Pretty as a Peach

by Sawyer Bennett

  “Missed you too,” she mumbles before walking into the house. I watch her until the swinging screen door claps shut and then brace myself as I turn to face Mitch.

  He doesn’t come up the porch steps, but casually tucks his hands into a pair of pressed khaki pants he paired with a white golf shirt. He looks at me expectantly, as if I’m the one who wants to talk to him rather than the other way around.

  I merely cross my arms over my chest and wait him out.

  “Have you given any more thought to coming home?” he asks me in a brittle voice.

  I study my husband critically, not moved in the slightest by his charming good looks that have only gotten better as he’s aged. I met Mitch when I was twenty-one and fresh out of college. I had decided to work for John Deere to get some experience on the business of farming and to help pay my way through my master’s and PhD programs. Mitch was thirty-three and already a young executive with the company at their main headquarters in Moline, Illinois. The eleven-year age difference didn’t bother me in the slightest and in hindsight, I think Mitch liked the idea I was so much younger than he was. At first, I thought maybe it was just for bragging rights, having a young pretty wife, but I came to realize soon enough he used my age and perhaps my immaturity to manipulate me into doing things the way he wanted. Let’s face it. I had stars in my eyes and loved him so much he didn’t have to do much manipulating at first.

  I give a silent sigh, refusing to let Mitch know his words bother me. “I’m not going to change my mind, Mitch. This is permanent.”

  He lets out a bark of disbelief and throws his hands out wide. His voice is scathing when he asks, “You’re seriously going to live here in the middle of nowhere? And work on a farm? You’re seriously okay with giving up the lifestyle I gave you, along with our circle of friends?”

  My eyes narrow as I look down from the porch at my husband. “Yes, Mitch. I’m completely fine with giving all that up. It’s not what I ever wanted in life to begin with.”

  His disbelieving snort matches the roll of his eyes. “Yes, I know. Your degree is more important than your family.”

  This infuriates me because it’s not true in the slightest, and he’s absolutely mischaracterizing why I’m here in North Carolina to begin with.

  I stomp down the porch steps until I come toe to toe with him. “Your concept of family and my concept of family are two totally different things. Everything I’m doing now is for Linnie, not myself. I’m getting a degree, so I can support my daughter and myself without needing to rely on anyone else. And Mitch… You and I as a couple stopped being a part of the family component years ago. If you need any further reminder of why that’s true, it’s because you’ve been paying for a mistress for two years behind my back. So get off your high and mighty soapbox and get it through your head that I am done with this marriage.”

  This takes Mitch aback because I rarely fight with him. He pulls his chin in and blinks in surprise. His slightly reddened cheeks are the only indication the mistress thing bothers him. “I told you I would get rid of her.”

  I try not to laugh. Try really hard. But I find it comical Mitch still hasn’t ended the affair with that woman. He’s holding her in reserve in case he can’t talk me into coming back.

  When my laugh does come out, it’s bitter and my voice is sad for everything I’ve lost over the years. “Mitch… hear me out. Our marriage didn’t crumble because you had a mistress. Me finding out about her was merely the catalyst that gave me the strength to end this. But I wanted out for a lot longer. I wanted out for years and it’s because you kept me so under your thumb and wouldn’t let me pursue my dreams. Now that I want to do that, it’s unfathomable to you that I could want something other than the things you’ve given me or the things you’ve told me to do. What I really need you to hear is that I’m doing this for Linnie and not to hurt you. I’m doing it so she grows up to be the type of woman who goes for what she wants. If she watches me continue to give up my life day in and day out to please you, I’m not teaching her right.”

  I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly. That was the first time I’ve been so brutally honest with Mitch. It’s the first time I’ve been able to get out the words I hope will make him understand he and I are just never going to work. I had hoped he might actually listen to me. That he might put himself in my shoes and try to see things from my point of view.

