“But,” I said, because I wasn’t that laissez-faire person, “even though that’s a good attitude, and definitely healthy in general, the thing is, she’s going to sell the place and it will be gone forever. Someday maybe you’ll have kids, or even if you don’t, someday you might want some feeling of connection to your heritage. Your history. Aren’t you at least a little tempted to take it over and keep it?”
“Yeah.” He cut off another bite of his omelet. “But it’s not practical.”
And if there was one thing Frank Morrison was, it was practical.
I didn’t say it, but the sentiment echoed between us.
“What about Burke? Is he thinking of buying it?”
Frank took another sip of coffee and shook his head. “I doubt it. It’s pricey. But I don’t think he’s all that happy about it being sold either.”
“No?” That he felt the same way I did about it struck me in a more personal way than it probably should have. “Why not?”
“Same reasons you said, basically. I think he referenced history, but it all adds up to the same thing. What can we do? It’s not our decision and we can’t make Gran feel like she’s letting us down by living her life. She should be commended for starting over at this stage. That takes a lot of courage.”
“I agree.” Then I sighed. “But I wish someone was going to keep it in the family. It would be weird for someone else to take it over and maybe change it. I honestly always thought Burke would end up there. I’m surprised he won’t.”
“You know how Burke is,” Frank went on. His voice was even, despite the fact that his words were somewhat harsh. “He wants things, but he doesn’t really want to do what it takes to get them. He expects everything to fall in his lap. I guess he thought the farm would too. Inheritance or whatever. Now that Dottie wants to sell, he’s pissed, but I don’t see him out trying to get a mortgage or investors, so he must not be that motivated.”
“Do you think he could?”
“I have no idea.” He waved his hand. “You never know with him. I gave up trying to help a long, long time ago.”
Around the time he “helped” me get out of a relationship with Burke?
Or did he consider that helping Burke?
Obviously there was an element of helping himself. He wasn’t entirely altruistic.
“That’s a shame.”
He shrugged. “He’s my brother. But I’m not his keeper. And he doesn’t want me to be. It works out fine. Not a shame at all.”
I remember how they had always had this dynamic. There were times when they were pals, and I think in the end that will be the ultimate story of them, but there were many, many times when they had conflict. Frank was sharp and condescending, often treating Burke like an incompetent child. Burke, on the other hand, was wild and immature, often acting like an incompetent child.
In its weird way, it worked.
Certainly it wasn’t an argument I needed to have right now. “As long as you’re at peace with the relationship.”
He was chewing his food and nodded vigorously before saying, “Oh, yeah, there’s no angst there.”
I sighed and probably shouldn’t have said, “I do wish one of you would keep the farm. I really hate to see it go.”
“That’s a lot of money for a hobby I’m not really interested in.”
“How much is the asking price?”
He told me, and everything in me deflated. Who could afford that? I could buy several nice houses in town for that. Not that it was an unfair asking price, but it was even more out of my league than I could have dreamed.
I wondered if Burke was too proud to admit to his brother that the price was just too much for him.
Then I chastised myself for even worrying about how he might feel about this.
Instead I changed the subject and forced myself not to ask any more questions about Burke, or anything tangentially involved with Burke, because I knew there was no point in going there. No good would come out of it, I’d just feel weird.
I’d moved past this a long, long time ago, and I had no intention of ever revisiting.
Not that it was all that comfortable revisiting Frank either. He did not loom large, as Burke did, in my heart, but he was a big part of my life, and of my memories. If I’d stayed with him, and he would have liked that at the time, it was possible that my life would have gone in a very different direction. Not that I was unhappy with how it was now, but, like I said, I really liked Frank. I’d always kind of loved Frank, though not in exactly the same way I’d loved Burke. Sometimes I wondered if we could have been happy together under other circumstances.
That is, if it was possible to have a happy life with someone when the relationship would necessarily involve someone else who had hurt you. If I’d met Frank independently, then sure, maybe we could have had a go of it. Or at least a longer relationship than the momentary blip we’d had.
But that couldn’t have been realistically possible. Ultimately, Frank implied Burke in too many ways. They didn’t look alike, but they were brothers, and there were similarities that ran deep and subtle. The same vocal inflection now and then. The same laugh. A similar stance, weirdly enough.
To say nothing of the very real fact that holidays, funerals, and other family events would necessarily put us all together.
I could never give myself wholly to Frank because I could never fully let go of Burke. With someone unrelated, maybe Burke would have become a memory that dimmed to sweetness with time. Or, better still, dimmed to obscurity. From a photo to a watercolor.
But as long as I was with his brother, there wasn’t a chance in the world I’d ever forget him and move on.
None of which is to say Frank would have actually wanted me. But there was no point in adding that to the mix, since I wasn’t really stirring it anyway.
Frank and I made small talk after that. Nothing about the farm, the wedding, his family, nothing even remotely incendiary. He told me about his job, the renovations to his row house in D.C., the market in general, and I, in turn, gave him a few anecdotes about my life as a small-town bridal gown seamstress.
