The Other Brother Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF

  LAUREN BARATZ-LOGSTED

  THE THIN PINK LINE

  “Wonderfully funny debut with a fine sense of the absurd and a flair for comic characterization.”

  —Kirkus starred review

  “Hilarious and original.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “This is amusing, light fun.”

  —Booklist

  CROSSING THE LINE

  “Baratz-Logsted has a great voice.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Even better than the first book!”

  —Booklist

  THE BRO-MAGNET

  “There are so many memorable moments in this book that I could spend page after page quoting them.”

  —USA Today

  ISN’T IT BRO-MANTIC

  “Will have readers experiencing major belly laughs.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  THE SISTERS CLUB

  “Who doesn’t need a sister? That’s the question at the heart of the charming novel, The Sisters Club. With her deft touch and sure eye for character, Lauren Baratz-Logsted lovingly evokes the lives of four ordinary women who become each other’s surrogate families. A warm, wise, and witty tale. You will love it!”

  —Elizabeth Letts, bestselling author of The Eighty-Dollar Champion

  FALLING FOR PRINCE CHARLES

  “Strong characterization, eyebrow-raising situations and quirky dialogue will leave you cheering for this decidedly unusual couple who, against all odds, find love.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Daisy’s madcap adventure is more comedy than romance, and her most unusual and unlikely relationship with Prince Charles will appeal to readers looking for lots of giggles.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Lauren Baratz-Logsted has mastered the real-life fairy tale in her explosive and hilarious Falling for Prince Charles. It’s all here, lovelorn Daisy Silverman flush with cash and high hopes, Prince Charles who can’t resist her, and London in all its splendor. Curl up and get ready to laugh long into the foggy night.”

  —Adriana Trigiani, New York Times

  bestselling author of The Shoemaker’s Wife

  Also by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  Falling for Prince Charles

  The Sister’s Club

  Jane Taylor Novels

  The Thin Pink Line

  Crossing the Line

  Johnny Smith Novels

  The Bro-Magnet

  Isn’t is Bromantic?

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, New York 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition August 2018.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63576-042-2

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63576-041-5

  LSIDB/1808

  For my sister-in-law,

  Kathleen Baratz,

  sister and friend.

  PART I

  London

  He sucked all the air out of the room.

  Jack’s dad had asked about the agency, and Jack had replied about how well things were going. He’d even started to tell about our exciting plans for the summer when Denny cut him off, launching into a tale about some gig he’d done in Malaysia the week before. As Denny went on, and on and on, I saw Jack’s face fall. Well, who can beat a gig in Malaysia?

  We were in the sitting room at my in-laws’ house, having pre-dinner drinks. My husband and his father, Burt, were side by side on the sofa. Burt’s a big-bellied, burly man with muttonchops, a look he’s favored the whole time I’ve known him, the muttonchops having long since gone white; bowlegged, Burt always looks like he just climbed off a Harley. My boys were pretending to play something on the floor not too far from Denny’s swinging foot. There was so much pent-up energy in that swinging foot.

  Of course Denny was seated in the best chair in the room, by the fireplace. Me, I was standing with my drink next to the occasional table, the one with family photos blanketing it. There were several pictures of my sons, one for each year from womb until now, and several of Jack, including our wedding portrait. I’m sorry to say I look like a giant confection in it; blame the dress on the Princess Di fervor that had still been going on two years after her own wedding, which was when mine took place—I’d choose differently now if I could. As for Denny, the only pictures of him on display were from when he was a small child. Really, on the entire lower level of the house, there was no other evidence that he had ever lived there, which had been part of the problem once upon a time.

  I suppose he’d say that it wasn’t his fault, strictly speaking, that the air went out of the room whenever he spoke. He’d say that the room was too small to hold him, that he was more used to arenas, and sometimes even those weren’t big enough! And if he said that? The world would agree with him. Not many people can get the whole entire world to agree with them on a single thing, perhaps because most people aren’t known by pretty much every living person on the planet, but my brother-in-law can and was, simply because my brother-in-law was Denny Springer, lead singer for the greatest rock-and-roll band in the world; or, as it’s usually printed in mags: The Greatest Rock-and-Roll Band In The World, like it’s an official title they’ve earned or an award won, like the Booker or the Nobel.

  Even in remote parts of the planet, people knew who Denny Springer was. Why, I read a story once, in one of those same mags, about one time when Denny was contributing to that charity album that was supposed to save the rainforest; they helicoptered him in and some woman came out of the bush or whatever it’s called—as a travel agent, you’d think I’d know these things—and even though her tribe had supposedly never had contact with civilization before, after her initial shock at seeing him, she’d launched into an off-key rendition of “Frustration,” his signature song, after which she had him autograph her bra, which, if I remember correctly, was made out of polished gourds.

  It’s safe to say that the world has cut Denny some slack at every turn.

  It’s even safer to say that I never have.

