by Sara Biren
I can feel my cheeks warming, so I take a long sip of iced tea to try to cool down. “Oh, you know, ‘Juniper Blue.’ It’s his nickname for me. Chris calls me that, too.”
“No,” Amelia disagrees, “Chris calls you Juniper Blue, the whole thing. Not Blue.”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” I say.
Youa snorts. “Hardly. The two of you sure spend a lot of time together. You’ve got a firm grip on that tea, Juniper. Now spill it.”
I consider telling them everything. How I couldn’t stand to be in the same room when he first arrived, how I came up with the fake friendship plan as a way of possibly saving the farm, how he makes me laugh, how the friendship feels less and less fake every day. How his smile gives me the flutters. How his nickname for me sends a rush of warmth through me every time I hear it. I almost wish he’d kept it a secret between the two of us.
I don’t tell them any of this, though. It’s too new, too fragile, and it’s not part of the plan.
“I guess . . . the more time I spend with him, the more I see he’s a regular person, you know? Overall, he’s . . . OK.”
“Hmm,” Amelia says. “Interesting. And what about the farm?”
“What about the farm?”
“Him. Selling the farm next month.”
My stomach drops. “Wait. What do you mean, he’s selling the farm next month?”
“No, sorry, I meant what happens if he decides to sell the farm next month?”
I close my eyes. “God, you scared me.”
“Are you still worried about it?” Youa asks. “I mean, you must be. Didn’t he screw the pooch on that last album? This place is probably worth a lot, don’t you think? Right on the river?”
“I’m worried,” I admit. “Of course I’m worried. I mean, I’d live and work here forever if I could. If they decide to sell, then what? I don’t want my mom to lose her entire livelihood because Gabe didn’t manage his money properly.”
“They both need to agree to it, right?” Amelia asks. “It’s all or nothing?”
I nod.
“Not to make you even more worried, but I could see Chris agreeing to it,” she says. “He’s hardly ever around as it is.”
That doesn’t help.
“What are you going to do?” Youa asks at the same time Amelia says, “Keep your friends close but your frenemies closer.”
“What movie is that from?” I ask.
“The Godfather: Part II. They didn’t say frenemies, obviously. But you get the idea. Sleep with one eye open.”
“You’re so dramatic, Amelia,” Youa says. She rolls her eyes. “You’ve seen too many movies.”
Amelia shrugs. “Life imitates art and all that. Doesn’t Gabe have a song called ‘Life Imitates Art’ on his first album?”
“No,” I say. “It’s called ‘Imitation of Life.’”
“Oh, is it now?” Youa snickers. “How familiar are you with his fine back catalog?”
“Wow, Youa,” I say.
“All I’m saying, girl, is keep that frenemy as close as you can.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say.
“On the other hand, he seems pretty trustworthy to me,” Youa continues. “Trust that boy to give you the shivers when he sings.” She thinks for a minute. “Or whispers sweet nothings in your ear. Or—”
I cut her off. “Stop!”
“That’s not what you’ll be saying when he—”
“Oh my God, Youa, stop already!”
She laughs.
“This conversation is over,” I say. I stand up. “I’m going to help Mom with dinner. I’ll call you when it’s ready. Do not set foot in this house until then. And whatever you do, do not talk about Gabe’s back catalog in front of my mother!”
They laugh as I walk into the house.
Amelia’s got a point about keeping your frenemies close. It’s a different version of the honey/vinegar thing.
I have to remind myself and my fluttery heart that Gabe is the enemy.
Chapter Twenty-One
GABE
I’ve been sleeping better.
The sleeping issues, the restlessness, all started long before I came to Minnesota, even before I got back together with Marley the second time. If I had to pinpoint a date, I’d say it was the day I told the label I’d work with their second-rate producer for Embrace the Suck, even though I knew Chris would be pissed when he found out. But I’d waited long enough for him to keep his promise. Too long.
