Bend in the Road

by Sara Biren

  Right. Friends. That’s what we are.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  GABE

  One thought follows me home after I leave Juniper on her front porch. I’ve got to get that real estate agent off my back and tell him that there’s no way his demo guy can set foot on this property.

  Chris is home from an NA meeting in Cloquet, drinking a glass of chocolate milk at the kitchen table.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asks. “Do I smell smoke?”

  I grin. “I built a campfire for Juniper tonight.”

  “Is that right, you sly dog. You sure know the way to that girl’s heart.”

  “It’s not like that, Chris,” I say as I sit down across from him. “How’s your day been? How was the meeting?”

  “Good,” he says and takes another large gulp of chocolate milk. “Also saw my therapist. Two-for-one deal today.”

  “Everything OK?” Before coming to Minnesota and the farm, asking would have felt awkward and uncomfortable, and I would have ignored his comment.

  “Yeah, everything’s good. Wanna stay on top of it, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You give it any thought?” he asks.

  “Seeing a therapist?” I shake my head. “I’m good.”

  “Keep an eye on it. Panic and anxiety are sneaky little fuckers.”

  “That’s the truth,” I mutter. I don’t tell him what happened at school. “I will.”

  “Good. Remember what your gran always used to say: Worse things happen at sea.”

  “Truer words,” I say. “You were right about that real estate agent, by the way.”

  “Which part?” he asks.

  “Flies on shit. He’s calling me two or three times a day when I’m in school.”

  “What does he want?”

  I sigh. This one’s gonna sting. “He thinks we should have someone come out and give us a quote on a demo. For some of the outbuildings.”

  Chris leans back in his chair. “First of all, there’s no we or us in this equation, pal. We may own this farm together, but this business with Dunbar is all you.” I’m surprised at his calm tone. “Secondly, if you have any doubts about what should or shouldn’t happen here, you go out to that round barn and read the rules. You’ve read the rules of the farm, right?”

  I nod. “Juniper showed me.”

  “Well, live by the fucking rules, Gabe. Act as a steward. Tell the fucking truth.”

  A sickening rush of guilt washes through me. “OK, I get it. I’m sorry. I’ll call Dunbar and tell him I don’t need his services. Again.”

  “Excellent. I’m headed up. Close up shop before you go to bed, OK?”

  I make sure the doors are locked and leave the light above the stove on. I go upstairs and take out the Martin. I play until exhaustion takes over, and then, finally, I let myself sleep.

  The next morning, before Juniper comes to pick me up for school, I call Eric Dunbar. It’s early and he doesn’t answer. Leaving a message without him interrupting me every two seconds makes it much easier to be a LAsshole.

  “Eric, Gabe Hudson. Wanted to let you know that I’m no longer interested in working with you regarding the Stone & Wool property, so you can go ahead and remove my information from your files. My attorney and I have begun the process to list the round barn on the National Register of Historic Places. Thanks. Take care.”

  I hang up and dial Allan’s office number and leave him a message as well. “Allan, I’ve got a project for you,” I begin and then lay out my plan.

  Too bad I still don’t have a plan for putting that money back in Chris’s account before I run out of time.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  JUNIPER

  When I power my phone back on Saturday afternoon after a short birthday party shift at the nature center, my notifications blow up with texts from Gabe.

  Gabe: Hey whatcha doin today? Wondering if you wanted to study for world history test

  Gabe: Chris went to mpls for a buddy’s gig at First Ave. but the asshole wouldn’t take me. What the hell? I’m Gabe Fucking Hudson.

  Gabe: That’s a joke, you know.

  Gabe: Blue? Are you ignoring me or are you actually doing something important with your life?

  Gabe: Seriously, though, I could use your help studying for that test. I’m shit at dates. I can play any song on the piano by ear, but I can’t remember dates.

  Gabe: BLUE I’m lonely can you help a guy out?

  Gabe: K fine, I get it. Obviously you ARE busy doing something important with your life.

  Gabe: Text me when you have a minute.

