Ten Million Fireflies (Band of Sisters) Read online

  By the looks and feel of Drew’s board, it had to be top of the line. At least a thousand dollars, and he had no problem with her taking off on it. Heck, if she had a grand to spare, she wouldn’t waste it on a paddleboard that would only be used for one short season of the year in Maine.

  “Maybe I’m borrowing it.”

  “Maybe.” But she didn’t think so.

  “Okay. So, I’m a successful hermit with a nice board. That’s all you got?”

  “Pushy. A tad snobby. Successful people usually are.” She snorted. “Never married. No kids.”

  “I could have a wife at home waiting for me right now.”

  “Then I’d have to change my evaluation to asshole husband.”

  Drew laughed. “What makes me an asshole?”

  “First, you left her at home alone while you’re hamming it up with the new woman in the neighborhood. Yeah, first dickhead move.”

  He nodded. “And the second?”

  Brooke ran her tongue across her top teeth. There were total flirting vibes going on, but what if she’d imagined them? If Drew hadn’t been subtly hitting on her, she’d feel like a fool for bringing it up.

  “I don’t think there needs to be a second.”

  Drew nodded again. “I concur. It would make me an asshole of a husband if I had a wife at home while I was—” He stopped himself and brought his gaze to hers.

  Yeah. Some heavy eye flirting was happening between them. It had been ages. More than ages since a man showed any interest in her. Dating in her line of work hadn’t been high on the priority list.

  “I can’t comment much on your taste in clothes, though.” She wiggled her index finger up and down, pretending to scrutinize his attire, or rather, lack thereof. “You could be the suit and tie type, but I don’t see it.” She hoped not. Brooke crossed her arms and scratched her chin with her finger. “I’m guessing casual business. Self-employed so you dress for yourself. Comfortable, semi-stylish.”

  “What exactly is semi-stylish?”

  Good question. Brooke’s choice of clothing was jeans and Converse or shorts and sneakers. She’d have to look halfway presentable in the fall when school started but dressing for gym class every day wouldn’t be too hard.

  “Designer jeans.” Not that she could name any. “And button-downs. That’s your work outfit. Maine doesn’t lend itself to too many three-piece suit jobs.”

  “Maybe I’m not a Mainer. Just here on vacation like you.”

  “I’m renting. Didn’t say I was on vacation.” She hadn’t thought about Drew not being a local. For some reason, she thought he fit into the lake lifestyle.

  “You work around here?”

  “I’m interrogating you, remember? What is it you do?”

  Drew picked up the paddle and set it across his shoulders, resting against the back of his neck. He draped his arms over it and grinned. “Since you’re so good at this interrogation thing, why don’t you tell me?”

  “Difficult little bastard, aren’t ya?”

  “You’re not the first one to tell me that. I hate to leave, but I’m on a deadline and need to get back to work.”

  “Ah. A clue.”

  “Maybe we can finish this... interrogation sometime this weekend?”

  Oh? A date? Yeah, Brooke was game for that. “I can probably work that in between my frequent bouts of trespassing.”

  “No trespassing.” Drew’s face grew somber.

  “No worries.”

  “Good. You should stay away from that property.”

  “No can do.”

  “You can. And you will.”

  Was that an order? The teasing mannerisms had fallen by the wayside, replaced with a pair of stern, serious eyes. “I won’t be trespassing if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

  “Good.”

  “Because I’m going to buy the property.” Shit. She’d never been good at poker. Way to poke the hungry bear. She’d always been overly confident and stepped up to challenges. Unfortunately, this one was out of her control. If the owners didn’t want to sell, there wasn’t much she could do about it.

  But maybe there was something five million dollars could do.

  Drew dropped his arms and the paddle fell to the ground behind him in a clatter. “You what?”

  “I’m going to buy it,” she said with what she hoped sounded like confidence.

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “It will be.”

  “They’d never—”

  “The Shermans are lovely people.” At least they were from what she’d read about them.