Chris flies in from LA. I’m pissed myself, considering he didn’t make the trip—or me—a priority. But he brings some guitars and gear with him. He had to rent a small moving truck to bring it up from the airport. Unloading and unpacking the crates is like Christmas and my birthday and divorce guilt gifts all in one. This lessens my irritation with him slightly.
For now, we store everything in the living room and the study. “You planning on staying long?” I ask.
He nods. “Why not? You’re going to be here, so I might as well hang out, too. Let’s order pizza and build a fire. There’s nothing like sitting at a fire down by the river and playing your blues away.”
“Who said anything about the blues?” I ask, grinning as I strum my Gibson Hummingbird. I think I’m actually feeling something close to happiness for the first time in weeks. “God, this feels good. There’s nothing better.”
He snorts. “You’ve obviously never been in love before if you think the best thing that you’ll ever hold in your arms is that guitar.”
He’s got a point, but guitars don’t lie.
“You ever build a fire?” he asks as we walk down the path from the big house to the river.
“No.”
“You never go camping?”
“In LA?”
“You can get out of LA, you know. Plenty of places to camp and explore in California.”
“Why haven’t you ever taken me camping, then?” I ask.
Chris laughs. “Got me there. You’re more of an indoor pet, anyway.”
“Indoor pet?”
He nods. “Never bring an outdoor pet into the house, Pa told us, and don’t let your indoor pets run wild in the woods.”
“Good advice,” I say. “Makes me question how I ended up here.”
“Funny.”
Chris talks about his childhood pets—a cat named Dusty Springfield and a dog, Sparky—while he clears the firepit and pulls a few pieces of wood from a pile stacked between two trees.
“Watch and learn,” he says and stacks the firewood like a log cabin. There’s a small shed near the firepit. He unlocks the padlock and brings out a cardboard box full of newspapers and small branches. “Kindling and tinder,” he explains. Soon enough, he’s got the fire going, and then he brings out two camp chairs from the shed.
We sit at the fire as the sun sets and the sky darkens. We play and sing for what feels like hours. Pink Floyd, “Wish You Were Here.” Alice in Chains, “Down in a Hole.” The Rolling Stones, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Every now and then, Chris pokes at the fire with a stick or adds another log.
“This is good, yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah. It’s good.”
It’s all good—the fire, the calm river, the unbelievable night sky filled with bright stars and a full moon, the guitars, the harmonies. I could get used to this.
“I’m thinking about sticking around for a while. Christmas, New Year’s. Maybe longer. And maybe it’s time to set up a studio somewhere.” He plays a melody I don’t recognize.
I’m relaxed and loose and I can’t help but think that if Chris stays in Minnesota a while, if we spend more time together, maybe I can convince him that now’s the time to sell.
“What are you thinking?” I ask. “Clear out one of the spare bedrooms?”
The farmhouse is big, but not big enough for a music studio. Except for Gran’s bedroom, where Chris sleeps now, all of the rooms upstairs are small and crowded with antique furniture and knickknacks. The basement’s u
nfinished and smells dank and moldy.
“Nah. The garage is heated. Maybe I’ll set up there.”
“Acoustics would suck,” I say.
“Yeah, I might need to have somebody come in and fix that.”
“I had somebody out to look at the property.” The words stream from me without a second thought.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Hmm,” he says.
That’s it. I don’t know what I expected him to say. “Only to get an idea of a possible selling price.”
“I don’t know that you needed to have someone out to the farm to tell you that. Allan told you what the farm’s worth.”
“Sure, he told me what it’s worth, not how much I could get for it. I mean, that round barn alone . . .” I realize as soon as the words are out of my mouth that I sound like a spoiled rich kid from LA who only cares about himself.
“I see,” Chris says. “Did he tell you what you wanted to hear?”
“I guess.” Eric Dunbar, Riverside Commercial Properties, sent me an email with a number and calls me every few days “to check in.”
“Well, now you’ll never hear the end of it. They’ll be on you like flies on shit. Land this close to the river and the park reserve? It’s a gold mine.”
