“How do you know?” A lump forms in my throat.
“Every year, during our Ladybug Christmas fundraisers, I see the donation checks with your name. I know you’re the one who paid Toby Lemon’s medical bills when he ended up in the emergency room. And here’s the difference between your grandmother and you.”
I brace myself.
“You use your money as a crutch instead of allowing people into your world, into your heart. Maybe it’s ego; maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s advice from your goddamn mom, but I sure wish you’d bring those walls down, honey.”
Don’t cry, Scarlet.
Don’t.
Not here, not now. Don’t you dare cry.
Sometimes, it’s the small, insurmountable facts that lead to big, ugly truths.
We sit on the porch, and I allow the uncommon winter sun to pour through me—along with the truth that I might not know anything about loving others. Or a better truth: maybe I do, deep down, know how to love others, but I’ve just forgotten how.
It’s seven sharp, and the doorbell rings.
A ball of nerves dances in my stomach as I open the door to the man I once loved with everything that I had. A man who is ruggedly handsome with a square jaw, sending shivers down my spine, and for a moment, my heart opens up—albeit it’s only a millimeter, it opens. His light-blue plaid button-up shirt complements his face just perfectly, giving him a sharp jawline, and the cut of the shirt hugs his chest only slightly, exposing his broad shoulders. His piercing blue eyes dance the length of my body only for a tiny second. I settled on a dark blue cashmere cardigan with jeans I could afford, according to Mabe, and a black camisole that hugs my body.
“You look incredible, Scar,” he sighs. I see the hesitation in his eyes.
He lends his arm, and I shut the door behind me.
But as he leads me down the porch and past his truck, I ask where we’re going.
“The dugout,” he says.
20
Cash
Present Day 2020
It took me the better part of a day in the cool November weather to get all the weeds pulled and the insects and the occasional reptile rehoused into Mr. Netter’s adjoining field next to the dugout.
I hung lights against the backstop, brought in one of Mom’s tables along with two chairs, a tablecloth, and a candle from her wedding venue service and one of her outside heaters.
With the candle and the string of lights, there is a dim orange hue to the dugout, and it is warmer than it was outside the dugout.
As I walk Scarlet over, she falls silent, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in her head.
“It’s just dinner in a spot that meant a lot to us, Scar. That’s it. No expectations, no nothing.”
Still quiet, I lead her into the dugout, and I hear her breath hitch.
Dread pours off me, and I begin to sweat. Did I do the wrong thing?
“Just dinner,” I reassure her. “Just dinner.”
Two to-go containers sit in front of each chair. Two place settings that she taught me to set when we were kids. Right side, knife and spoon. Left side, fork.
Her hand slides from my arm, and as much as I want to take her hand and reassure her that everything is okay, I don’t. I don’t because what I’ve learned about Scarlet—and maybe things have changed these years we’ve been apart—is that she needs to find her own way. She takes the seat closest to the direction we came in before I can pull out her chair. I slide into the other chair across from her.
“I took the liberty of ordering you a steak marsala from The Whiskey Barrel.”
I would have called Erla to ask her what Scarlet preferred as far as food, but the thought took me by surprise—the thought that Scarlet doesn’t have anyone left to tell her secrets, to tell her story, someone to rely on when life gets hard, and to share the joys when life is good.
She looks at me. “You ordered from The Whiskey Barrel? That’s just plain brave.” I see the guilt in her eyes—this reminds her of Tripp and Conroy. “I would have called when Conroy died. I just …” Her voice trails off.
“Like I didn’t call when Don died?” I want to say that we’re even. But I don’t want this to be a competition. I don’t want to rehash our past or how badly we went wrong. I just want to have dinner with Scarlet.
“So, you got married?” I watch as she takes her napkin and places it on her lap and opens her to-go container.
“And divorced.” She cuts into her steak marsala. Scarlet looks to me. “It’s complicated.”
“Oh!” I reach for the bottle of red wine—the one Dave, the bartender, reluctantly recommended. In a town this small, even when forgiveness is given, it doesn’t mean that things go back to normal completely. I wanted to give the Morgans my business, as any human trying to get well would. “I hope you like red. I wasn’t sure.”
“Thank you.” She watches intently as I pour. “Aren’t you going to have any?”
“No, thanks. Do you still talk to your ex?”
She nods while she chews her steak and puts her wineglass to her mouth.
“I can do complicated, Scarlet. What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
After she sets her fork down, her eyes, for the first time tonight, connect with mine, and I try to read her. Try to find what she’s not saying to me. “I’m sorry. Too personal.”
“Just dinner.”
“Just dinner.”
The silence between us is obliterated by the fire whistle that lets all of Dillon Creek know when they have a town emergency, or when it’s lunchtime at noon, or when their weekly fire meeting is starting at seven.
“Fire meeting?” Scarlet smiles, and it’s both painful and beautiful, all at the same time.
“Mom says they moved it to Friday because of the Thanksgiving holiday.”