  Thankfully, Edith called us all in to Easter dinner then. Physically, Edith often reminds me of the main character from Keeping Up Appearances, only much shorter and minus the faux plummy accent. She always wears dresses, and there’s almost always a belt high up that only serves to accentuate the firm ball of tweed-covered belly below. Edith is also frequently hysterical, but not in a funny way. At least, though, as she loudly shrieked for us to come in to dinner, she was saving us from hearing more about Malaysia. Or so I thought.

  Not that my sons needed it; saving, that is. The way they’d stared at their uncle, like he was some sort of celebrity or something. Well, who could blame them? They’d seen him on the news or on the covers of magazines countless times. But in person? Hardly half a dozen.

  In the dining room, without thinking, without even asking Edith where she wanted us all to sit, Denny immediately settled into the seat at the head of the table. I saw Burt open his mouth, preparatory to objecting—it was his seat, after all, his house—but then Edith jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow as she set the platter with the
lamb at the foot of the table instead, giving her husband an amused eye-roll and a jerk of the head in the general direction of their eldest son. Despite the condescension in that jerking head and those rolling eyes, I knew that Edith didn’t look down on her son, necessarily. It was more like both she and Burt were eternally puzzled by Denny and not a little frightened of him too.

  Once, while watching a televised program of one of his concerts with them, Burt shook his head in confusion throughout and Edith was heard to mutter, “I thought he was going to be a maths teacher…”

  Now the man who’d been meant to be a maths teacher was opening a case he’d kept close by since arriving earlier in the day and removing a large device, from which there came a ringing sound.

  “I’ve been expecting a call,” Denny said importantly, punching a button on the device and placing it to his ear.

  “What’s that?” Burt asked.

  “It’s a mobile phone,” Denny said, covering the speaker with one hand.

  Of course there were smaller mobiles available by then, but Denny would have to have one that looked more ornate, like something the Queen might use. Or Batman.

  “A phone?” Burt said. “Look at that contraption. A phone in its own little suitcase?” He snorted. “I can’t see those ever catching on.”

  Looking annoyed, Denny rose from his chair and exited the room to continue his call in private, stopping only long enough to snag a hot cross bun from the basket Edith had put out earlier.

  My boys’ eyes followed him like he was God.

  And at the table: silence.

  The only noises were the sounds of Denny talking and laughing his end of the conversation in the living room.

  After a full ten minutes, the realization dawning on all of us that Denny wouldn’t be returning anytime soon, Jack offered, “I suppose we might as well go ahead and eat then.”

  “We can’t eat Easter dinner without your brother,” Edith said stridently.

  “Why?” Jack said. “We’ve been eating Easter dinner without him for twenty years or more.”

  “And that’s the point,” Edith said. Strident as she might naturally be, it was rare for her to say no to Jack. She loved him. Really, she did. “He hasn’t been here in so long, it wouldn’t be right.” A firm nod of the head. “We’ll wait.”

  All this talk about how long it’d been since Denny was home, coupled with him not even bothering to remain at the table, did make me wonder: just why had Denny come home?

  Even if Jack hadn’t persuaded Edith that we could start eating, by speaking up he had broken the ice, so he and Burt went back to talking about the travel agency again. They’d gotten as far as rehashing what had already been said—business very good; booming, really!—and Jack was once again on the verge of sharing our summer plans, when Denny returned.

  Without so much as an apology, he reseated himself at the head of the table, crossing one skinny leg over the other as he lounged back in his chair. “Where were we?” he wondered. And then, not waiting for an answer: “Ah, right—Malaysia!”

  Burt finally carved up the lamb, then my eldest handed a plate to Denny, my eldest’s hands shaking like he were making an offering to a god who might smite him if displeased. I worried Denny might say something rude or mocking, but to his credit, he steadied the plate with his own hands, all the while giving my son a high-wattage smile of reassurance. That is the thing about my brother-in-law: a total asswipe, but then there are these glimpses of blinding block-out-the-sun charisma, and in those instances you see exactly what the whole world sees, why there are women who would—and have—walked on broken glass to have one of those smiles directed at them.

  And a moment later: “Lamb’s cold,” Denny announced.

  Well, for fuck’s sake, what did the man expect?

  I can’t say he used a complaining tone—it was more like he was making an empirical observation—but still.

  He pushed the plate slightly away from himself, only half-heartedly picking at the potatoes and veg as he took us on a whirlwind tour of his recent experiences in the East, near and Far. I winced at some of the “sex, drugs” parts of his “sex, drugs, and rock and roll” anecdotes, but there was no stopping him once he got going, and I could only hope my boys didn’t know their hookers from their hookahs just yet. Perhaps it was all gobbledygook to them?

  “You should eat more,” Edith said when Denny paused for breath. “You always were a skinny lad, but you’re a grown man now. It’s time you put some meat on you.”

