Love in a Small Town Box Set 1

by Tawdra Kandle

  As my daughter clamored over me, I managed to open my eyes just enough to push the right buttons, and seconds later, the way-too-damn-perky-for-seven-AM voice of Miss Debbie filled my bedroom.

  “Good morning, chickens! Are your eyes awake? Stretch them open! Are your hands awake? Clap them loud! And is your voice awake? Sing out with me! Let’s get tuneful!”

  Piper bounced up and down and began to sing along with the crazy lady on the television, her voice climbing a rudimentary version of scales. “Me, me, me, me, me, me, me!”

  I let my eyes drift shut again and reached back into sleep, trying desperately to hear my wife’s voice again, to feel her touch or catch a whiff of her unique scent.

  Nothing. She was gone, as she was every morning, as she had been every day for nearly three years. No matter how real the dream felt, it wasn’t reality. At least, it wasn’t mine. Not anymore.

  THERE WAS NEVER MUCH traffic on Highway 72 this time of day, and that was a good thing, because by the time I got home from my job at the farm stand, I was so tired that I could barely keep my eyes open. I’d been zoning for the past ten minutes, driving on automatic pilot, so far out of it that I nearly missed my own driveway.

  The dirt road was bumpy, dotted with potholes that probably pre-dated my own birth. This farm had been in my family for more generations than I could count. Gram told me that her mother-in-law, who would’ve been my great-grandmother, had claimed the land had originally been granted to our family by George I of England. According to Great-Grandma, our relative had been a marquess with a sense of adventure who’d wanted to try out the new world after he’d run afoul of a powerful duke. The king had taken pity on him and set him up with acres of land in the colony that bore his name.

  Truth? I didn’t know. It made for a good story, especially when I was getting bored during the history lessons Gram was teaching me. I had a good imagination, and I could just picture my many-times-over great-grandpa stepping off the boat, maybe in Savannah, and traveling out to the wilderness to begin a new life. Sometimes when I was on my way to the fields or working in the garden, I’d pretend that I was his daughter, helping my family survive. Later, when I was older, I’d wondered if he’d brought a wife from England or married a local girl. What had she looked like, my great-grandmother from so many generations back? Had she married the marquess because of his title and land? Or had her family forced her to do it? Perhaps they were desperately poor, and that marriage was their ticket out of poverty.

  On particularly wistful days, I might wonder if she’d married him for love. I invented a beautiful story for them. He’d gone back into town to buy supplies, and she was the girl who waited on him at the general store. He took one look at her and was smitten. He stayed in town to court her, bringing her flowers and little gifts until she finally agreed to be his wife. Or maybe he’d fallen sick while in town, and she’d nursed him back to health, saving him from the jaws of death.

  The old truck hit a particularly deep hole, one I knew how to avoid. I braced my hand on the cracked dashboard and sucked in a breath, gritting my teeth. That might’ve thrown off my alignment, and Dad would not be pleased. It would be just another piece of ammunition to be used against me keeping this job, even though it might’ve just as easily happened if I were driving home from the store or from running an errand for Gram. Or even church.

  I maneuvered around to the back of the house at a snail’s pace. I didn’t know if my father was already inside or still out in the fields; he walked to and from each day, using the time for his personal prayers. But if he were inside and heard me driving over three miles per hour, he’d be unhappy. And I’d learned over my twenty-two years of life that keeping Dad happy was a good idea.

  Not that my father had ever hurt me. Not physically, anyway. Oh, I was sure I’d had my bottom swatted when I was a toddler, or maybe my hand popped now and then if I went to touch a hot stove or something breakable. But from my earliest memories, I’d known that the emotional barometer in our household rose and fell with Dad’s moods. If everything on the farm was running well, if the crops were growing, prices were good and all the machinery were in working order, and if I’d been behaving myself, finishing my homeschool lessons and my chores in a timely manner, Dad would be calm. He might give us one of his rare smiles and linger over coffee at the kitchen table while Gram and I did the dishes.