“What about you?”
I feel her question in my bones—a question I knew would come up, a question I spent most of the day preparing while I cleaned the dugout. “Quite honestly? I really don’t know what’s next.”
“Will you still fight bulls? I mean, not now because of the accident, but when you heal?”
I went back and forth about being vague or giving her the honest-to-God truth about what Bullfighters One said, about what the doctors said about going back to the only job that had saved me. The only job I was ever good at.
“Taking a break. Healing. But I’m fixing up the Lost Hill barn up on the property.”
This makes her blush, and I’m almost certain it’s a combination of the wine and her memory.
Her eyes meet mine as she covers her mouth with the back of her hand in embarrassment. “Oh, that barn.”
“That barn.”
“Why not one closer to the house?”
“Rattlesnake apparently.”
“You haven’t investigated it?” she teases.
I smile. “I don’t really do the reptile thing anymore. Not unless I have to.”
Scarlet finishes her wine. “You know, I’m not so sure it was the reptiles. Personally, I think it was just the animals that you enjoyed in the first place. I think you felt it was your job to keep them safe.”
Now, it’s my turn to catch my breath somewhere deep inside my lungs. It’s so hard to know. I know that Scarlet knew the little boy inside me, but what about the man? Have I changed enough for her to understand that I’m not a dick? That I do care?
She realizes she said something. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up the past.”
“No, no. It’s just … nothing.” I cut another piece of my prime rib and try to process what she just said to me.
The only sound that we hear are the frogs and the crickets playing some rightful tune together, somehow working in unison. That’s what I’ve always appreciated about nature—no matter the weather, the frogs and crickets always show up.
“So, when are you moving your stuff into the house?” I ask.
“What?” Her eyes narrow.
“When are you moving back to Dillon Creek?”
“Oh, I’m not. I’m just selling the house and going back to Boston.”
My thoughts freeze. Play it off, Cash. It’s just dinner. No promises.
“Have you had any hits on the house?”
“Twelve offers at full price came in today.” She nods, reaches up, and rubs her earlobe.
Make it so she never wants to leave.
“Wow, twelve. Guess Dillon Creek is the place to be.”
I entertain the idea of getting the names and numbers of the real estate agents with offers on the table representing clients and telling them that the place is haunted or that it floods in the winter, though that would need to be disclosed.
“What about you? Are you back in Dillon Creek for good?”
When Scarlet asks this, it makes me feel stuck, confined, risking my life and going back to the only thing I was ever good at—dancing with bulls. But one thing I’ve always known is that home is where Scarlet is, and I’ve never felt quite right without her.
So, I give her the most honest answer I have. “I don’t know. It depends on your plans.”
Scarlet runs her hands through her hair, and I see her cheeks go pink again. She reaches up and touches her earlobe again.
“You do that when you’re nervous.”
“I don’t.” She lifts her chin, meeting my gaze.
“You do.” I smile and lean my elbows on the table, knowing this makes her feel uncomfortable—but not in a bad way. My heart hammers against my rib cage, making my healing ribs ache. I make no attempt to hide the fact that I’m watching her.
“I don’t,” she answers once more, turning her face away from me. She glances at her watch. “It’s getting late, Cash. I should really get home.”
But the moment between us is gone, and I give her what she’s asking for. Space. “I’ll walk you home.”
“No, no. It’s fine.”
She stands, and I stand.
“Scar, my dad would have my ass if I didn’t walk you home.”
“Really, Cash, it’s fine. It’s half a block. I can throw a rock at the house. Besides”—she laughs—“it’s Dillon Creek. I’m used to Boston, and I’ve survived the last twelve years walking on my own.”
She sighs and meets my gaze, and I see her desire that bubbles below the surface.
“Please,” I barely whisper, holding out my arm, praying she’ll take it. “Let me walk you home.”
As casually as she can, she manages to take my arm, and we make our way back to the Brockmeyers’ in silence.
When we get to the porch, her hand falls from my arm. Just for a moment, we’re kids again—carefree, full of hormones, and love—and everything is right in the world.
But it’s what came after that set our world up in smoke.
What I wouldn’t give to right the wrongs and go back to that night when everything went to hell, so I could make different decisions.
“Good night, Cash.” Her words linger between us.
I take a step closer to her, unable to control my actions, just wanting to be near her. But I didn’t come here to kiss her, to make love to her, to do anything she’s not ready for. With that thought, I reach forward and open the front door for her, so we’re within inches of each other.
“Good night, Scar.”
Our mouths close, our eyes lock as our breathing comes in unison. I take a step back to give us space, trying to control my erratic heart.
Before I think about my words, I ask if I can see her again. “Just dinner.” I smirk.
She smiles, but quickly, it fades. “I’m leaving, Cash. This is a one-time deal for me.” Her honest eyes seek mine, and then she’s gone.
21
Scarlet: Age 9
Chicago, Illinois
“Marmie, I’m nine now. The least I can do is take the elevator down to the lobby and check the mail on my own.”