  Drew gasped and took a step back as if she’d slapped him. “No.” His skin turned pale and dotted with sweat. His breath was laborious. “No,” he said again.

  “Drew, I...” She what? She wouldn’t apologize, even though the possibility of her buying the property seemed to shake him up.

  “I... I need to...” He closed his eyes and pressed his thumbs deep into his sockets before dropping his hands to pick up the paddle. He hopped onto his board and pushed off the shore without turning around to say goodbye, disappearing around the bend.

  “What the hell?”

  She may have been out of the dating loop, but she was pretty sure she could read the signals bouncing between them. Drew didn’t despise her, yet her buying the camp had set him off.

  Not wanting his piss-poor attitude to bring her down, she scooped up her laptop and trudged up the slope to the house.

  Tomorrow she had a meeting with her lawyer. And then the fun would begin.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The only experience Brooke had with lawyers was with the reading of her grandmother’s will and paying off all her debts, and then her latest meeting with Henry Morton.

  After Drew had stormed off and paddled across the pond, Brooke had spent the rest of the day researching insurance policies, contractors, and similar camps across New England. Lucky for her, she’d stumbled across Carl Mayberry, Esq. He’d lost his sister and mother in a car accident when he was a teenager and was excited about her idea to start a camp for grieving children. In fact, he was so excited, he agreed to work for her pro bono and even convinced his firm to donate to a scholarship fund.

  She’d already met with Mayberry to create a list of questions, issues, and finances that would need to be figured out before she went to the town of Angel Springs for a permit.

  But first, she needed to contact the owner of the property. Back in its day, it had been Camp Sunrise. The typical summer camp had designated weeks for boys, others for girls, and some for both genders. It was open from Memorial Day through Labor Day, and it had a Columbus Day weekend camp for older teens that included hiking Sugarloaf.

  Mayberry did more digging and emailed Brooke some articles about a fifteen-year-old who died in one of the cabins, and a drowning three years before that. With the deaths only a few years apart, the camp’s enrollment dropped—as did its funding—and the owners eventually went bankrupt.

  She read through the story about the Shermans. The journalist made them out to be a kind couple with a bad bit of karma following them. She clicked open the article about the boy who died in the cabin. The name of the boy and the teenage camp counselors were left out.

  How traumatic for everyone involved, especially the children at the camp that summer.

  Sighing, she closed her eyes and leaned back, her head resting on the couch cushion, her laptop heavy on her thighs. It would be fitting to have a camp for grieving children at a place where children experienced grief firsthand. All the signs were there.

  The camp was meant to be. Hopefully, Mayberry would get back to her soon with a price for the property. It wasn’t on the market, but she’d offer a fair price for it... whatever it might be.

  Still wanting to do something special for her sisters, she sent each an individual text asking for items on their bucket lists. As if they’d communicated with each other already, they each responded with silly things like marrying Jason Mom
oa, having sex in a canoe, or a magic pill where they could eat ice cream and drink wine all day and never gain an ounce.

  All wishes her five million couldn’t help with. Well, she supposed she could fly Charlie to wherever Jason was, and she could find plenty of men more than willing to have sex with Skye in a canoe, but if she found the magic pill to keep weight off, she’d market that bad boy and invest her billions into free camps and therapies for every suffering child in America.

  I love you guys, she texted to the group.

  The L-word wasn’t one she doled out too often. Really, to anyone. Never to a guy. Not often to her grandmother when she was alive, and Brooke hadn’t been on the receiving end of the L-word, either. To her, love wasn’t about hearts and flowers and romance—she cared little about that stuff. Not that she’d know.

  Love was family. Friendship. Honesty. Loyalty. Love was her Band of Sisters.

  Her phone rang, the number now familiar to her. “Hello?” She put her cell on speaker and set it on the kitchen counter while she took vegetables out for a salad.

  “Ms. Ross, it’s Carl Mayberry.”

  “Hi, Carl. Do you have a price for me yet?”

  “Yes and no.”