  Oh, he was grown all right. How old was Denny now? I did the numbers in my head. If I was thirty-three, Denny was forty-two; for quite some time, like a moon attached to a planet, I’d always known what my age was in relation to Denny.

  To his credit, again, Denny ate some more of the lamb, which really was dreadfully cold, before pushing the plate aside for good.

  When Edith tried to protest, again, he put her off with a wave of the hand. “I’m not really that hungry today,” he said, immediately belying the words by grabbing another hot cross bun.

  This he only picked at, fingering off the sticky icing and popping his glistening forefinger into his mouth in a way that, under other circumstances, could only be deemed sexual.

  It did occur to me, as it must have to Edith, that a man like Denny must almost always be hungry for something; he simply wasn’t hungry for mum-made lamb with potatoes and a proper veg on the side. I felt bad for Edith then. As my boys got increasingly older and independent—or as independent as they could be at nine and seven—some days I felt all I could do for them as each step in life took them further from my womb, further from my home, was to provide a good meal for them and love them. But poor Edith. Denny, his taste buds long since grown accustomed to the most exotic cuisines and the finest chefs in the world, couldn’t, or wouldn’t, let her do that.

  Hell, the man had his own personal world-class chef. Everyone who read the mags knew that.

  There are times, I must confess, that I do believe I spend too much time surreptitiously reading the mags or trying deliberately not to.

  The main course finished, I helped Edith clear the table for dessert. She’d just brought the pudding in when Denny reached into his inside jacket pocket, drawing out a packet of French cigarettes. He had one out and between his lips, a gold lighter flicking in his other hand—that lighter probably weighing more in solid gold than everything in my jewelry box combined—when Edith shouted, “You can’t smoke that in here!”

  Denny was so startled he nearly dropped his unlit smoke.

  “I can’t?” he said dumbly.

  Edith pointed with vehemence at a sign on the sideboard: Thank You For Not Smoking.

  I knew that sign. Edith had similar signs, which she’d put out the year before, in every room in the house. Honestly, it was impossible to believe that Denny had missed them.

  “Christ,” Denny muttered. “It’s worse than America.”

  Edith ignored that. “If you must smoke that,” she said, “you may do so outside. Pudding can wait a bit.”

  Why not? We’d waited for the lamb for a half hour. At least the pudding couldn’t go cold since it already was.

  “Your dad and Jack can have an after-dinner drink while we wait for you,” Edith added. “And if you’re going, you can take the dog with you for a walk.” She paused before yelling, “Digger!”

  The previously unseen Digger, a spaniel, came scampering out. You’d think he’d have been around earlier, but Digger often hides when we come to visit. The boys have a tendency to carry him around by his armpits, as a result of which he has the tendency to play dead without anyone asking him to.

  Dumbfounded, Denny dropped to one knee and gave the dog a good scratch on the head and belly. “I can’t believe you still have Digger,” he said.

  Honestly. The man really was a prat. Did he really think this was the same Digger from when he was a child growing up in this house? If so, the dog
would be over two hundred years old in dog years! In the time I’d known the Springers, I’d seen at least one Digger come and go.

  “Dennis.” Edith laughed as though surely her son must be joking while I was equally certain that, surely, he was not.

  The scratching hands stopped mid-scratch as he stiffened at that Dennis. For over two decades now he’d only ever been Denny or Den, and that old familiar must have rankled with its reminder that he wasn’t always the stuff of groupie wet dreams; that, once upon a time, even he had been a silly little boy, capable of saying extraordinarily foolish things.

  The front door of the Springer house, which is not a particularly large house, is in full view of the dining room table, and Denny was just turning the knob as I rose.

  “I think I’ll join you,” I called.

  I felt more than saw Jack glare at me. Jack hated it when I smoked.

  But screw that. I hated how hard it was to stay slim after having two kids.

  When I first met Jack Springer, twelve years prior to that Easter dinner, I had no idea who he was. Or, maybe it would be more proper to say, I had no idea whose brother he was.

  We met in a pub, which, I believe, is every young girl’s dream, to be able to one day tell her children, “Your father and I met in a pub. We were both fairly wasted at the time.”

  I was there with my best friends, Stella and Bria. Back then, we called ourselves The Three A’s because of the final vowel sound in all of our names. Well, we thought we were clever.

  It was Karaoke Night and we’d already had our go at it with “Every Breath You Take,” complete with hand gestures like shading our eyes visor-like and telescoping our heads every time we sang “I’ll be watching you”—nothing like a little stalker music. Stella and Bria had met two guys to while away the night with, and so I was on my own at the bar, finishing up the bottom of a G&T, when I noticed the man on the stool next to me watching me. For all I knew, he could have just got there or he could have been there for the last hour. That’s the thing about Jack, as opposed to his brother: you can’t miss Denny, while Jack takes a lot longer to show up on the radar. It’s not that Jack’s bad to look at—far from it. It’s more like his looks sneak up on you, one of those all-around average types who start to look better and better the longer you know them.