tell you how she found out?”

“Yes. You told her.”

“That’s true, but only after she confronted me, claiming she’d heard rumors about me seeing Jocasta. I didn’t buy it, because I knew she’d been snooping in my computer while I was gone. But I let it go.”

“Bram, that’s not the point. You should’ve been the one to tell me this, not your sister. I had to admit to her that it was news to me—despite you and I promising to be honest with each other about our past. That was extremely important to me.”

To my surprise, he gets up so abruptly that his chair slams against the wall. “I’ve got to start dinner,” he says.

“Oh no you don’t!” I stand to face him, and when he won’t meet my gaze, I move around my chair to stop him. “Don’t do this, Bram. We need to talk about it—”

“No, what we need to do is eat.” He looks down at me, but his expression’s guarded. “I’ve been working all day and I’m famished. I’m going to fix dinner, and we’ll talk later.”

Reluctantly, I step aside. Without a backwards glance, he brushes past me to go inside, and the door swings closed behind him. I stand for a few minutes before turning back around, flummoxed. Bram’s unexpected defense of his ex-wife shocks me more than his annoyance with his sister. I can’t decide whether to follow him inside, play sous chef as I usually do, or just let it be. Automatically I pull his chair away from the wall and line it up with mine. My obsessive-compulsive need for order, I think ruefully. If only I could take the bits and pieces of my life and line them up as neatly. With a sigh, I begin to gather the empty glasses and wine bottle to take inside.

When I set them on the kitchen counter, Bram’s at the stove with his back to me. As if nothing happened, he says over his shoulder, “I need your take on this mango sauce for the sea bass. Might have too much cilantro and serrano.”

“No such thing,” I say, forcing a light tone. “I’m a Texan, remember. To hear you tell it, I was wearing a sprig of cilantro behind my ear when we first met. Not true, but makes a good story.” I decide not to say anything about our confrontation until after dinner. Maybe it’s true, that he’s just tired and hungry.

Later, I’ve dozed off in bed when I hear Bram slipping into the room. Although it’s not unusual for him to come in after I’ve turned out the lamps and fallen asleep, I’m sure it’s deliberate tonight. During dinner we talked about the food as he took notes, as he’s apt to do when creating new recipes. I’ve grown used to hearing him mutter things like “Needs salt, don’t you think?” as he takes a bite then scribbles away. He was so intent that I didn’t bring up our previous discussion until after we’d finished dinner and cleaned the kitchen. Then he held up a finger and said, “You’re right, sweetheart; we should talk this out. But first I need to make some calls.” After he’d scurried away to his office I went to mine for my own calls, catching both Victoria and William in, which rarely happens. Afterward I returned emails then went upstairs to read, waiting for Bram and our talk. He waited me out.

Annoyed as I am at his avoidance of me, I’m so groggy I can’t rouse myself to have another go at it—or at least, not for another argument. When Bram slips his arms around me, I turn to him, sleep-dazed, and his mouth covers mine. And with that, all thoughts of overprotective sisters and scheming ex-wives are pushed aside for less cerebral considerations. If his purpose was to put a stop to my questions, his method couldn’t