  I smile. I can’t help it. He texted me. He wanted my company, not Ted’s or anyone else’s. Although I don’t think he was serious about studying.

  Me: Was working. 15 ten-year-olds who only wanted to feed slugs to Smaug.

  Gabe: Smaug the dragon?

  Me: Redbelly snake.

  Gabe: This is disturbing on so many levels.

  Me: You’re telling me. You hungry? I could grab a ten buck cluck from Happy’s on my way back.

  Gabe: First, do you really think I’m hungry after you told me about a snake that eats slugs? Gross. But yes, I’m hungry. Second, ten buck cluck sounds . . . dirty.

  Me: You’re terrible. It’s a bucket of chicken.

  Gabe: Finally! Chicken from the famous Happy’s! Can you get a side of mashed potatoes?

  Me: And coleslaw?

  Gabe: That feels too much like a vegetable. Just the mashed.

  Me: See you in twenty.

  I grin all the way into town. I grin while I wait at the hostess stand for my to-go order. I grin on the drive home.

  As I walk up to the farmhouse, it occurs to me that I’m not trying very hard to be nice to Gabe because being nice to him is easy. I don’t have to try. And I like it.

  He practically rips the door off the hinges in his enthusiasm. “Holy shit, that cluck smells amazing. Get in here with that bucket. I set the table. What do you want to drink? Water? Lemonade? Chocolate milk?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Chocolate milk?”

  He shrugs. I follow him into the dining room and laugh. Gabe has indeed set the table, complete with woven place mats, Leona’s wedding china, and heavy silverware.

  Gabe asks me about my day, about the birthday party, about Smaug and the other reptiles that live at the nature center.

  “Do you have to, I don’t know, touch them? The snakes and other things?” he asks after we’re completely stuffed.

  I push away my empty plate. “I admit, snakes aren’t my favorite. I absolutely hate feeding them. It’s my least favorite birthday party theme, that’s for sure. I’d much rather work the family farm display.”

  “You are a true farm girl at heart, aren’t you, Blue?” Gabe smiles at me across the table. “Thanks for bringing dinner. That was an unforgettable cluck.” Now I think he’s smiling at himself and his cleverness.

  “You know, I think you’re the first person to ever make that joke, Gabe.”

  “Wow, the sarcasm. I didn’t realize it ran so deep.”

  I stand and begin to collect the dirty dishes from the table.

  “Oh no,” he says. “You cooked. I’ll clean up.”

  “Did you not just say I was a true farm girl? Farm girls don’t stand around and let other people do the work while they sit with their feet up. Farm girls help. You wash, I’ll dry.”

  “How do you know that I’m not planning to load everything in the dishwasher?”

  “Gabe.” I pause for emphasis. “If you put your grandmother’s mid-century platinum-rimmed Bavarian dinnerware in the dishwasher, I will never speak to you again.”

  He throws back his head and laughs. “How do you know so much about my grandmother’s fancy dishes?”

  “I broke a plate when I was nine. I cried for hours, I felt so bad, but Leona told me not to worry. She called this china replacement company in North Carolina and boom, she had a new plate within the week.”


  “I promise not to break anything,” he says. He gently slides the plates, white with delicate blue flowers, into the sudsy water and tells me about his day. “Everyone deserted me. Ted’s in Duluth for some eligibility meeting. Chris left before breakfast. You were ignoring me.”

  “I was working.”

  “So you say. I was all alone.”

  “Listen to you. I thought you weren’t here to make friends.” I’m serious but make sure my tone is light and joking.

  “Har har,” he says. “I only need a few. I spent my entire day alone, going through a storage closet in the basement.”

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “A few boxes of toys I remember from when I was really little. This old wooden clock that played ‘Grandfather’s Clock’ when you wound it up.”

  “Oh, I remember that. I always thought the lyrics were so sad. It stopped short, never to go again, when the old man died.”

  “Me, too, mainly because my grandfather died when I was a baby.”