  On the other hand, if we’d had too much or too little rain, or if something had broken down, or if I’d been mouthy or rebellious or sighed too much at church, Dad’s forehead would furrow, and his eyes would go dark. He’d stare at me with thunder on his face, and Gram would tut-tut as she went about her work. I’d walk around with a perpetual lump in my stomach, afraid of my own shadow until everything eased again.

  I turned off the truck and pulled the keys from the ignition, reached for my canvas handbag and slung the strap over my shoulder. I slid from the seat and closed the door behind me, careful not to slam it. I climbed the two steps to the back door and toed off my shoes as I stood on the mat.

  “You can just come on in and relax. He’s not back yet.” Gram stood at the sink, her back to me as she rinsed off tomatoes.

  I sighed and opened the screen door. “Thanks, Gram. Give me just a second to wash up, and I’ll help you finish dinner.”

  “Take your time. The potatoes are done, and the chicken’s keeping warm. It was too warm to keep on the oven, so I’m just slicing up a cold salad.”

  Smiling, I hurried through the kitchen and up the back stairs. Gram was old school. She’d come of age during the turbulent 1960’s, but somehow, they’d never touched her. Instead, everything she did harkened back to what her own mother and mother-in-law had taught her. Supper was always meat, potatoes, vegetables and bread. She grew a full and varied garden, made fruit jams and canned vegetables and sewed her own curtains. She’d raised and homeschooled me, and I’d yet to find anything the woman couldn’t tackle.

  In my bedroom, I dropped my handbag onto a chair and tossed my sneakers into the closet. I glanced at my quilt-covered bed with longing; it’d been a crazy busy day, and crawling under the covers was more appealing than even eating at this point. But the last thing I needed was to give Dad another reason to argue against the job. So instead, I dragged myself into the bathroom across the hall, washed my hands and splashed water on my face before going back down to help get dinner on the table.

  Dad had taken Gram’s place at the sink, and he glanced at me over his shoulder as I came back into the kitchen. “You’re late. Did you leave your grandmother to make dinner by herself? You know I expect better.”

  I steeled myself against wincing. That had been the story of my life. He expected better. I’d been disappointing my father as long as I remembered. I always wondered if those had been the first words I’d heard upon being born. And I wondered if my mother had felt the same way, which would explain why she’d gotten off the farm and as far away from Burton, Georgia as soon as she could.

  “I got here as fast as possible, but—”

  “Emmett, leave the child be. I started supper early today, and there wasn’t a blessed thing Rilla could’ve done to help me. She would’ve been in my way.” Gram shot me a wink and a smile.

  Dad grunted. “Still. I told you this business with the farm stand is not what a young girl should be doing. It’s not right.”

  “I’m twenty-two, Dad. I’m not sixteen. And I’m working at a family farm stand, with other people there. It’s not like I took a job at a bar serving beer.”

  “Don’t sass me, Marilla Grace. You know what I mean. You might think you’re grown up, but you’re still living here under my roof. And my rules still apply to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad.” I skirted around him to pick up the bowl of potatoes and carry it to the table. “I didn’t mean disrespect. I just meant, I need to do something, and working for the Reynolds is actually wonderful. They’re so good to me, and so nice, all of them—”

  “That
Sam marry the girl yet? The one who’s been living at their house for over a year now?” My father crossed his arms over his chest and stared me down, his eyebrows drawn together.

  “No, I think they’re planning the wedding for next spring.” I avoided meeting his gaze. “But Ali and Flynn got married last month, you know, and they’re on their honeymoon.”

  “Those are the two with the child they had out of wedlock, aren’t they? About time they did the right thing.” He shook his head. “When I remember their mother and father and what they’d think of those two ...” His voice trailed off, but his tone left no doubt about the fact that Sam and Ali’s late parents would join him in disapproval. I felt a familiar stirring of anger in my chest.

  “Dad, it’s not like that. When you consider how hard Sam and Ali worked to keep the farm in their family, and how hard they still work ... they’re the nicest people. And Meghan and Flynn are awesome, too. I love being around them.”

