have dragged Ethan along, but once theyâd hounded him into it, Ethan would have held up his end.
The Quinn boys hadnât spent many Friday nights snoozing.
These days, he thought as he climbed out of the Jeep, Cam would be upstairs cozied up to his wife and Ethan would be tucked into Graceâs little house. Undoubtedly they both had smiles on their faces.
Lucky bastards.
Knowing he wouldnât be able to sleep, he skirted the house and walked to where the edge of the trees met the edge of the water.
The moon was a fat ball riding the night sky. It shed its soft white light over the dark water, wet eelgrass, and thick leaves.
Cicadas were singing in their high, monotonous voices, and deep in those thick woods, an owl called out in tireless two-toned notes.
Perhaps he preferred the sounds of the city, voices and traffic muffled through glass. But he never failed to find this spot appealing. Though he missed the cityâs pace, the theater and museums, the eclectic mix of food and people, he could appreciate the peace and the stability found right here day after day. Year after year.
Without it, he had no doubt he would have found his way back to the gutter. And died there.
âYou always wanted more for yourself than that.â
The chill washed through him, from gut to fingertips. Where he had been standing, staring out at the moonlight showering through the trees, he was now staring at his father. The father heâd buried six months before.
âI only had one beer,â he heard himself say.
âYouâre not drunk, son.â Ray stepped forward so that the moonlight shimmered over his dramatic mane of silver hair and into the brilliant blue eyes that were bright with humor. âYouâre going to want to breathe now, before you pass out.â
Phillip let out his breath in a whoosh , but his ears continued to ring. âIâm going to sit down now.â He did, slowly, like a creaky old man, easing himself down onto the grass. âI donât believe in ghosts,â he said to the water, âor reincarnation, the afterlife, visitations, or any form of psychic phenomenon.â
âYou always were the most pragmatic of the lot. Nothing was real unless you could see it, touch it, smell it.â
Ray sat beside him with a contented sigh and stretched out long legs clad in frayed jeans. He crossed his ankles, and on his feet were the well-worn Dock-Sides that Phillip himself had packed into a box for the Salvation Army nearly six months before.
âWell,â Ray said cheerfully, âyouâre seeing me, arenât you?â
âNo. Iâm having an episode most likely resulting from sexual deprivation and overwork.â
âI wonât argue with you. Itâs too pretty a night.â
âI havenât reached closure yet,â Phillip said to himself. âIâm still angry over the way he died, and why, and all the unanswered questions. So Iâm projecting.â
âI figured youâd be the toughest nut of the three. Always had an answer for everything. I know youâve got questions, too. And I know youâve got anger. Youâre entitled. Youâve had to change your life and take on responsibilities that shouldnât have been yours. But you did it, and Iâm grateful.â
âI donât have time for therapy right now. Thereâs no place on the schedule to fit sessions in.â
Ray let out a hoot of laughter. âBoy, youâre not drunk, and youâre not crazy either. Youâre just stubborn. Why donât you use that flexible mind of yours, Phillip, and consider a possibility?â
Bracing himself, Phillip turned his head. It was his fatherâs face, wide and lined with life and filled with humor. Those bright-blue eyes were dancing, the silver hair ruffling in the night air. âThis is an impossibility.â
âSome people said when your mother and I took you and your
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