  But this is Mitch McCulhane. A man whose ego is so overinflated, he can’t seem to understand that other people may have valid opinions, wants, or desires from his own.

  He doesn’t look at me with the understanding I had so foolishly hoped for, and not even a bit of sadness for what we’ve lost. Flames leap in his eyes and his jaw locks tight. He grits through his teeth, “You are making a serious mistake. I am gravely concerned about the welfare of our daughter. I might just have to go back and get my attorney to start working on custody of Linnie.”

  A small jolt of fear punches through me. Linnie is my weakness and if there is any possibility he could get full custody of her, I’d prostrate myself in front of him in deference.

  But the one thing I have to keep my mind focused on is I know my husband. Mitch would never want full custody of his daughter. Hell, I don’t think he wants partial custody of her. From the day we brought her home from the hospital, he treated Linnie like a pretty object to show off to other people. He never fed her, diapered her, or sang her lullabies before bed. In Mitch’s mind, that was my role as her mother. I did them, of course, because I loved doing them. Loved every minute I spent with my daughter.

  Mitch didn’t do anything because he was always working. He justified his absence in her life as a necessity to give her the finer things. In other words, he tried to buy her love the way he tried to buy mine. He never went to spelling bees or to watch her show her horse. He never asked her how school was going or sat down to read her a book. He was the provider. He worked hard to give us a good life. In Mitch’s mind, that should have been enough.

  It was never enough for me, and I know damn well it’s not enough for Linnie.

  I shore up my spine and lift my chin with resolve.

  “You do that if you need to, Mitch,” I say in a soft voice that is no less diminished with surety in what I’m saying. “But you and I both know you’re not going to do it. You don’t have it in you to be a single father. You would never want a child to cramp your lifestyle.”

  Mitch’s face turns redder, and I notice him clenching his fists tightly. While Mitch has been a manipulative and verbally abusive husband over the years, he has never once raised his hands to me. But for a moment, I see something within his eyes that tells me he may have the capacity for violence. It turns my blood ice cold, and it takes everything within me not to run away in fear. I can’t show him that because Mitch would pounce.

  “This isn’t over, Darby,” Mitch says in a low, menacing voice.

  I don’t reply because any words that would come out of my mouth would be shaky and warbled because his last words really rattled me. He’s making it clear I am still very much considered his property and nothing I say matters to him.

  I stand silently as Mitch spins on his heel and stomps around to the driver’s side door. I don’t move from my spot until he has turned out of the driveway onto the highway and disappeared.

  After letting out a long breath of relief, I take note of a low-level headache that is now throbbing behind my eyes. With the promise of a few Excedrin on the horizon, I turn back toward the porch, but immediately come to a stop again.

  Linnie is standing there and I have no clue how long she had been listening to her father and me. She’s got a funny look on her face I could not begin in a million years to decipher. She’s seven going on fifteen, and she has been through great emotional upheaval the last few months. Linnie is as apt to yell at me as she would be to hug me.

  So I wait—standing absolutely still—to see what she’s going to do.

  “Am I going to have to g
o live with Dad if he gets custody of me?” she asks timidly, as if the fear in her voice discounts all the crap she’s given me for taking her away from him over the last week.

  “I don’t know, honey,” I tell her honestly. “Do you want to go live with him?”

  Linnie shakes her head, which causes the braided pigtails she had over each shoulder to fly back. She pushes her glasses up her nose. “No. He really didn’t want to spend time with me this weekend. All he did was work in the hotel room. I just watched TV.”

  What a jerk, but totally not surprising.

  “I know you’re having a hard time adjusting, Linnie. All I can tell you is it will get better over time.”

  Linnie doesn’t answer me, but she also doesn’t glare at me. This is a good sign.

  It’s a miracle when I get a small smile before she asks, “What’s for dinner?”

  I was going to make a pork roast, but I make a spur-of-the-moment change. “You’re favorite—spaghetti.”

  Her smile gets bigger, and I’m pretty sure everything is going to be fine between us.