“Marmie, please, can’t I watch a PG-13 movie? Mother won’t care.”
“Marmie, can we please go back to your house? I like it better there.”
“Marmie, but I don’t want to go to bed.”
“Marmie, read me a story.”
And that was what she did. Marmie always took time to slow down and set aside her life for my wants and needs. Though it was my mother’s job, I seemed to be a second thought on her agenda between the office, Africa, Australia, Antarctica, the United Kingdom, and all of the United States. She could have taken me with her, but Mother was a stickler for school, attendance, and good grades. For my mother, I was always one small step below her expectations for anything in life.
Grades.
Manners.
My curiosity.
My failure to speak only when spoken to.
My inability to manage my own time.
The way that I carried myself.
The way I sat.
The way I stood.
The way I read.
It was hard to carry these expectations on my shoulders, to keep them quiet and hidden from my grandparents. But Marmie knew—she always knew—and for her, I was always good enough. And when Mother was home, I walked on eggshells to keep her content.
“Really, Scarlet, must you be so loud?” she asked from the couch, some weird blue mask around her eyes like Robin from Batman & Robin.
Walking down the hallway, I was eating a piece of bread, minding my own business, just happy she was home. “Sorry, Mom,” I said with a mouthful of bread.
“And must you always talk with your mouth full?” She peered at me with one eye, lifting her mask.
She used the word must as if we ate from the finest china every night and ran with royalty. Maybe her travels dictated her word usage, but I found it annoying.
Rolling my eyes, I turned to walk back to my new computer in my bedroom when she called behind me, “Pick. Up. Your. Feet! And don’t slouch when you walk; it’s unbecoming.”
Unbecoming was another word she used often.
To compensate for her absence, Mother always came home with a new gadget, a new toy for me. Maybe it was guilt that ate away at her heart—I wasn’t sure. But since she’d returned home for a week or so and Marmie wasn’t here, I’d taken to my new computer and the internet. I wrote down the things I would search for tonight.
Scarlet Brockmeyer family tree?
Who is Scarlet Brockmeyer’s father?
I’d imagine I’d found my father, and I’d dream about it too. That he’d been searching for me since I was an infant, wanting so badly to find his long-lost daughter. We’d ice skate and ride bikes, and he’d teach me how to shoot a rubber band gun—something Marmie had already taught me, but I’d pretend it was new information. He’d never scold me for walking too loud, or slouching when I walked, or crying. He’d love me just the way I was. “Guts and all,” as Marmie always put it.
I’d stopped asking my mother about my father because every time I did, she’d spend three days of her time home locked in her bedroom, and I’d shove plates of macaroni and cheese under the door to make sure she ate.
I’d learned to get myself to the bus stop when Mother was home.
I’d learned to get myself ready for school, and make my lunch, and read street signs, and study bus lines to make sure I didn’t get lost.
One time, I had, and the police were called, so my mom was called, and all of a sudden, it was all my fault.
I’d made it my mission in life to never ask my mother for anything, never be a burden, and I made my best attempts to meet her expectations.
Another time, the school counselor had pulled me into her office and asked if I was all right.
I sure am.
I am just fine.
When she asked about my home life, I recited the lines I’d come to live, words my mother had given me and words I believed deeply.
I have a roof over my head.
Food to eat.
Clothes on my back.
A nice home.
The counsel
or asked if I felt safe at home, and I did.
I felt safe.
But what I hadn’t known was that you could feel safe and neglected, all at the same time. And sometimes, emotional scars were far worse than wounds themselves.
When my mother was home, I did my best to pass the time by reading and writing letters to Cash and my grandparents, conducting computer research, and waiting for Marmie to return.
I tried to be the best little girl I could for my mother.
22
Cash: Age 10
Dillon Creek, California
“Did Scarlet send her letter today?”
“It’s on the table,” my mom answered.
I ran to the table and ripped it open.
She’d colored hearts and stars along the top.
Dear Cash,
How did your math test go? Did Mrs. Stemple hand it back yet? I know you did well—I can feel it! My mother bought me a computer, and I’ve been looking into a thing called e-mail. The letter E stands for electronic, and mail—well, you know the rest. But you can type a letter and send it electronically, and it will get to you in seconds. But you need to have an e-mail address—somewhere to send it. I have an e-mail address, and it is [email protected]. See if your parents can buy a computer, and then we can e-mail instead. It’s much faster that way. I bet the computer would help your parents manage the expenses of the ranch and all that. I have yet to send an e-mail and am eager to try it out. And then there’s this thing called the World Wide Web. You can find anything you want on there without even leaving your house.
Anyhow, counting down the days until summer.
Give your mom and dad a hug for me.
And Ed, the king snake—even though I hate snakes.
I just miss everyone.
Write soon.
Love,
Scarlet
“Math test?” My mom looked over my shoulder.
“Mom! You can’t read my private letters.” I folded it back up.
Leaving Scarlet Page 11