  Gram sucked in a breath through her nose, which I knew was her warning signal to me. Don’t push him. But sometimes I was tired, just dog dead tired, of hearing my father run down good people simply because they didn’t meet some impossible standard he held for the world. I knew disagreeing with him didn’t do any good, but there came a point when I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

  “Hard work or no, it doesn’t excuse how they’ve conducted their personal lives. What do you think the Lord sees when He looks at them? He doesn’t care about them keeping that farm. Better they’d given it up and worried more about their conduct and how it looks.”

  I swallowed back another argument that I knew wouldn’t do any good. Instead, I found the salad tongs in a drawer and put them next to the salad bowl as Gram pulled out her chair to sit down. Dad took his place at the head of the table and waited for me to settle before he bowed his head.

  “Lord, we thank you for the provision which you have so graciously placed on this table, and we ask you to remind us that all things come from you. Make us mindful of your blessings and of the many ways that we offend you daily. Give us hearts that seek your will and your way. Keep us from being a stubborn, stiff-necked people, and place us in your pathways. In the name of Jesus, Amen.”

  “Amen.” Gram and I both echoed the word in murmurs, and she began passing the food. For a few minutes, there was no sound other than the metal spoons hitting the glass of bowls and then plates. I was last to serve myself, as I’d been my entire life, and once I’d finished putting food on my plate, I moved each bowl to the empty end of the table. Once upon a time, I knew, chairs had sat there, chairs that had been occupied by my grandfather and by my mother. Grampy had died when I was eight months old, and Mama—or whatever I’d called her—had left the farm six months later. Their chairs were pushed up against the wall, ready to be used in case we had company. Gram had once told me that my father had moved the chairs himself after my mother left. I wondered if the sight of her empty place had hurt him too much to bear.

  “How was work today, Rilla?” Gram never set out to antagonize her son, but neither was she afraid of him. She smiled at me across the table, ignoring the frown on Dad’s face.

  “It was great.” I cut into a piece of chicken. “Really busy. Oh, and Sam came by at the end of the day, and I went over the numbers so far on their promotional campaign. He was impressed. He asked if I might be interested in taking on a few more clients.”

  My father’s exhale left no doubt about where he stood on the matter. “I thought your job was to sell vegetables at the stand. Sam Reynolds isn’t paying you to mess with that other stuff. Computers and other nonsense.”

  “Actually, he is.” I twisted my napkin in my lap. “Remember I told you he agreed to be my first client? I’m not charging him much, since he’s sort of my guinea pig, but he’s paying me for what I’m doing. I got a website up for the stand, and I started social media accounts, too.”

  “Ridiculous. What does a farmer need with advertising? That’s not how we did things in my day.” Dad’s fork clattered against his plate.

  “It’s not the farm I’m promoting. It’s the stand. And yeah, they’ve never done anything but road signs, but now people can see them on the Internet. They can look up what’s in season, and people who’re just driving through can find the stand if they look up a place to eat.” I allowed a small smile to play on my lips. “Today a family stopped to buy peaches. The mom told me she’d found us on a restaurant app. It was so cool.”

  My father grumbled again, but Gram patted my hand. “That’s wonderful. I’m sure Sam’s real pleased.”

  “He seems to be.” I took a bite of salad.

  “I hope you’re not working there with him by yourself. I don’t want people saying things about my daughter being alone with man who isn’t her husband or her relative.”

  “Dad.” I tried to keep my voice respectful, even though my jaw ached with frustration. “First of all, it’s a farm stand. I’m out in the open, not tucked back in some dark room. Second, no one cares what I do. There’s no one around to judge me. And third, this is why I took classes, remember? I got my degree in business and marketing so I could get a job and start to make my own way.”

  He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Earn your own way. So I haven’t been doing a good enough job all these years? Roof over your head, food on the table, clothes to wear ... and now you need to chase after money?”

  “I’m not chasing after money, Dad. I have a plan to grow my PR business.”

  “Then why’re you working at a farm stand, selling vegetables?” My father might’ve been a farmer who never graduated high school, but he was still a master when it came to turning arguments in the direction he wanted. I’d never won one yet.