  CHAPTER 8

  Colt

  Every Sunday for as long as I can remember, my mama, Catherine Mancinkus, has cooked a large family meal that was served promptly at two PM. This gave her the opportunity to attend Sunday church services with plenty of time left to come home to make a feast fit for a king. There were always the usual staples of a southern Sunday dinner. Biscuits or cornbread, sweet tea, and a homemade dessert. We would also have ham, meatloaf, or country-fried steak. There were always classic sides like collards, macaroni and cheese, or butter beans.

  When I was around six, Pap came to live full time in North Carolina from Pittsburgh. Ever since his move here, our Sunday dinner got supplemented with some of his favorites he grew up with in his Polish/Lithuanian family. That meant there was usually halupki or sauerkraut served. Sometimes Mama would make pierogis.

  Us Mancinkus kids loved it. We considered these additions to Sunday dinner to be exotic, sort of how we viewed our eccentric grandfather from up North. Pap, on the other hand, became enamored of southern cooking and was completely fine with ham, collards, and cornbread for dinner. He was willing to give up his northern-rooted food. However, we were not since we had come to love it, so my mama had a very eclectic selection of food on Sunday.

  Today the Mancinkus dining room is filled to capacity. My dad, Jerry, sits on one end of the long table, and Pap sits on the other. My mother sits to the left of my dad, followed by Trixie, her fiancé Ry, and then Laken, who is looking morose over the fact Jake could not be here since he’s in California on business.

  On my side of the table, Lowe sits to my right with his wife Mely beside him and Larkin on the other side. There’s no conversation going on in this exact moment because we’re all too busy passing bowls around the table, counterclockwise as is our tradition. I take a large scoop of red beans and rice from a white ceramic bowl before passing it to Lowe. My hands are immediately filled with a platter of jalapeno cornbread. I take two slices.

  “When are you going to fill us in about the grant you got awarded?” Pap says from my right.

  I throw him a smirking glance, because he likes to stir stuff up. But the joke is on him. I had intended to lay out my plans for the vineyard tonight to the entire family.

  Handing the cornbread off to Lowe, I take a sip of my sweet tea before I answer. I take a moment to glance around the table and see that everyone’s attention is on me with keen interest, as evidenced by the fact they’re all ignoring the delicious food before them.

  I decide to do them a favor and make it short. “I’m going to plant grapes on the western side of the farm. Some muscadine but also some vinifera grapes. And then I’m going to make wine from them.”

  Once again, I look around the table. Dad, Laken, and Larkin have their mouths open in surprise. My mom stares at me with pride. I glance to my right and see Lowe is nodding—perhaps tacit approval without hearing more—and Mely has an expression on her face that seems to say she can’t determine whether this is a good idea.

  It’s Pap who asks the first question. “What’s your game plan?”

  Nice. Simple. Nonjudgmental. Pap’s got it going on tonight.

  “I had to write up a five-year business plan when I submitted for the expansion grants. Anyone of y’all can take a look at it if you want. The short story, though, is it’s going to take two to three years for the vines to produce. Another year after that to get the wine production settled. I’m hoping by the fifth year I’ll be able to break even, and we can start making a profit after that. Assuming our wine tastes good enough to sell.”

  “You’re going to give up some of the leased land?” my dad asks. There’s a tiny bit of doubt in his voice, but that’s understandable. He hasn’t been working morning, noon, and night on this project the way I have for the last few years, so he doesn’t know the ins and outs the way I do. He’s also been removed from the business of our current operations, preferring to do semi-retired tinkering around the farm as is his due.

  I nod. “The expansion grant will cover some of that lost revenue, but I have enough repeat buyers for our cattle I’ve been gradually expanding over the last few years that it will compensate.”

