by Sarina Bowen
“What are you doing?” Griff said suddenly from right behind me.
“Barbecue sauce. You’re familiar with it, right?” The heat of his body was somehow hotter than the Wolf stove in front of me. I tried to elbow him out of the way, but that was like trying to nudge a Humvee. So I went the long way around two-hundred-odd pounds of muscle to collect the cherries.
“Strange combo,” he muttered.
“You don’t have to eat it,” I returned. There was a nice sizzle happening in my saucepan now and I grabbed a wooden spoon to stir everything together. “Be a dear and find me some brown sugar, would you?” I asked. “And some vinegar.”
Across the room, his sister May laughed. “He’d need a map and a compass. I’ll grab them. White wine vinegar? Or balsamic.”
“Balsamic, I think.”
The kitchen door opened slowly, and Griff’s newest employee eased tentatively into the room. “That smells really good,” he said softly.
“Thank you!” I chirped, giving Griff a pointed look.
Griff ignored me. He escorted his new employee in the direction of the pantry. “Having the sink over here keeps us out of the way,” he said. “And keeps the cooks from getting cranky.”
“What keeps you from getting cranky?” I called after him. “Whatever it is, have some of it.”
All the Shipleys laughed except for Griff.
Chapter Five
Griffin
The sight of Audrey Kidder invading my family kitchen had a strange effect on me. Watching her at our stove was like getting a glimpse of an alternate universe where I had time for a woman in my life.
Fat chance.
All the stress must have been getting to me, because there was really no reason that Audrey should make me feel wistful. Hell, we hadn’t even been friends in college. She’d been dating Bryce, a younger football teammate of mine. For months, whenever he brought her by the house, I was tortured by her smile and her easy laugh.
Then they broke up, and it was ugly. I didn’t think I’d see her again. But a couple of weeks later she turned up at a party my fraternity was throwing. As a smart man, I saw my chance and I took it.
Two of the best nights of my life were the ones I spent with her. Inside her.
But frivolous college hookups were no longer a part of my life, and I accepted it. Tell that to my body, though. Audrey’s appearance in my home had the same effect on my libido that springtime had on the deer living on our hilltop. Hello, pheromones. For the first time in a long while my senses woke up and shook themselves. The curvy girl making a wacko sauce in my kitchen had once felt spectacular beneath me. And in front of me. And straddling me…
“Griff?”
“Hmm?” Shit, I was actually staring at her. “Is there something on my ass that shouldn’t be there?” she asked.
“Uh.” I was so busted. “Just a bit of hay.”
“Get it off, would you?”
Ruh-roh. Trapped in my own stupid lie, I took a quick swipe at her skirt near her hip, where it was relatively safe.
“Thanks,” she chirped, stirring.
May gave me a strange look as she dropped off a bag of brown sugar and some other seasonings on the counter beside Audrey. “Everything okay over here?”
“Of course,” I grumbled. “Just hungry.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Are you now?”
Aiming my grumpiest face at May, I stepped around her. Maybe if I just put a little distance between Audrey and me, the weirdness would pass.
I headed for the dining room, and Jude followed me like a shadow. “We eat most meals in here,” I told him. “And after supper you can feel free to watch TV with us in the living room.” I pointed. “Zach always does. I’ve had to train him up. He didn’t see a television until he was almost twenty.”
The new guy’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“He grew up on a religious commune in Texas. Never left the property until he hitchhiked to Vermont. So we watch a lot of movies. Lately we’re all about The Lord of the Rings.”
Since you can’t farm after dark, movies were my respite. The nearest bar was twenty minutes away, and I didn’t have a lot of cash to blow on beer, anyway. Or anything else for that matter. Last winter Zach and I watched a lifetime’s worth of movies between December and March. During the growing season, we didn’t have as much time to dedicate to Hollywood blockbusters.
My mother bustled into the room with an armful of clothes. “These are for you,” she said to Jude, handing him the pile before he could even respond. “I’m going to get lunch on the table now.”