  I dry the forks carefully and set them on the counter. “What else?” I ask. “Did you find the fairy-tale blocks, too?” Leona had kept the set of wooden blocks, each one with illustrations that told the stories of various fairy tales, on the bookshelf in the living room so I could play with them on rainy days.

  “No, but I’m sure they’re around here somewhere.”

  Gabe rinses the last plate and I dry it. He pulls the stopper, and the water swirls down the drain. I hang my dish towel on the stove handle.

  “Now what?” I ask. “Ready to study for World History?”

  “God, no. I can’t read one more thing about—you know, I can’t even remember what we’ve been studying.”

  “French Revolution ring a bell?” I ask.

  “Ah yes, how boring. I’ve seen Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. That’s all I need to know.”

  “Are you trying to fail out of school?” I ask. “Fine. We don’t have to study.”

  “What do people do around here on Saturday nights?” he asks. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms.

  I shrug. “I’m sure there’s a party somewhere, if you’re into that scene.”

  “You’re not?” he asks.

  “Farm girl, remember? Gotta be up before dawn to milk the cows.”

  “You don’t have any cows, Blue.”

  “It’s a figure of speech.”

  “Well, parties aren’t really my scene, either.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him again. “That’s not what I read on Celebrity Insider.”

  “You shouldn’t read that trash, Blue. Also: You read about me on the Internet, huh?”

  My cheeks warm, and I turn to walk into the living room to hide my embarrassment. “Maybe.” I sit down on the couch and Gabe follows, sitting in Leona’s favorite recliner.

  “I only went to those parties for publicity. Kinda goes with the territory, you know? I’m not fun at a party, I’ve been told.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “No booze. No drugs.”

  I can’t help it. My mouth drops open before I even have a chance to think about it. He laughs.

  “Your face! What, you don’t believe me?”

  “Well—I mean, what Marley said.”

  “Oh, thanks a lot. You’re going to believe a troubled, addicted teen actress who you don’t know over me? I see how it is.”

  Now I really blush. “God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t assume.”

  “Chris always tells me that if you don’t tell your own story, someone else is going to tell it for you. And it might not be the truth. He learned that the hard way, and I have, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  He shrugs. “Not your fault. But it’s the truth. I’ve never even tasted alcohol.”

  “Was it hard, you know, spending time with Marley when she was using?”

  “She was good at hiding it. We’d go out to dinner and she’d snort something in the bathroom, and I wouldn’t even know. But yeah, it got a lot harder toward the end. She was getting more and more out of control, not hiding it as well. I was really worried about her. I hope she’s getting better.” He smiles, small and sad. “Amazing, isn’t it? She used me, she humiliated me, and still, I want the best for her, you know?”

  “You’re a good person, Gabe,” I say quietly.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know about that.”

  I’m glad that he’s opening up to me about Marley and life in LA, but I miss the lightheartedness of earlier. “Will you play something on the guitar?” I ask.

  Gabe holds up his hands. “Shit, I should have had you wash. I can’t play when my skin’s so soft from the water. But I can play piano.”

  He stands and walks over to the piano, flipping the lid open as he sits on the bench. “Did you know, this piano was built in 1908? Gran reminded me every single time I sat down to play when I was a kid. That woman had a lot of stuff, but she treated everything with respect.”

  “She was amazing.”

  He plunks out a simple version of “Grandfather’s Clock.”

  “You weren’t kidding. You can play by ear?”

  “And memory, I guess. I haven’t heard that song in years, not until this afternoon when I played it on the little toy clock.”

  He plays parts of classical pieces that I recognize—Chopin, Satie, Vivaldi—and some that I don’t. He plays “Let It Be” and sings with conviction. He plays snippets of “November Rain” by Guns N’ Roses and Stevie Wonder, “Superstition.”

  “Wow, that’s a wide range,” I say when he pauses.

  “My music instructor was hands down the best thing about the school in LA. We studied every style of music, every era. And I’ve taken classical piano and guitar lessons since I was about ten.”

  “Impressive.”

