The Good Green Earth (Colors of Love Book 3)

by V. L. Locey

  “He looks sick,” Dixie told her uncle. My hockey player instincts kicked in immediately.

  “I’m fine, coach,” I said by rote, ignoring the startled looks from both people staring at me. “That’s what we ice rats always say because we’re tough. I once sat next to a guy who’d gotten hit in the mouth with a stick. He pulled out his loose tooth on the bench then went back out to play when his line rolled.” Dixie shuddered dramatically. Bran cocked an eyebrow. “True story.” I crossed my heart and stood. “I’m going to grab another bottle of water, just to rehydrate then get back to work.”

  Bran continued to assess me. “Uncle Bran, why don’t you take Nate with you on that delivery over to the Rubenstein Museum?”

  “No,” Bran and I said simultaneously then exchanged looks.

  Dixie huffed. “Let Phil finish up out there. You’re just dropping off the flowers for the landscapers. Maybe a ride with some air blowing in his face will make him less pasty.”

  “I’m not pasty,” I argued.

  Dixie folded her arms over her chest. “You are pasty and clammy too. You should take better care of the inmates under your guard, Uncle Bran.”

  “Wait, just wait!” Bran threw up a hand. “He’s not an inmate and I’m not his guard.”

  “Huh, you sure treat him like he was on a chain gang. Making him weed for days on end, no breaks or—”

  “I give him breaks! I fed him pizza!” Bran hurried to say after two ladies carrying hanging pots with red begonias entered the store with Phil.

  “Yeah, he gives me breaks. I eat his pizza,” I rushed to throw out.

  “Well, I think he looks sickly,” Dixie stated defiantly, folding her arms over her chest.

  My mouth fell open. Now the begonia women were giving me that funny sort of maternal x-ray look like they could see sickness lurking just below the surface of your skin.

  “He does look a little washed-out,” middle-aged woman number one said. The other nodded. “Did you make him stay out in the sun too long, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

  “No! I didn’t—” Bran sucked in some air then let it out in one long, slow exhalation. “Why don’t you ride along with me to the museum, Nathan? Get some fresh air on your heated brow.”

  “Good call,” middle-aged woman number two said with a nod of her head. And so, just like that, I found myself climbing up into the cab of his beautifully restored teal 1958 Chevy Apache pickup truck, the back filled with vibrant flats of purple and white flowers. I was glad I had researched this old girl online. Someday he would say something, and I could be all knowledgeable about his truck. Wooing. It was the little things that won a man’s heart. Not that I wanted his heart, just his lanky body.

  Bran joined me about five minutes later, dropping down behind the massive old steering wheel then throwing the hard rock song blaring out of my phone a burning glare. I turned off my music app.

  “No metal in this truck.”

  “It’s not metal, it’s modern hard rock, Scandinavian band, out of—”

  He shoved the key into the ignition, his lips a slash, and cranked the truck over. It rolled sharply, no backfires or dirty black smoke like one would expect from an old engine. Music filled the cab, I mean, if one could call it music. It was some old sort of pop stuff. Crap my father would listen to. I knew Bran was older than me, but he wasn’t old enough to enjoy this 70s bubblegum garbage. We pulled out of the garden center and the music played on, so obviously, this wasn’t some horrid “what the hell is the DJ smoking?!” moment.

  “This is what we listen to. Real music, with lyrics that mean something.” He tapped the new stereo system. Ah, so it was a CD. I didn’t think people used them anymore, but I could see the small digital display saying we were on track four now that the system had some power. “I never did see what attracted him so about thrashing and screaming.”

  “Him who?” I asked over the guy singing about crunchy granola being sweet or something along those lines. Right. And Bran there was talking shit about modern lyrics? At least Raven Death Knell wasn’t singing about granola.

  “My husband,” he replied and slapped up that wall of ice he erected with just a glance. I stared at his profile. He had a nice one. Strong chin and nice nose, good brow which was furrowing like a freshly plowed field. “What?”

  “Did your husband get to listen to hard rock in this truck?” The wind blowing in the windows was fresh and cool, filled with the sweet smell of growing crops. Crops that were making oxygen for Bran to suck in through tight lips. And Chris said I never paid attention in high school.