“That’s why I wanted somebody out sooner than later. I wanted to have all the facts in front of me so I can take the time to think things through.”
“Yeah? And what do you think?”
What do I think? I think the number Eric Dunbar gave me was good. I think that Chris is right. This land is a gold mine.
“I think I’ve still got a lot to think about,” I say. The familiar sense of dread shifts in my gut, reminding me.
“I think you should be careful who you trust around here,” Chris says. He’s not kidding. “Talk to me before you do anything stupid.”
Too late.
My bank account is dwindling, my credit cards are maxed out, and Rocky’s words are in a constant loop in my brain: I’m counting on you, Gabe.
Chris pokes at the fire. A log falls and sparks fly up into the dark sky. “I’m sorry I was away so long and left you on your own here. It was a shit move.”
I’m surprised as hell by this apology. “It was a shit move,” I agree.
For long minutes, neither of us says a word. I wonder if I should come clean, tell him the truth about the money from his account and get it over with.
I think about the time that I fucked up his ’79 Fender Telecaster, the used guitar he bought when he was fifteen, blonde with a black pick guard. His first guitar, his baby. I hadn’t been playing long myself, a couple of years, and I don’t know what got into me that day, but I wanted to play that Telecaster. I needed to play that Telecaster. So I did. I taught myself Soul Asylum’s “Somebody to Shove” and Led Zeppelin’s “Communication Breakdown.” I felt like a fucking rock god. I felt like a fucking king. And then I dropped the fucking guitar and snapped the headstock and Chris lost his shit. He didn’t even try to stay calm. His face turned purple and he cussed me out using words I’d never heard before and he sent me to stay with Elise.
“I can’t even look at you right now,” he said. A driver took me to the airport, and I didn’t see or talk to Chris for the two weeks it took for him to get the guitar fixed and simmer down.
No, I can’t tell him. Not now. Not when things are calm and quiet and we’re not being assholes to each other.
I play a riff quietly. The strings of this guitar feel like old friends. Maybe, after everything settles down and I figure out a way to fix this mess, we don’t have to be assholes anymore.
“That sounds good. Is it new?” he asks.
I nod. “Still working out the kinks.”
“Janie says she’s been checking up on you, and Laurel told me you’ve finally started eating dinner there once in a while.”
“That’s true.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Gabe. I should have brought you home a lot more when you were younger, before Ma died. This farm’s a part of us. Yeah, I wanted to get out of town and make something of myself as soon as I could, but this land, our family, our roots, they’re always here. I’ve fucked up a lot in my life, people come and go, but one thing I can always count on? This family. This farm.”
“Is this your way of telling me to call off Eric Dunbar?” I ask.
“Oh, hell no. Tell me you didn’t call that tool.”
“You hit the nail on the head, no pun intended,” I admit. “I called that tool.”
He shakes his head. “Good luck with that. No, I’m not telling you what to do. I’m giving you some more things to think about.”
“Noted,” I say.
“You’ve got a good thing going here, Gabe.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
“Have you had any panic attacks? How’s the anxiety? That’s what’s going on again, right?”
Again, he surprises me with the observation, and I wonder how much he remembers from the times—when I was ten, eleven—my anxiety ran high. When the panic attacks came on suddenly and frequently, over little things: worry that my Frisbee would be swept away in the ocean or Persephone would forget to pick up the cupcakes for my birthday. Or, you know, that my parents would OD and die like Jensen Philips, Elise’s costar in Friends, Unlimited. For a while, when I was recording music and touring the first album, the anxiety all but disappeared.
“Not lately,” I say. “Things are OK.”
“Only OK?”
Being on the farm and away from the bright lights of Hollywood has solved some of my problems, sure. I don’t have to worry about the paps following me around, for one. A guy from one of the gossip sites made the trip to take a photo of me on the steps of the high school, but the story fizzled when there was no actual story.
“I’ve got some shit to work through, you know?” I say. Like figuring out a way to get that money back in his account.