  Brooke puffed out her lips in a sigh and chopped her knife through a carrot. “I guess you should start with the no.”

  “The Shermans don’t want to sell, but they want to meet you.”

  “Do they typically drag potential buyers through the wringer before kicking them to the curb?”

  “According to my resources, no. You’re the first they’ve asked to meet. My guess it’s because you’re the first who wants to resurrect a camp instead of building a massive lake house.”

  “Okay.” She tossed the carrot into a bowl and picked up a cucumber. “When would you like to get together?”

  “Not me. Just you.”

  “Oh.” Brooke set the cucumber down and leaned her hip against the counter. “Is that normal?”

  “Nothing about this situation is normal. Normally, I’d suggest legal representation, but the Shermans are in their seventies and have a reputation of being very kind.”

  She handled men who didn’t think she should be in the military—some who even put up a stink about fighting by her side—and insurgents whose mission was to kill American soldiers. She could handle a seventy-year-old couple.

  “I’ll meet ’em. Send me their address.”

  Before she had the rest of the vegetables chopped for her salad, Mayberry sent the address. They lived in Strong, only a few towns away from Angel Springs. Interesting that they wanted nothing to do with their gorgeous property on the water.

  She’d just settled into the corner of the couch with her salad and bag of Doritos—because it was all about balance—when her phone chimed. She looked down at the screen. Mayberry.

  I arranged your meeting. Be at their house at 2:30 tomorrow afternoon. Let me know how it goes. Good luck.

  Good luck? Did he think the meeting wouldn’t go well? Brooke stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork and dipped it in the creamy Ranch dressing. She got halfway through her salad and decided chips and a beer were a necessary preparation for tomorrow’s meeting with the Shermans.

  She needed that property. Her friends needed it as well. And so did the kids.

  BROOKE TURNED DOWN a narrow road riddled with potholes and continued to follow the directions coming from her phone. Sure enough, her destination was on the right. The long, dirt driveway brought her to a storybook farmhouse. To the right was an open field and to the left, a red barn, attached to the house with an L-frame.

  She sat in her car for a minute and ran through the many ways the next hour could go. The Shermans could rip into her about invading their special quiet space, as their watchdog neighbor had done. Or they could quiz her for hours until she broke down and revealed her crappy parentage, as well as her need to rectify Ike’s wrongs by putting the money to a good cause.

  They could question her experience in running a camp—which was zilch—and tell her they’d rather sell to someone competent, which she wasn’t.

  It wasn’t like her to be so insecure. She shook the negative thoughts away and shoved her door open. “Don’t get wrapped around the axle.” The expression she’d picked up from the army came in handy more on civilian soil than in Afghanistan. “I can handle two old people,” she muttered to herself, putting one sneaker in front of the other until she reached the bottom of the first step to the farmer’s porch.

  “You must be Brooklyn Ross,” an elderly man said as he held open the front door. “Helen’s been waiting all day for you.”

  She was tempted to pull out her cell phone to check the time, but she knew she was a few minutes early. Punctuality was as important as hospital corners in her bedsheets.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Sherman,” she said, holding out her hand to shake his.

  The old man’s hands were strong yet bony in hers, and she was careful not to squeeze too hard. He wore a red plaid shirt buttoned to the top, which pulled tight around his middle, and a pair of khakis. His thinning hair was combed to the side and his bright blue eyes shone with excitement.

  “We don’t get many visitors on a Thursday afternoon. Helen’s been in the kitchen all day.”

  “I hope you haven’t gone to any trouble for my visit.”

  “Nonsense.” Mr. Sherman tugged at her hand until she stepped through the doorway and into the entryway.

  The dark wood floors gleamed as if freshly polished. The room to her right looked to be a sitting room right out of an old movie with cute, classy furniture and lace doilies everywhere.

  “Why don’t you join us in the kitchen?” He finally dropped her hand and held out his, as if guiding her down the hall.