Jude stared down at the pile in his hands. There were a couple pairs of jeans, old ones of mine. Mom had probably been saving those for Dylan, but it was just as useful to give them to Jude. There were shirts, too. Those had probably belonged to my father.
Mom was a true New England spendthrift. She mended everything until it was no longer practical. She got every drop of jam out of the bottom of the jar, then re-used the jar for the following century. It didn’t surprise me one bit that she’d been able to produce these clothes with only a few minutes’ warning. I’d bet cash money the things she’d found would fit him, too.
“Thank you,” Jude said to the air where Mom used to be. “She didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “She probably has a collection up there sorted by size and alphabetized by color. Now find a seat, because here they come.”
My sisters brought in fat slices of homemade bread and a giant bowl of potato salad. These were deposited on the sideboard. “We’ll make our plates,” Mom announced, following with her platter of brisket. “Grab one and queue up.”
Zach stepped into the room, grabbed a plate off the table and made it over to the food first.
“How does he do that?” May asked, laughing. “Zach has, like, a sixth sense for when food is served.”
“You’d have it too if you expended as many calories in a day as he does,” I said. Plucking a plate off the table, I handed it to Jude. Then I grabbed one for myself.
Our new employee did not put very much food on his plate. Just a slice of bread, the smallest piece of brisket and a dab of potato salad. Maybe he’d already had lunch, or maybe he didn’t want to pig out before he’d lifted a finger on our farm. I wasn’t gonna bother him about it. He’d learn soon enough. For a long day of farm work, calories were pretty crucial.
We all began to take seats around the table. I put my napkin in my lap and sat back in my chair, and Jude took this cue, copying me.
My grandfather walked in then, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Hot out there,” he muttered, heading for the buffet.
“If you’d just move into the farmhouse, I’d put an air conditioner in your room,” my mother promised.
“Not moving. Stop asking.” Although he refused to sleep here, Grandpa didn’t miss many meals in our dining room. He began to fix his plate.
I’d managed to put Audrey Kidder out of my mind for a good, solid five minutes, so it was kind of a surprise when she came barreling into the room with a gravy boat and a spoon. She put it down in front of my mother, who smiled and began to spoon some of the weird sauce onto her open-face sandwich.
We all waited while Audrey dashed over to the sideboard and made herself a little sandwich. When she and Grandpa took their seats across the table from me, my mother said, “Griff, why don’t you say grace?”
“All right.” Nothing like exchanging a few words with God while your ex-hookup watched from across the table. “Dear Lord, we thank you for these blessings we’re about to receive. Thank you for the Red Sox victory last night and for the minimal amount of rose chafer beetles that the twins will have to pinch off the plum trees after lunch…”
“Griff,” my mother warned. She hated it when I used grace as a means of nagging my family. Two birds, one stone, though.
“…please ease the way of our new friend Jude as he joins us here on the farm,” I added, hoping the
dude wouldn’t die of embarrassment. But it’s something my mother would want me to say. “And please help Miss Kidder find a tire shop with the right-sized tire so she can make a speedy trip back to Boston today. Amen.”
May snorted beside me. And when I looked up at Audrey, she gave me a squinty-eyed look of disapproval.
“Well,” my mother said in the extra-gracious voice she used whenever her children discredited her, “let’s try Audrey’s special barbecue sauce.”
I was the last one to receive the gravy boat, and I put a truly modest amount of sauce on my food, mostly just to make it perfectly clear to anyone who might be paying attention that I had no particular interest in Audrey Kidder. Then I tucked into my mother’s excellent cooking.
It was quiet for a moment, as lunchtime often is. We take our food seriously. But then May gave an unladylike moan. “Omigod,” she gasped. “This sauce. So good!”
“It’s…wow,” my brother agreed. “You could, like, bottle this and sell it. It’s foodgasmic.”
Across from me, Audrey grinned like she’d just won an award.