  “I want to learn everything about every kind of music. It makes me a better musician.” He pauses. “Well, maybe not country.”

  “Oh, you are for sure not from around here. We’ve all got a little bit of country kicking around in our blood up here.”

  “Is that right?” he asks. “Even Chris?”

  “Have you never heard the story about how Chris and my dad drove down to the Twin Cities in the dead of winter to see Johnny Cash? And on the way back, Chris hit an icy patch and ended up in the ditch. They were, like, seventeen or something, no cell phones, so they had to wait for the state patrol to come drive them to a gas station so they could call home.”

  “OK, Johnny Cash makes the cut.”

  “I like a little Loretta Lynn myself,” I say, emphasizing the first syllable with a thick twang.

  “I’d play you some, but I don’t know any.” He turns back to the piano, and his hands hover over the keys for a minute before he begins to play.

  Melancholy, slow, with long spaces between notes. One hand playing notes like a bell, the other playing the haunting melody. I don’t recognize the song. His voice is clear and strong and sends goose bumps through me.

  When he finishes, neither one of us says a word for a moment. “What song is that?” I ask quietly.

  “Pink Floyd. ‘High Hopes.’” He pauses, then says, “I chose that song for a school talent show once. I hadn’t been playing long, and I probably had no business choosing that. I mean, I’ve been working on that song for years, and I still screw it up every time. But I wanted to impress my dad, you know? Pink Floyd’s his favorite band. Apparently, when I was a toddler, I couldn’t go to sleep without that CD playing on my boom box. So, I practiced my little heart out. If I wasn’t at school, I was at home playing ‘High Hopes’ for my tutor.” He laughs. “God, she was sick of that song by the time the talent show rolled around. I played until my joints ached, but I was ready. I was going to play ‘High Hopes’ and prove to my parents that I was worth their time.”

  Gabe’s voice cracks a little when he says that, and my heart aches for him.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “The day
of the talent show rolled around, and our little school auditorium filled up with parents. The rich, the famous, the not-so-famous. My Benson-Beckett grandparents even made the drive from Beverly Hills to see and be seen.”

  “But?”

  “But Chris and Elise didn’t show. Elise was having an elemental balancing massage, whatever the hell that is, and Chris had flown up to Seattle but hadn’t bothered to let anyone know. After the talent show, I tried calling but couldn’t get through to either one of them. For all I knew, they were both dead.” His laugh is quiet, tinged with a hint of bitterness. “When Chris got back from Seattle, you know what he said when I asked him about it? He said, ‘Oh, was that this week? There’ll be other talent shows, Gabe.’”

  “Was he using then?” I ask. “Not that it makes a difference.”

  “Oh yeah, no question about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know that Chris. Everyone tried to shield me from that side of him.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for.” He plunks a few notes on the piano. “I’m glad you didn’t have to see Chris like that.”

  I try to hide a yawn behind my fist. “Gabe, I’m sorry, but I should go. I’ve had a long day with the snakes and the birthday hooligans. Farmers’ market tomorrow, remember? I’ve got to get up really early.”

  “Right, the farmers’ market. Can I come with you? Or will Laurel be there and I’ll only be in the way?”

  “It’s the first indoor market of the year,” I say. “Maybe you want to wait until we work the kinks out.”

  “I get that,” he says. “No problem. Can I walk you home?”

  “I drove, remember?”

  “Right, of course.” He shakes his head. “Sorry I’m acting so weird tonight.”

  He is, in a way, but I think I get it. He’s alone, and he’s lonely, away from his friends and his music.

  “It’s OK,” I tell him as I walk to the front door and lift my coat off the hook.

  “Do you know,” he says, “that I’ve never seen you in such . . . regular clothes before?”

  I look down at my outfit. I’m wearing a green park polo shirt, khaki pants, and hiking boots. My work uniform. Even my hair’s in a boring single braid down my back. Still, he reaches out and flips the tail of it between his fingers. He lets it drop and runs a finger along my jaw from my ear to the center of my chin. I practically hum with the sensation of his touch. I want to lean into it.