  Brooke followed the noise and the delicious smells into the kitchen. It, too, looked like it belonged in a 1950s movie. Wallpaper stamped with herbs and whitewashed cabinets framed the room, while a heavy oak table took up most of the kitchen space.

  They obviously used it for kitchen prep as well as mealtime.

  “You must be Brooklyn. What a lovely name.” Mrs. Sherman wiped her hands on her purple apron and wrapped her short, plump arms around Brooke in a fierce hug. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “Oh.” What the heck had they heard? And why did they think she was here? Maybe they were just as eager to get the land off their hands as she was to buy it. “Thank you.”

  “I hope you like oatmeal scotchies. I made some chewy and some a little crisp. Marcus likes them crisp. Burnt, really, but I refuse to ruin a perfectly fine cookie by intentionally over baking it. How do you like your cookies?”

  No one had ever asked her that before, so she had to stop and think about it. “Fresh out of the oven,” she said honestly, as it was the most amazing smell she’d ever experienced. Her grandmother cooked, but rarely baked. When Brooke wanted cookies, she had to save her money and buy some at the convenience store on her way home from school.

  And in the military, she’d take whatever she could get. Cookies straight from the oven were never an option.

  “Smart girl. I like her,” Helen said to Marcus.

  “Um. Thank you.” Brooke discreetly looked around the kitchen to see if she was missing something. Her friends. A candid camera crew. What the heck had her lawyer told this couple?

  “Have a seat, dear,” Marcus said. “I’ll make you a plate of cookies.”

  “A plate isn’t necessary. I’ll just have one.” Brooke sat in the chair Marcus held out for her and scooted in.

  “Nonsense. No one eats just one cookie,” Helen said with a laugh.

  In a matter of seconds, a plate heaped with cookies, some chewy and some crispy, sat before her. She assumed they all weren’t for her, and she took one of the chewy cookies and bit into it. Warm butterscotch chips melted in her mouth and coated her tongue with delicious memories of when her fifth-grade teacher Mrs. Wilder used to bring in oatmeal chocolate chip cookies for the class
.

  “Mm,” she moaned.

  “I knew you’d like the chewy ones.”

  “Wow.” Brooke finished chewing and swallowed, savoring the oatmeal, butter, and brown sugar. “So good. These are amazing. What kind of cookies are they?”

  “Oatmeal scotchies. Don’t tell me you’ve never had them before?” Helen gasped and slapped a hand over her heart.

  She was an adorable lady. Maybe five-one on her tippy toes. Her tight, gray curls framed her cherub face, her glasses rested on chubby cheeks that grew even more pronounced when she smiled—which she seemed to do a lot.

  “Can’t say that I have. I have a friend who’s amazing in the kitchen. I’ll have to ask her to make some—” She almost said ‘for the camp’ but stopped herself before ruining what seemed to be a nice moment with the Shermans.

  “I’ll write down the recipe and give it to you before you leave.”

  “Thank you. Charlie will thank you as well.”

  “Charlie? Isn’t that a man’s name?” Mr. Sherman asked as he snapped a crispy cookie in half.

  “Her name is Charlotte, but everyone calls her Charlie. It fit better in the army as well.”

  “Army? A woman?”

  “Don’t be so obtuse, Marcus. Women were in the military when we were young as well.”

  “Is she a cook?” he asked.

  “Forgive my husband. He’s old-fashioned and doesn’t think a woman should work outside the house. I had an awful time convincing him to let me work side by side with him when we ran Camp Sunrise.”

  “I think no such thing.” Marcus swatted the air in front of him. “Are you serving as well?”

  Brooke nodded. “I did. Twelve years in the U.S. Army.”

  “Thank you for your service.” Helen placed a hand over hers. “I’m sure it was difficult being away from your family and seeing so much death and corruption.”

  She lifted a shoulder and offered a weak smile. “I don’t have any family, so the army instantly became mine. I surrounded myself with good people. When stationed in Virginia, I met up with fellow women soldiers from Maine.”