  I sighed and shook my head. “Because I’m just starting out, and I wanted to earn some money to help build the company.” I took a deep breath. “And so that I can make enough to get my own place and move out.”

  It was as though I’d uttered some kind of spell that halted movement at the table. Gram’s hand, holding her fork, stopped halfway to her mouth. Dad had just taken a bite of chicken, and his jaw froze.

  I pretended I didn’t see anything, even though my hand shook a little as I reached for my glass of water. “It’s going to take a few months, of course, but I’ve been keeping my eye open for some place in town that might work. You know, just a little apartment, something safe.”

  “No.” My father spoke just one syllable, but it held such finality that my stomach plummeted.

  “Dad, I don’t mean any disrespect, but remember, I’m old enough—”

  “I said no. No daughter of mine is going to live off by herself, without her family or without a husband.” He resumed eating and leveled a steel gaze at me. “Just what do you think Jonathan would think about you moving out?”

  I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. “Jonathan really wouldn’t have anything to say about it, would he? He’s a friend. He doesn’t have the right to express an opinion on what I do or don’t do.”

  “Don’t be flippant or stupid, Marilla. Jonathan’s intentions toward you are clear. He’s just waiting until he’s established, with his own church, before he makes it official. If I didn’t believe that, trust in him, I’d never let you spend as much time with him as you do.”

  I pushed away my plate, food only half-eaten. “I help out with the youth group. I see him at church. We’re not exactly dating. I’ve never even been alone with him.”

  “No, and you won’t be. Not until it’s time for the both of you to make that commitment. Jonathan understands that. I’ve spoken to him.”

  “Dad, honestly.” My face was flushed, I could feel it. “I’m not sure I’m interested in Jonathan that way. Please don’t make promises that I’m not going to be able to keep.”

  “The child’s right, Emmett.” Gram wiped her mouth with her napkin. “This isn’t the nineteenth century, and we’re not part of some religious sect. She’s old enough to make her own decisions about who s
he does and doesn’t see.” Her voice gentled as she laid a hand on his arm. “She’s twenty-two. Most girls her age have been dating for six or seven years. Rilla’s been a good girl, respectful of your rules. You’ve raised her right. Now you have to trust her—and what you’ve taught her—enough to let her try her wings a bit.”

  “Trying wings isn’t safe in this day and age, Ma. Like you said, it’s not the nineteenth century. Men have expectations. They don’t take no for an answer, and the first time she’s alone with some idiot who thinks he’s found easy pickings—”

  “Dad! Enough.” I swallowed hard. “Please. I’m not talking about running wild or going to bars—or anything like that. It’s not like there’s someone I want to date. Guys aren’t exactly knocking down the doors to ask me out. And if Jonathan wants to talk about getting serious, I’ll consider it. But for now, all I want to do is live on my own. Just have a little freedom.” I pushed back from the table and picked up my plate.

  “Mind your words, young lady.” My father half-growled at me. “You may think you’re all grown up, but you’re still my daughter.” He stood up, too, and stalked out of the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind him.

  I turned on the faucet and let the hot water fill the sink, blinking back sudden tears that threatened. Gram stood next to me, sliding an arm around my waist.

  “Don’t be bothered, sweet girl. Your father ... he’s just worried, that’s all. He sees you growing up, and it scares him. It was much easier for him when you were eight, and he could control your whole life.” She nudged me with her elbow. “Or at least he thought he could.”

  “But I’ve never done anything to make Dad think I’d be ... what he thinks I’ll be. Why can’t he trust me?”

  Gram sighed. “It’s not so much you, Rilla. You and I both know that. He looks at you, and he sees your mother.”

  “But I’m not her.”

  “No, you’re not, but you look like her, and there’s part of him that thinks if she’d been raised right, she wouldn’t have left. He blames her family for not being stricter, and he blames himself for letting her leave. He’s never yet gotten around to laying the blame where it belongs, which is on Joely herself. She’s the one who decided to leave, not her mama and daddy. Not your dad. Not you. Just her, and yet that boy still can’t see clearly enough to realize that.”