Page 34 of Homeport

Oh, he’d looked so pathetic. So sad and sick and silly. She’d wanted to cuddle him, to soothe, to stroke all those poisons out of him. Poisons, she thought guiltily, she’d sold him because she was angry.

It wasn’t the liquor, not really, she thought. It was his heart, and she just didn’t know how to reach it.

She wondered if she could if she only cared about him a little less.

She heard the pipes clunk as he ran the shower, and it made her smile. He was so much like this house, she thought. A little threadbare, a little damaged, but surprisingly sturdy under it all.

He just couldn’t see that Elise, for all her brains and beauty, hadn’t been right for him. They’d made a stunning couple, bright and brilliant, but that was all surface. She hadn’t understood his foundation, his need for sweetness, and the ache in his heart that came from not believing himself worthy of love.

He needed tending.

That she could do, Annie decided, pushing up her sleeves. If nothing else, she could bully him into finding his feet again.

Friends, she told herself, stood by friends.

The kitchen was full of homey scents when he came back. If it had been anyone but Annie, he might have locked himself in his room. The shower had helped, and the pills had shoved the worst of the hangover away. The edges of it were still churning in his stomach and rolling in his head, but he thought he could manage now.

He cleared his throat, worked up a smile. “Smells great.”

“Sit down,” she told him without turning.

“Okay. I’m sorry, Annie.”

“No need to apologize to me. You should apologize to yourself. That’s who’s being hurt here.”

“I’m sorry anyway.” He looked down at the bowl she put in front of him. “Oatmeal?”

“It’ll stick to you, coat your stomach.”

“Mrs. Patch used to make me eat oatmeal,” he said, thinking of the sharp stick of a woman who’d cooked for them when he was a boy. “Every day before school, fall, winter, and spring.”

“Mrs. Patch knew what was good for you.”

“She used to put a little maple syrup in it.”

Feeling her lips twitch, Annie reached into a cupboard. She knew his kitchen as well as her own. She set the bottle of syrup in front of him, and added a plate of hot toasted bread. “Eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took the first bite cautiously, uncertain anything would stay down. “It’s good. Thanks.”

When she saw he was making headway, and his color was no longer sickly gray, she sat across from him. Friends stood by friends, she thought again. And they were honest with each other.

“Andrew, you’ve got to stop doing this to yourself.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink.”

She reached out, touched his hand. “If you take one drink, you’re going to take the next, and the next.”

Annoyed, he jerked his shoulders. “Nothing wrong with a drink now and then. Nothing wrong with getting drunk now and then.”

“There is when you’re an alcoholic.”

“I’m not.”

She sat back. “I run a bar and I was married to a drunk. I know the signs. There’s a difference between someone who has a couple too many and someone who can’t stop.”

“I can stop.” He picked up the coffee she’d poured him. “I’m not drinking now, am I? I don’t drink at work—and I don’t let it affect my work. I don’t get drunk every night.”

“But you drink every night.”

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