  And that’s all my dad needs to know. He and my mom put me in charge of Mainer Farms, and I’ve been running it solidly for the last few years. We’ve been struggling, but that’s mainly due to our inability to maintain our tobacco crops. Imported tobacco is just way too cheap for a smaller farm like us to compete with, so we’ve had to get creative and find other avenues to keep the farm going. While the easy fix was to lease out land, by doing the cattle and now the vineyard, I’m hoping we can become a fully self-sustaining farm once again.

  “I think it sounds like an amazing idea,” Mely says from the other side of Lowe, leaning forward to look past him to me. I shoot her a grateful smile in return before she says, “You realize you could actually use tourism as an income earner once you get up and running. You could open up a restaurant and have wine tastings.”

  Chuckling, I give her another nod. “It’s something I would like to research, but that might be about ten years down the road.”

  “What do you need from us, honey?” my mom asks.

  My answer to her is simple. “Just your support.”

  “You always have that,” she says, and then my cheeks turn hot when she continues, “We are so proud of what you’ve done with the farm. We believe you can accomplish anything.”

  “Amen to that,” Larkin says.

  And to my surprise, Laken holds up her glass of sweet tea. “To my brother, Colt Mancinkus. The finest farmer these parts has ever seen.”

  Everyone follows suit and picks up their glasses, raising them high. They all say things such as, “here, here” or “to Colt”.

  “We need to spike this sweet tea with some peach moonshine,” Pap says, and everyone laughs.

  But not for long as my mom gets up and goes into the kitchen, reaching into a back cabinet where she keeps some of Billy Crump’s mason jars filled with his specialty peach moonshine.

  This has turned into a good day. I generally expected my family to be supportive. Like I’ve always said, there’s not one of them sitting at this table who wouldn’t give their own skin for this farm. But my idea is risky. If this doesn’t work, the farm could go under. And yet every single one of them in here tonight looks upon me as if they don’t have a doubt in the world I can pull this off.

  I love my family.

  ♦

  I follow Trixie, Ry, and Larkin out the front door and onto the porch. Ry is carrying a paper bag filled with leftovers. Larkin and I are empty-handed because there wasn’t that much food left, and Trixie and Ry called dibs on it.

  The four of us march down the steps to the cars sitting in the driveway. Laken, Mely, and Lowe stayed behind, content to sit around the kitchen table and drink coffee while they eat a second slice of pie. I’m going to put in
a shift at Chesty’s, Larkin has to get some baking done at her shop, and Ry said he has an important motion to argue tomorrow morning that he has to prepare for.

  Trixie and Ry wave goodbye with promises that we need to get together soon. Larkin and I walk toward our vehicles, which are parked beside each other.

  “I’m really impressed with your vineyard idea, Colt,” she says as she reaches her driver-side door.

  “Thanks, sis,” I tell her with a little emotion catching in my voice. “That means a lot.”

  “Will you let me know what I can do to help? Even if you need an influx of money, I’ve got some saved up.”

  I hold up my hand and shake my head. “No way. I’m good on money, but I appreciate the offer.”

  She gives me an older sister indulgent smile. Her offer to help will never go away, and I’ll probably never accept.

  I start to turn toward my car, but then remember something else I was curious about, and she is just the person to ask. “I was in Crump’s grocery this morning, and I overheard Andy in there talking to Billy. He was talking about Darby, and it sounded like he was sweet on her. You might not have to worry about Andy mooning over you anymore.”

  Larkin rolls her eyes. The truth is she was never worried about Andy Forrester mooning over her. It was an absolute unrequited crush on his part, and he knew she was never going to look his way like that.

  And I really wasn’t bringing this up to Larkin to tease her, but more to feel out some stuff about Darby. Because when I was in Crump’s this morning and heard Andy tell Billy he was thinking about asking Darby out for dinner, my hackles rose. I have no clue why or from where the proprietary feelings came, but I did not like the idea of Andy being sweet on Darby. He’s a nice guy and has potential for a single woman.

  Not that Darby is single, but she will be soon.

  “So is Darby sweet on Andy?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant and only mildly curious.