And, to be honest, that part of the conversation went really smoothly. It was comfortable. Like a really good first date. Had he been a stranger and it was a first date, I probably would have agreed to see him again, but it wouldn’t have been with much enthusiasm.
I was sure he didn’t have that problem with all women. Objectively speaking, this guy was a catch. Good-looking, successful, smart, self-assured … there was no doubt about it, he’d survive the dating marketplace better than most.
I finished my meal and pushed the plate away, the universal sign for Uncle.
“It was good to see you, Frank,” I said, reaching for my purse and hoping I had some cash so we didn’t have the awkwardness of splitting the bill onto two credit cards. I found a twenty and took it out, figuring it would cover both of us.
“Put that away,” Frank said as soon as he saw what I was doing. “This is on me.”
“No, Frank, that’s not—”
“Quinn.”
I put my money away. There was no sense in dickering over this and asserting my independence. If he wanted to buy me a breakfast I hadn’t planned on sharing with him, fine.
“Thank you, Frank,” I said.
He met my eyes and smiled. And for a moment I could really see the man he was, apart from his family and our history and everything else.
He put some bills down on the table and we both stood up and walked, a bit awkwardly, to the door, past townspeople who would undoubtedly be speculating about this later. Even people who didn’t know about our history—that’s how small towns are.
I didn’t care anymore.
I couldn’t.
We stepped out onto the sidewalk in the already-blazing sunshine of a late May morning.
“I guess I’ll be seeing you around,” I said.
All of the awkwardness of that first meeting we’d had in the grocery stor
e was back. All of my self-consciousness, and my questions about his own impressions of me. Isn’t that crazy? We’d talked about Burke, about the fallout from my Runaway Bride act, but I couldn’t ask Frank how he felt about everything that had happened.
I think in a way I felt that if I didn’t ask, it wouldn’t remind him of all the humiliations of mine that he’d witnessed.
Without any seeming awareness of the push and pull within me, he gave a single nod. “No doubt.”
“Please let Dottie know not to panic about her immobility, at least as far as getting fittings done. It’s not that big a deal. I can go there if I need to, but the dress isn’t all that complicated, as far as construction goes. It will still be ready well in time for the wedding.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked at the word wedding. I wasn’t sure why. “I’m sure she’ll be very glad to hear it.”
I nodded, and a tense silence ballooned around us.
“So … thanks!” I said again, this time with a forced cheer that might as well have screamed sarcasm.
“Anytime.”
I put my hand out to shake hands—a gesture that always feels ridiculous and unnatural to me, like I’m pantomiming some businessman in a foreign language video (“It was a pleasure meeting with you.”)—just as he came in for the cursory insincere hug, and as a result I effectively jabbed him in the stomach.
We both put our hands up in surrender and laughed.
“Sorry!”
“Let’s give up,” he said, flashing that smile again. “Before something seriously embarrassing happens.”
“Amen,” I said, shaking my head. “See you later.”
And, at that moment, I wasn’t dreading it.
Chapter 8
October, Seventeen Years Ago
“What does it look like?” Quinn asked.
They were on their way to his horse farm about forty minutes down the road from her house. It was in a particularly wealthy part of the county and she had not been there before, despite having spent her whole life in the area.
He had lived there with his brother and his grandparents since his father had died and … he didn’t talk about his mother. Quinn imagined a lot of sad scenarios to explain that, but few of them were even plausible. She had no idea if she’d ever know the truth.
But she was going to meet his grandparents, and she took that to be a very good sign that things were headed in a good direction with their relationship. You don’t introduce your boyfriend or girlfriend to your family if you’re not serious, right?
“You’ll see it soon,” he said, switching lanes to pass a slower car.
“But just tell me.” She was unreasonably excited. It was a perfect October afternoon and they were set to have a cookout. Then she and Burke were going to stay over so he could get up early—seriously early, as in so early many people would just consider it “late”—to go fishing with his grandfather.
It was like he was giving her a really good peek at his life, and she was thrilled. Maybe she was actually going to be getting a look at her own future life!
“Is it fancy?”
“It looks a lot like that,” he said, and gestured out the passenger window.
She looked eagerly and saw an ancient wooden barn collapsing on itself, grass and weeds growing through the slats by the foundation. “Smart-ass,” she said to him, and rolled the window down to let the warm air from outside in. She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes while her hair blew around her face and she sang along with the radio.
Burke drove, steady as always, patient with her loudness and constant CD-switching.
They drove for about twenty minutes and then he took an exit off the two-lane highway and pulled onto a narrower, tree-lined street. Almost immediately he pulled into a roadside bakery and drive-in parking lot. It looked like something out of the fifties. Or at least the movie and TV version of the fifties.
“The cookies?” she asked as they got out of the car.
