His grandfather’s shoulders slumped. “Should be with them,” he rasped slowly. The words seemed to exhaust him, and for the first time, Brick glimpsed the bone-deep disappointment Pop had for his only daughter.

She should have been with them. But, like William Callan II, their mother had chosen another life. And just because her choice wasn’t illegal or unethical, it still left the same bitter aftertaste. Both parents had chosen something other than them. Than him. He never wanted Spencer to feel the weight of that.

Remi patted Pop on the arm. “I know. But if she were, they might not be here. It might be just you and Dolores in this big old house, and Brick and Spence might never have found their way to our little island. You gave them what they needed most. A home, a place to finally plant some roots. And they fit right in like they were born and raised here. That’s your doing and Dolores’s doing.”

That manipulative, little redhead. He saw exactly what she was doing. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Pop struggled to say something, his lips working uselessly to form the words that wouldn’t come. He gripped the marker and moved it over the paper.

“Pink s-h-o-r—” Remi broke off laughing. “Spencer’s pink shorts! They are terrible, aren’t they?”

To Brick’s amazement, the stubborn Pop gave a shuddery chuckle. The man had never once laughed in his presence.

“Okay, maybe he doesn’t fit in quite as well as Brick does. But his grades are up.”

The old man nodded once.

“I tell you what,” she said. “If you eat the rest of that mac and cheese, I promise I’ll spill something really bad on those pink shorts the next chance I get.”

Brick watched as Pop raised his trembling right hand and managed a shaky thumbs-up.

“It’s a deal. Let me just warm this up a little bit for you so you don’t have to eat cold mac.”

Remi snuck another scoop from the pot on the stove into the bowl on her way to the microwave.

Her head lifted, and her eyes found him in the doorway. “Well, hey there, Brick. How were the horses today?”

Busted.

He pried off his other boot, dropped his cowboy hat on the bench outside and warily stepped into the kitchen. “Fine,” he said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“You want some mac and cheese? We made a whole pot of it,” she said brightly.

He eyed his grandfather, looking for a reaction. Pop reached for the paper and dragged the marker over it in a familiar pattern.

Brick stared down at the large hash mark, and Pop pointed to the chair Remi had vacated.

An unexpected invitation. Unsure, he glanced over at Remi, who flashed him a wink.

“I should shower first,” he hedged, hand on the back of the chair. He’d been under the impression his grandfather hated the idea of his dirty grandsons on his antique furniture.