“The cherries are perfect,” my mother gushed. “So tart, and with the balsamic vinegar. Incredible!”
“Impressive,” Zach said, and I gave my most loyal employee a glare. Et tu, Zachariah?
“You don’t have much food, new guy,” May said to Jude. “Did you try the sauce?”
“I did, and I’m speechless,” he said, and I almost gave him a kick under the table. “Then again,” he hedged. “This is the first food I’ve eaten in three years that didn’t come from a prison or a hospital. So I’m easy to impress.”
A couple people snickered, but both Audrey and my mother sat forward in their chairs. Mom’s eyes got misty. Audrey gasped. “Are you serious? I sauced your first meal out of prison?”
Jude dropped his chin. He looked sorry he’d spoken up. Getting attention didn’t seem to agree with Jude.
“I think he needs another helping,” my mother declared. She pushed back from the table and went over to the sideboard to fetch another sandwich for Jude. The woman just couldn’t help herself. “Does anyone need anything while I’m over here?”
“Just more of that sauce,” my little sister said.
Bunch of traitors. The whole lot of them.
I bit into the center of my sandwich and chewed. And—holy hell. Smoky sweet cherries with a hint of heat. I resisted the groans of pleasure the rest of my family was making. But goddamn it, the girl could really cook. She was still irritating as hell and worked for a bunch of crooks. But she had one talent.
Okay, two. Food and sex…
“Griff, you okay?” my mother asked. “You look a little flushed.”
“Hot day,” I grunted. And it was.
“I thought Vermont didn’t get hot,” Audrey said. “Where are the cool mountain breezes?”
“They’ll be back at sunset,” I said, speaking up for the best state in the union. “That’s the thing about Vermont, it always cools off at night.”
“Good to know,” Audrey said, taking a dainty bite of potato salad.
“Where do you two know each other from, anyway?” Zach asked, heading over to the sideboard for another helping.
My mother looked up. “You two met before?”
Well, damn it, Zach. Now I’d have to kill him after lunch. Shame, too. Such a great employee.
“Let’s see,” Audrey said, dabbing the corner of her kissable mouth with the napkin. She didn’t meet my eyes and so I braced myself. “We overlapped at BU.” She gave me a sidelong glance from across the table as if to say, see what I did there?
Oh, we overlapped all right.
“We had a few mutual friends,” Audrey added. “I was dating his loathsome fraternity brother.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “Do you know whatever happened to him?”
I shook my big guilty head. Bryce hadn’t been my kind of guy. He ran with the rich kids.
“You know.” May leaned forward. “I thought you looked a little familiar. What year did you graduate?”
“Ah.” Audrey chased a chunk of potato around her plate. “I didn’t. Failed out my freshman year. Then I went to Mount Holyoke until they asked me not to return. Eventually I found my way to culinary school. Third time’s a charm.”
Everybody chuckled, which was ridiculous. If either of the twins failed out of college, I’d kill ’em with my bare hands. Their upcoming tuition bills kept me awake nights.
“Culinary school was the right choice,” my little sister chimed in. “This sauce is amazing.”
“Thank you.”
Everyone leapt in with another round of praise, as if Audrey had cured a rare variety of cancer.
I finished my sandwich in silence, feeling unsettled. And trying not to moan every time I got a taste of the weird wonderfulness that was sour cherries in a barbecue sauce.
Audrey Kidder left after lunch, so the day went back to normal.
Or rather—it should have. But I was unsettled and even shorter tempered than usual. I made some calls and did some office work, but it only made me feel crazy. So I took a jug of mom’s ginger lemonade and a half-dozen cookies outside and went to find Zach, Jude and my brother Dylan where they were working in the orchard. There was always something to do out there—mowing, picking up dropped apples, setting traps for the bugs we didn’t want or cultivating plants to attract the bugs we did want.
Organic farming is all about coaxing harmony to flourish where you need it. But I was not in a harmonious mood as I approached the guys. “How’s it going?” I asked them. “See any pests I need to worry about?”
