Page 75 of Lucky Strike

“Can I have chocolate toast?” asks Liam as I tie his shoes. He hasn’t stopped talking about Nutella since the day we had it in town.

“We need to get going, buddy. We’ll get something on the road,” Lucky promises, closing the shutters in the living room.

“Like ice cream?”

“Like breakfast.”

“Can we stop at that one place with the bacon and egg croissants?” I ask, my stomach growling at the thought.

Liam brightens. “Bacon and eggs and chocolate toast!”

“Sure.” Lucky nods, distracted by his phone like he’s been all morning. “But we gotta go.”

We were still in bed last night when a series of texts buzzed through, insistent enough that he finally reached over to check. It was obvious by the look on his face that something had gone down, and while he wouldn’t give me specifics, it was related to the Bratva.The Sokolovs.Knowing their names puts a pain in my stomach. They are real people, with a real agenda.What are you doing, Bria?

I do one last sweep of the house while Lucky wrestles Liam’s car seat into his car. Sure enough, two little dinosaurs are chillin’ on the edge of the bathtub. I tuck them into my purse then head for the kitchen, where I transfer my peonies to a mason jar to go.

Outside, Lucky is talking to Terry and Mitch, who are idling in the driveway. Shelby and Bacon look on from the back of their SUV, tongues lolling as they wait to get going.

Liam chatters nonstop on the road, quieting long enough to swallow down croissants and juice before resuming his narrative onstars, birds we saw at the beach, and whether or not Shelby and Bacon are sad they’re not riding in the same car as us.

“I don’t think they mind,” I say when it seems like Lucky’s distracted again, lost in thought as he overtakes the car in front of us. “Terry’s car is much bigger than your dad’s. More comfy.”

“Yeah, they’re more comfy.” He marches his dinosaurs across the tray I clipped to his car seat, a few stray crumbs from his breakfast lingering behind. “Can we hear a song, Dad?”

I poke Lucky, who looks at me and blinks. “Hey.”

I tap his phone, which we’re using for navigation. “Liam wants to hear music.”

“Go ahead.” He glances at his son in the rearview mirror. “What d’you want to hear, buddy?”

Because we’re leaving Cape Cod on a weekday, traffic is light. By the time we enter Boston city limits, Liam’s dozed off again, tuckered out by his whirlwind of a morning. Terry and Mitch follow us through the gates and into Lucky’s driveway, where we unload the cars. Nola, who came back just this morning, greets us from a banana bread-scented kitchen. Gratitude at being home,thishome, settles over me like a warm blanket.

Liam wakes up, reenergized by his nap. He plows into Nola with an exuberant hug as the dogs pass by, sniffing everything to make sure all is as it should be. “Hi Nola!”

"Welcome home, little man!” She smiles, holding up a plate. “Would you like a banana muffin?”

He bounces around the kitchen like he’s got pogo sticks for legs. “Yes, please!”

“Bria?”

“That would be great, thank you.”

“I made tea, as well. Pour yourself a cup.”

Earl Gray in hand, I sink into a seat at the table and take a bite of my muffin, savoring the yummy sweetness. As delightful as the past couple of weeks by the seaside were, there’s something special about coming back to a home that’s truly begun to feel like mine.

Lucky disappears upstairs, but Terry and Mitch join us in the kitchen for muffins. Nola fusses over them, pouring them each a cup of tea and shooing them to the living room. I know for a fact Mitch preferscoffee, but I also know he’s sweet on Nola and will happily take anything she offers.

Lucky is gonefor most of the day, but he makes it home for Nola’s roast beef, carrots, and potatoes. After, we take Shelby and Bacon for a walk. Usually, Liam goes with me in the morning and his dad in the evening, but when Lucky asks if I’d like to come along, it’s an easy yes.

It’s hard to believe he’s the same man who hired me, the same one who, up until a few weeks ago, was serious and cold. Compartmentalized. I remember seeing him at the rooftop bar with Tristan and their friends, how happy and easygoing he’d seemed, and what a departure that’d been from his behavior at home. His behavior aroundme.

But it seems that telling me the truth really has brought down the barriers he’d erected, because he’s back to his old self. I get to see him like the young father he is, affectionate but stern when need be, too, treating Liam like a tiny friend as well as a little boy in need of direction. Liam thrives under Lucky’s attention, a bud blossoming in the sun. It melts my heart.

“So, what’s the story?” I ask on the way back. Liam’s a few steps ahead, picking wildflowers from the edge of Boston Common that abuts the sidewalk. “You’ve been on the phone ever since those texts last night.”

“I sent some of my guys to a manufacturer we work with in New Hampshire, to make sure everything is okay,” he says. “And it is.”

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