  “I see where you’re going with that and it won’t work. Jim was my husband, of course, he could listen to his music in my truck.” He threw me a fast look, a smug one, and then hit the blinker and pulled a soft left that would take us back into town. We rode for maybe five minutes with Mediocre Singer Guy belting out yet another tune about a pretty girl, flowers, big cities, and singing songs blue or blue songs. He kept looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I whipped my hat into the seat beside me then turned my face into the wind. He hit the gas. I worked the inside of my lip and carded my fingers through the long shank of pink hair, hoping to get it to dry a bit. The air did feel good on my scalp. “You have to realize that a person treats their spouse differently than they do others.”

  “Ah, others. Got it.” I gave him a thumbs-up and fell back into brooding silence. He pulled up to a stop sign, and I could feel his gaze settle on me.

  “You’re trying to cast me into some sort of dark overseer role here,” he snapped, the warmth of the city returning as we cruised into the outskirts of Syracuse.

  “If the sum-bitch fits, Captain,” I replied, figuring even an uptight sphincter like Bran Cavanaugh has seen Cool Hand Luke once. By the stunned look on his handsome face, I’d guessed right.

  “Fine, if it eases your conscious to pretend I’m some sort of evil prison guard beating and berating you for minor infractions then go right ahead. But let me remind you that you’re here because you’ve made some miserable life choices, Mr. Zinkan. I didn’t force you to drink and drive, you did that.” I bit down on my lip, my sight locked on the stop sign we were still idling in front of. “Not just once but twice—while underage. I’m not sure your behavior lends itself to giving you perks. Do you reward a dog for shitting on your pillow?”

  “Ah right okay. So delinquents like me aren’t treated with the same respect you give other people. Got it. I’m now lower than a dog. Good to know.”

  “What are you trying to say here, Nathan?” I continued to look out the window, uncaring and unhearing, a rock man void of any emotion. “Are you accusing me of treating you unfairly?”

  “Nope.” I popped the P and then got to witness the man come slightly unraveled. Guess popping a P loosened a few of his bolts or something because fuck me he was all kinds of giggly in an instant. I sat there gaping as he burst into some of the richest laughter I had ever heard.

  “You’re really too much,” he gasped, waving a car that had pulled up behind us around. I was totally lost at the moment. “I know you’re young but there comes a time when you have to stop blaming all your woes on other people. The courts, the lawyers, your team, all of that is just keeping you from figuring out why you do the things you do because you’re not looking at you for answers.”

  “I’m not blaming other people, okay? I know I messed up but what was I supposed to do?!” My shouts bounced around inside the cab, his laughter dying out in the face of my rage. “The fucking dog was right there. I mean right there!” I threw a hand at the windshield to show him where the little black-and-white pooch had been standing when I’d come around the corner in front of Barney’s house that night things had gone to hell. “I swerved, the car slammed into a shed. Was I drunk? Not really.” He gave me a look that sang of disbelief. “Okay, I was legally over the limit. Was I going too fast? Yes. Was it the worst night of my life? Yes. Yes, it was. Even worse than when Dad…”

  I inhaled that
confession back in and struggled to find the lever to open the door.

  “Nate, stop it.”

  “Fuck you. I’ll walk to the museum,” I snapped. His hand on my bicep stalled me a bit. Our gazes met.

  “I never meant to make you feel like a lesser person because you’ve made mistakes. I just…” He pulled his hand back. My fingers rested on the door handle, my hat on the seat, my heart thundering. “I look at you and I see a walking contradiction. You and Jim are…were…are similar in many ways. Too many.” His blue-gray eyes flickered from my neck to my face to the window on my right. “Music, the ink, and attitude are just a few of the similarities, but then again you’re nothing like him because he would have never endangered another person’s life.”

  “We’d been celebrating…” I mumbled for the ten thousandth time since the shed incident.

  Bran shook his head. Another car crept up behind us, a light green one. He motioned that one to go around us as well. The turn signal was still tick-tick-ticking.

