Bliss and the Art of Forever (A Hope Springs Novel) by Alison Kent Page B

rolling hills, cat. Do you see my problem?” The cat’s purr grew louder, and he curled into an even tighter ball, as if settling in for the rest of the day, no matter Brooklyn’s plans. “Good thing I don’t really have anything going on. Unless you want to count paying for these books.”
    And, of course, sorting through the pile of clothes she’d started pulling from her closet yesterday morning and tossed to the bed, the mess requiring her to push the mountain aside to sleep last night.
    She’d become such a pack rat the last two years. At first she blamed the lack of energy that had plagued her for months after Artie’s death. Then she had nothing—or no one—to blame but herself.
    She kept things neat, but she kept things she had no reason to. It seemed easier to move a blouse with a ragged buttonhole to the back of the closet than take it to the cleaners to be repaired.
    And now half of the clothes hanging up were ones she hadn’t worn in years. Some she hadn’t worn but once. The items were perfect for someone handy with a needle and thread. Someone who didn’t mind cuts and colors she was too old to wear. Someone who wouldn’t have the memories of Artie loving how she looked in red . . .
    “You, Brooklyn Harvey, are just plain lazy,” she said, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “Life isn’t lived in books, you know. And it’s not lived sitting on the floor of a bookstore. You’re going to have to give me my legs, cat.”
    “Look, Daddy. It’s Ms. Harvey! And she’s got a cat!”
    Hearing her name spoken with such excitement and in a voice that was part of her daily life, Brooklyn turned, grinning at the sight of Adrianne Drake running down the aisle and squatting next to her.
    “Can I pet her?” the girl asked, her hands balled in her lap as if she could barely contain them. “What’s her name?”
    “I don’t know his name,” Brooklyn said. “But you’ll need to ask your dad if petting him’s okay.” She waited a few seconds until her heart settled before lifting her gaze from Adrianne to her dad.
    “Can I, Daddy? Please?”
    Callum had been staring at the cat, but now looked at Brooklyn as if asking her permission, when Adrianne was his daughter, not hers. He was frowning, his eyes dark, as if uncertain, or caught off guard, his defenses down; strangely, she couldn’t tell if what he was feeling was about his daughter and the cat, or about her.
    “He’s been completely friendly,” she said, not wanting to make a wrong move. “But it’s up to you. Is she allergic?”
    He shook his head, then gave Adrianne a single nod. “Sit by Ms. Harvey and pet its back very softly.”
    “I will,” Adrianne said, crossing her ankles and bending her knees and folding herself into a sitting position then reaching out with a tentative hand. “Hello, Mr. Kitty. You’re very pretty. And you’re very soft.”
    Brooklyn watched Callum’s daughter stroke her hand down the cat’s back repeatedly, watched the cat shudder as if the pleasure was nearly unbearable. The look on Adrianne’s face said she was experiencing the same.
    It wasn’t quite as easy to look up and meet Callum’s gaze; he wasn’t anywhere near as transparent. He stood with his hands shoved in his jeans pockets, much as he had in her classroom last week.
    His hair was messier today than it had been then, most of it in a knot but enough falling free that she wanted to tuck it back. And, while she was there, to pull aside his oxford’s collar and read the inscription that ran in cursive letters from beneath one ear around his neck to the other.
    “I didn’t hear your bike.” It was a struggle to get the words out. It was a struggle to breathe.
    He shook his head, reached up with one hand to clear his hair from his face. Then he looked at his daughter and smiled, his dimples, like slivers of the moon, cut into the scruff on his face. “We’re in the truck today. I’ve got a rebuilt ’72 GMC. We had to go to Austin