Chris chuckles. “Understatement of the year. You want to see somebody about that?”
“About what?”
“Keep up, Gabe. A therapist.”
“A therapist? Here?”
“Uh, yeah. You know, therapy’s not only an LA thing. I’ve got a good one in Fred Lake.”
“I didn’t know you had a therapist in Fred Lake.”
“There’s plenty of shit you don’t know about me, mostly because you like to keep to yourself. And keep things to yourself.” He pauses and clears his throat before he continues. “I know I haven’t been the best dad, and I haven’t always been there when you needed me. But I’m here now, and I want to be here in the future. And you can talk to me. About anything. I hope you know that. I’m an all right guy once you get to know me.”
It’s a nice idea but I don’t know if I can believe him. I strum a few chords on the Gibson. The fire crackles and snaps.
“Seeing somebody would help with the panic attacks, too,” he says quietly.
I don’t respond.
“It’s OK, you know. It’s OK to ask for help.”
“No, thanks,” I say quietly. “I don’t want to see your guy in Fred Lake, OK? Or LA, when I go back.”
“My guy in Fred Lake is a chick, actually. I don’t think you can see the same guy as me, but I can call up there tomorrow and make an appointment with one of the other therapists.”
“I said no, Chris.”
“Fine. That’s cool. I get it if it doesn’t feel right for you yet. Someday, it might. And I can help when that day comes.”
“Sure.”
“You know,” he says, “I can only speak from experience. But whatever’s going on with you is probably going to get worse before it gets better.”
Maybe that’s true. But tonight, I’ve got my Gibson, and that’s like a year’s worth of therapy right there.
Chris starts playing the opening riff of “Every Other Day Hero,” a song about the weight of fame, about losing yourself and the people you love. The song that inspired me to write my own dark anthem, “Burden.” I j
oin in. Neither of us sings the lyrics, too raw, too close. I know it’s an apology.
He sets his guitar aside and stands up to add a log to the fire, moving the burning wood and hot embers around with campfire tongs. A spark pops onto his hand and he swears. He looks out over the river, lost in thought. This place means more to him than I ever thought. His ties to this place, his roots, are strong.
Roots. That’s one thing I’ve never had.
“God, it’s good to be back home,” he says. He sits down again, pulls the guitar to his lap, starts playing the opening riff of “In My Life” by the Beatles.
In this moment, in those few words, those notes, I know for certain that Chris won’t ever sell Stone & Wool. In the back of my mind, I’ve always known it, like I’ve known that Marley won’t repay me in time. I’m on my own with this mess. I try to swallow down the panic—it will get worse before it gets better—and play along.
Chapter Twenty-Two
JUNIPER
“Goats.”
Gabe slaps his hand down on the table in front of me, and I jump. I’m studying for an ag production quiz, and I didn’t hear him come in through the back door. He and Chris were planning to come for dinner, but he’s early.
“Goats?”
“Yes. Goats.”
“What about them?”
“Goats are the answer.” He grins.
“What’s the question?” I ask.
“The question is, how are we going to save this project?” He sits down across from me and picks up a napkin, twisting the ring around and around the fabric. I’m mesmerized by his hands and his long fingers, imagining them at the piano or playing guitar. Or reaching out to brush a strand of my hair off my cheek.
“Hello? Earth to Juniper?”
I blink a few times. He’s waiting for me to say something. I track backward in the conversation. “Hold on. Since when does our project need saving?”
“OK, fine. Maybe it doesn’t need saving. But it needs something more exciting than baby lambs and pony rides. The answer is goats.”
“Baby lambs are the cutest,” I protest. “But do tell, how do goats fit into the equation?”
“Products made from goat milk. Goat milk soap. Goat milk lotions. Goat milk lip balm!” The more he talks, the more his face lights up. “Essential oils are all the rage right now, right? Flavor up the goat milk soap with some of that shit, and the stuff will be flying off the shelves!”