  “And you fucked up, and now you’re here with me hating every minute of your existence.” I swung my attention from him, from the stormy-sea gaze that was glittery with emotions that would take too much time and energy to delve into. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  I sighed. “Yes, I was arrested for—”

  “No, no, not that. Why you are here now in this truck?”

  “Honestly, I don’t have a fucking clue. Dixie made you bring me along. Why? Who knows. Females confuse the utter dick out of me.”

  “We’re here because my niece informed me that we need to, and I quote, ‘Work our shit out before everyone at Sunflower Acres is covered in crap’, end quote.”

  I snickered. Every day I liked Dixie more. If I were straight I’d marry her. I made a sound of agreement.

  “Okay so here it is. For the sake of all the employees and customers we’re tossing poop on, I’ll try not to look at you and see a delinquent and you try to stop looking at me and seeing a corrections officer from an old Steve McQueen movie. Think we can do that at least?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “We have a long summer together, Nathan, we can’t keep going at each other like we have been. Dixie’s right about that.” He held out his hand. It was calloused with dirt worked into the lines and under the nails, probably permanent stains. My eyes lifted from his palm to his eyes. I searched them warily then slowly slid my hand into his. I liked the feel of that sandy skin gliding against mine. He pumped my hand twice, the shake firm and brisk. “So, shall we work through our previous failures to communicate?”

  “Can I play something of mine on the stereo?”

  “No. This is Neil Diamond. You’ll learn to love him.”

  I gripped his hand tighter. Yes, we were sitting at the corner of Gay and Much lanes, holding hands since all shaking had stopped a full minute ago.

  “Did Jim learn to love him because I’ll be honest here, I’m not seeing it being an easy journey for any true fan of rock music.”

  A twitch of one side of his mouth took place. God his eyes were pretty when they weren’t dark and turbulent.

  “He did…after time.”

  I let go of his hand after he gave it a small tug. “Like how much time? I only have three months to acclimate.”

  He shifted the truck into gear then eased her away from the stop sign, his lips not smiling but not exactly flatlining either.

  “You’re kind of funny at times,” he said, his sight darting to me as the museum came into view in the distance. “Not often, just at times.”

  It was right there in front of the Milton J. Rubenstein Museum of Science and Technology that I had the wild urge to grab his face and kiss him until we both passed out. Instead, I stuffed my hat onto my head and gave him one of those shoulder rolls he liked so much. He kind of lost that appreciation of my wry sense of humor after that but his eyes stayed calm and warm. So a win of sorts. Hopefully this time the ceasefire would last more than a week.

  My days off were long and boring affairs. How pathetic was I to wish I could do seven days a week at the gardens. Now that Bran and I had talked and held hands, he and I had entered into this weird kind of state where I tried to impress him or make him smile and he tried to pretend that I wasn’t making any progress in seducing him. If we were a het couple back in the old days, this would be like the pre-spooning part of things where he’d fan himself and appear to be taken aback with my flirtations and half-assed fumbling attempts to get him to bestow some attention on me. I felt sorely out of my element. All my past hookups had been fast. A look across a club, a fast fuck in a bathroom stall, and a thanks for the memories parting. This thing with Bran was…different. Compelling. And while I hated it I kind of liked it too. Obviously, I liked it because I was wishing I could be at Sunflower Acres instead of schlepping around Syracuse like a lost soul.

  Just when I’d decided to go home and chill with my two gull friends, an ad on the side of a passing bus caught my eye. A flicker of excitement coursed through me. I jumped on the next bus headed out of town and arrived in Melrose Park with a smile plastered on my face. Why I hadn’t thought to come out to Cayuga County to our practice rink I had no clue. As soon as I pushed through the doors and inhaled that bitterly cold air, a bit of the sludge lodged in my soul evaporated. Hockey. I could hear the shouts and whistles of a team on the ice. I hurried through the nearest entrance to the ice area, paused, and grinned widely at the kids on the ice. Older ones, maybe thirteen to sixteen. Bantam or junior league practice. The kids were in red and black, the same colors of the Stallions uniforms. Behind the home bench were moms huddled up in thick coats and mittens. When I was at this level, hell all through my childhood hockey days, the only person who came to my practices had been Jacob. Chris had been stationed down south and Dad was in a nursing home.