Zach shook his head. “Looking good over here, though we could use some rain.”
“All right. Break time?”
“I’m free for that,” Dylan said. He flopped down on the grass and I passed him the tote bag with the snacks in it. He dug in and began pouring lemonade into plastic cups. “Here,” he said, passing one up to Jude.
My new employee looked sweaty but relaxed. He took the cup and gulped it down. I grabbed a jug of water out of the bag and passed it to Jude. “Here. Your face looks red.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m probably going to burn, but I don’t mind. I haven’t been outside all day in years.”
Jesus. I couldn’t even imagine. Not a day went by that I wasn’t outside for hours. If you put me in a cell I’d die. “What was rehab like?”
Jude laughed. “Nicer than jail, but I couldn’t appreciate it because I was too busy throwing up. The last ten days were better. There’s a courtyard where you can sit outside and play cards or whatever. And three times a day you have to talk about your feelings. That’s torture enough, but you have to listen to everyone else’s story, too. I mean—it’s motivating, but depressing. I thought I had a shitty childhood but some of these people are hardcore. The doctors asked everyone, ‘Where did you get your first hit? Who gave it to you?’ This girl—maybe she’s twenty now. She got her first lines of coke at twelve. It was a birthday present from her mother.”
“Hell,” Zach said, shoving a cookie in his mouth.
“I know, right?” Jude took a cookie, too. “Some of the people I met in there are so fucked. They can’t even remember being clean, because they were in sixth grade the last time they didn’t have drugs in their bodies.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his arm, and then lay back in the grass.
With the weather so warm, the bugs were at their most active. Grasshoppers dove past me like small aircraft, their wings buzzing as they went. Bees stopped to inspect the clover growing in the long grass.
Dylan gave my foot a gentle kick. “Where you been while we sweat out here?”
“Business crap. Had to make my market calls.” I was the president of the board for the Norwich farmers’ market. “Starting next month we’re taking food stamps as payment. Most everybody’s on board, but there are a few people holding out on me.”
“Dicks,” Dylan said. “Who wouldn’t want to expand their m
arket and give decent food to people who need it?”
“Exactly. But there’s paperwork. And farmers hate that shit. But I’ll win ’em over.”
Nobody said anything for a few minutes. The freedom to doze in the sunshine always felt pretty spectacular after a couple hours of hard labor. If I’d spent the afternoon outside, too, I wouldn’t be so agitated. Today my brain just wouldn’t shut up. “Hey, bro?” I nudged Dylan’s shoe. “Smithy sent over new lease terms for the next couple years. I need to discuss it with you.” Dylan was only seventeen, and a year away from high school graduation. But this was his farm, too. “I’m not sure it’s in our best interest to keep going with the South Hill half of our dairy.”
The look of shock on my brother’s face when he sat up was greater than I’d anticipated. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Why would we cut off most of our wintertime income?”
“Well…” I sat so I could see him more clearly. “The price of milk is down thirty percent in the last two years, but costs are going up. Dairy isn’t always a good business. A lot of guys went bankrupt during the ’90s. Dad had a good run, but I don’t like our chances.”
“But…” My brother fretted. “Dad loved those cows. And we’re diversified with the dairy. We have bad years in the orchard sometimes. What if that was our whole paycheck? We can’t just cut our operation in half.”
“I hear you,” I said as soothingly as possible. And honestly I was happy that Dylan understood these things. It was hard to say whether he’d be farming beside me after he got a college education and a better look at the world. But I liked knowing he was paying attention. “The dairy cows across the street are worth some money. If we sell them, we’ll earn a nice profit that we could reinvest in something else. I want to grow the cider operation because it’s an added-value business, not just a commodity. If it catches on, we’d have a brand name. And it would be something special that’s just ours.”
“Or just yours,” Dylan argued. “Nobody else knows how to make cider. What are the rest of us supposed to run?”