“They also have snowballs that Frank and I used to get.” He led her to the bakery display shelves and pointed at coconut-covered fluffy icing balls. “They have cake in the middle. You want one?”
“Yes!”
“Obviously you should save it for after dinner,” he said, and then laughed.
“Oh, please.” She had a terrible sweet tooth. There was no way that thing was going to be within six inches of her for two minutes before she devoured it.
He ordered snowballs and cookies from a man in a chef’s coat with a face the color of seared meat, while she wandered around looking at the breads and the menu for hamburgers and hot dogs and other fast food. It was Saturday and there were a fair number of people there, eating at picnic tables that were set up next to the kitchen.
“How old is this place?” she asked Burke as he came to her with a bag in hand.
“I don’t know. It’s been here since I was a kid.” He took out a snowball and handed it to her.
“I wonder if everyone comes and hangs out here on Friday night.” She took a bite. The coconut spilled down her shirt. But it was good.
He watched her, looking amused. “Want a drink?”
“Mm-mm.” She shook her head. “I’m good,” she added, mouth full.
They sat at a picnic table while she finished. The landscape was green and lush, with lots of leafy trees throwing splashes of shade across swells of green fields. Across the street there was a huge old barn with a sign out front that read ANTIQUES. The people milling about outside were noticeably well dressed, so it was easy to imagine the antiques were pretty pricey. Not like the junk shop near her grandparents’ house in Thurmont.
She could see living like this.
When she finished eating they went back to the car and turned onto a winding country road. In another five minutes he was pulling into the gravel driveway of a sprawling, pristine farm of green fields, white fences, and horses. So many horses. Gleaming, shining Thoroughbreds and hunters. It looked, for all the world, like the horse-and-stable set she used to play with as a child. It had been her favorite toy. Many times she’d faked sick so she could stay home from school and play with the horses and farm.
And here it was, blooming to life right in front of her.
“I love it,” she breathed, wide-eyed.
He parked outside a low brick stable and they got out and headed toward the stately stone main house.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing to a bungalow in the shade on the edge of the property.
“Tenant house,” he said. “Basically a little place no one really uses for anything but storage. My granddad wants to rent it, but Dottie, my grandmother, always says she wants it there for Frank and me when we get older and want to move out. She figures it’ll keep us from moving too far away.”
“I guess it would!” She wanted to see inside. Most people would be more enamored of the big house, but something about the little place captured her imagination right away.
A man who looked to be in his thirties came out of the barn, wiping his brow with a dirt-smeared arm. “Who’s that?” she asked, as he was clearly too young to be Burke’s grandfather.
“Hm? Oh, that’s Rob. He’s in charge of keeping up with all the horse business.”
Rob stopped by the fence and took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one.
“Isn’t that dangerous around a barn?” Quinn asked.
“He’s a total freak.” Burke shook his head. “I think he’s constantly stoned, but Dottie has ideas about rehabilitating him. She thinks the work and responsibility will straighten him out. Face his demons and shoo them away, she says.”
“Dottie?”
“My grandmother.”
“Why do you call her that?”
“It’s her name.” He laughed. “Everyone calls her that. She didn’t like how aging Grandma sounded.”
Quinn liked this woman already.
A black and tan dog ran and yelped excitedly at them in the yard, and the
sound echoed across the fields.
It was perfect.
As they approached the house, the screen door swung open and an older man with thinning gray hair and a red-checked western shirt came out. He had a string tie around his neck and a leather belt with a big silver oval buckle cinching his generous waist.
This was obviously Burke’s grandfather, though he didn’t look nearly as intimidating as Quinn had imagined.
He was followed by a spritely whip of a woman with wavy blond hair up in a half-done bun. She wore a tan skirt that might have been suede and a summery print sleeveless blouse. There was a certain elegance to her, even though she looked slightly disheveled. It was an elegant kind of disheveled.
Quinn’s nerves hummed.
But her fears dissolved instantly when the older couple greeted them. Each gave her a hug in welcome and then introduced her to the dog, Zinger. When Burke’s grandfather offered her a Coke, she accepted and he handed her a bottle that looked like it had been in the fridge since the late sixties. Quinn eyed it dubiously and sent Burke a questioning glance. Could Coke go bad? If it was past its expiration date, could it make you sick?
All she needed was to spend the night she met his grandparents for the first time throwing up in the bathroom. If she was lucky, that is. What if she didn’t even make it to the bathroom?
Burke seemed oblivious to her unspoken question, so she carefully poured the Coke out a little bit at a time when no one was looking.
Of course Burke caught her as she dumped the last of it, and raised his eyebrows at her.
She grimaced and shrugged.
He looked at the bottle and nodded.
Apart from that little glitch, though, it was a perfect evening. They had steaks cooked over peach bark and they were the most delicious food Quinn had ever eaten in her life. She was in complete bliss.
Chose the Wrong Guy, Gave Him the Wrong Finger Page 9