  “You’re a hockey brother instead of a hockey mom,” I used to tease him on those days he was hauling me and my gear to this game or this rink. He’d just laugh and ruffle my hair. I ached for him. The pain a steady and constant concerto of loss that would play forever in my heart. Fucking desert wars. Fucking wars period.

  Pulling my cap down to my eyebrows, I took a seat behind the home goalie, a tall kid who liked to move a lot in his crease. Goaltending coach needed to settle that boy on his skates. The practice was a good one, lots of quality info being passed along to the summer league boys and girls. The Ponies. Yes, that was the name of our sponsored youth team. The Syracuse Ponies. Fucking righteous moniker if you asked me. I sat there for maybe twenty minutes, enjoying the shit out of the cold air in my lungs and the rasp of skate blades on ice. Man, I wish I were playing now. I so needed the love that only hockey and Jacob had ever given me.

  Then out of nowhere, a face appeared on the other side of the glass. The goalie, still in his mask and gear, rapping on the tall wall of plexiglass trying to get my attention. I smiled at the kid then tapped the brim of my black hat with two fingers. He grinned, turned, and began shouting to his coach and teammates. I slithered down in my seat a bit, but it did no good. I’d been outed. Within ten minutes, I was out on the ice in my sneakers, my calves freezing, talking to the Ponies about concentration, discipline, and focus. Their coach, an older guy with big ears and a bigger smile by the name of Will Dickenson, nodded throughout my impromptu speech.

  I shook hands and signed a few sticks before I was pulled to the bench by the coach while the kids skated off to change. He waved at the home bench. I dropped down to it, ignoring the unhappy looks from the mothers behind us. Probably they didn’t want a felon like me being around their kids. That was justifiable to some extent.

  “Nate, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to talk to the kids. They’re all huge fans of yours,” Will said, his hand pumping mine steadily.

  “Totally my pleasure,” I replied as he sat down, my fingers still in his.

  “Look, I know this is pushy…” He released my hand before plowing ahead with whatever it was he wa
nted to ask. “Rumor has it you’re spending the summer in town.” I wasn’t sure how to reply but Will slid in before I could formulate an answer that didn’t make me sound like a drunken loser. “I’m not going to touch on why you’re here. You made a mistake. You’re working to fix things. That’s what a man does, he owns up to his faults and works on improving them.”

  I caught the quick sort of shady look he tossed to the women behind us. “Thanks. Not everyone sees it that way.” Me included but now was not the time to get into all that.

  “We have no control over others. So, the thing of it is, I was wondering if you’d be willing to stop by here and there during our games and maybe just give us your thoughts on our performances. Maybe talk to them about hockey, your experiences, stuff like that. I know you’re busy, so it could only be a monthly thing…”

  “No, hey, I’m usually free in the evenings, so I’m completely here for helping out. Would I be like an advisor or something?”

  “Yes, exactly like that. This is so exciting. The kids are going to be so pumped to know they’re getting feedback from one of the hottest up-and-coming players! Thank you so much.” He grabbed my hand and shook it madly yet again. “I follow you on social media. I can send you a schedule of our practice dates and games then you could let us know when you can join us?”

  “That sounds great,” I said then smiled widely.

  “Excellent. Thank you so much. We’re so thrilled to have you take an interest in our little summer league here. We’ve been hoping to lure a Stallion to spend some time with us but the guys all seem to race home after the season. Not that I blame them of course.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m in town all summer doing my time to make up for my crime. Why not spend it here on the ice? Truth be told I was jonesing for hockey,” I said then laughed. Will gave my hand one more solid pump, released me, clapped my biceps, and then we parted ways. Him off to tell the team they had a new advisor, and me outside into the heat to call…who? Who would care if I were doing this? Fuck. I leaned against the warm brick wall of the rink, trying to think of one person who gave one fuck about me. God, how sad was this? Maybe I could call Judge Cavanaugh. He’d be thrilled to see me doing something for the community that I’d not been forced into. Or maybe Bran?