Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series

by Pogue, Lindsey

  Her determined footsteps stop on the porch as I reach the truck. Loading the last few bags in my arms, I turn around to find her standing at the railing, arms crossed as usual, eyeing me as I walk up the steps. “That doesn’t excuse the fact that you weren’t here and I couldn’t salvage the meeting, does it?”

  She’s right, and if we’re going to keep this ranch afloat, I’ve got to pay better attention. “I’m sorry,” I say and walk past her, back into the kitchen. She follows behind me like the angry parent she is, though she seems more like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

  “You wanted to keep this place, Sam. I’m doing my part. You have responsibilities, and—”

  In milliseconds, I’m facing her, grocery bags gripped in my hands. “You think I don’t know that?” I seethe. “That I don’t bust my ass for this place?”

  Alison’s head tilts to the side, her pale blue eyes narrowing minutely as she braces herself—to lash out at me or withstand my pithy comeback, perhaps.

  It’s times like these, when my heart is racing and Alison and I are standing face-to-face—so close I can see the creases around her once-youthful eyes—that it’s easier to remember how we came to be this way and how broken we truly are: Alison, a younger woman Papa married who I’ve never been able to take seriously, never wanted or needed in my life, and me, the unwanted leftovers from a marriage to a man who promised to love and protect her as long as he lived, which was barely two years. Now all she’s left with is a stepdaughter who has never fully accepted her and a horse ranch she didn’t want to begin with . . . it’s times like these I remember we’re both orphans in a place that feels more like a nightmare sometimes than anything else. And, like it or not, we’re all we’ve got.

  I turn away from her, unable to bear the resentment etched in her features. I set the canvas bags onto the tiled floor and busy my mind with putting them away. I can make fried chicken for dinner, we both like fried chicken.

  “Look,” Alison finally says, “I know you’re tired and busy, Sam. I know you’re working hard out there with Nick every day. But don’t think for one second that I’m not working just as hard in here, trying to keep the money coming in, the bills paid, the venders happy, and all our permits up to date. There’s more to running a boarding facility than riding horses and moving hay around.” She lectures me like I’m stupid and her words are condescending. I have to bite my tongue.

  “Do you understand? It’s not that I don’t appreciate all you do around here.” She pauses, and I know she’s trying to find the right way to say what she’s thinking instead of how she’s really feeling. So she decides not to say anything.

  I step over to the fridge and pull out the pitcher of iced tea. “I’m sorry I forgot about the conference call,” I say sincerely. I open the crisper and add a head of lettuce, vine of tomatoes, and a bushel of cilantro before I shut the drawer and close the fridge again. I don’t have to look at Alison to know she’s watching me. All I can do is hope that my movement will keep the burning itch of her glare off me.

  Just when I think I’ve lost Alison to the worst of moods and that I’ll be paying for my forgetfulness for the rest of the night, she relents and takes another deep breath. “It’s okay,” she says. Part of me waits for her to run her fingers through my ponytail or rest her hand on my shoulder like Mama might’ve done, but Alison doesn’t do any of that. She never touches me. She’s never treated me like a daughter, not even a friend. Instead of stepping closer, she takes a step back and clears her throat. “I told Jonathan there was an emergency and you would be in touch either tonight or first thing tomorrow.”

  I nod, feeling an unwanted wave of sadness. “Thank you.” I shove the peanut butter up in the cupboard. “I was thinking we could have fried chicken for sup—”

  “Hand me a glass while you’re over there, please.”

  I pause and glance over my shoulder. Alison’s looking down at her watch.

  Tears prick my eyes, but I have no idea why. Her words are natural enough, but then I guess they hold the worst kind of punishment, too. They’re words that warrant no further conversation and mean that tonight, like most nights, she’s retreating. I’ll be cooking, eating, cleaning, whatever I want, but I’ll be doing it alone.

  I hand her a wineglass from the adjacent cupboard. Although I already know the answer, I ask, “Why don’t we have the wine with dinner?”

  “Thanks,” she says and accepts the glass. She reaches past me for the bottle of red sitting on the counter beside the sugar canister, a silent no.

  I tap my hands at my side and lighten my voice. “I’ll make you a plate for later at least,” I say and open the refrigerator. “We can have something else if you’d like?”

  Alison pulls the cork out of the wine bottle, the suction a sound I have yet to grow used to, the impending calamity of silent lashings and false pretenses.

  “I’ll be fine, Sam,” she says, and I peer over my shoulder at her again. To my surprise, Alison smiles at me, if a little weakly. “I can fend for myself,” she says, followed by the glug-glug-glug of her glass being filled three quarters of the way. With a sideways glance, the coldness in her air saying “Don’t you dare judge me, you created this monster,” she turns and heads toward the living room. “Thanks for going to the store,” she says, and then she’s gone.

  I stare down at the flecks of green and gold that color the granite, like within them I might find some sort of solace, but there’s none. Just an infinite number of specks layered on top of one another, frozen in their existence. Stuck.

  I can’t be here right now. Shoving the canvas bags under the sink, I practically run to the screen door, grabbing my boots on the step before I head for the stable.

  * * *

  Four Years Ago

  I’m climbing the stairs, toward my bedroom, anxious for my video chat with Reilly, when I hear my name and Alison’s terse, brittle tone. Unable to resist, I stop outside their bedroom door at the other end of the hall and listen.

  “—know how difficult this is for me. I can’t live like this, Robert.”

  I hear movement inside the room, like perhaps Papa is sitting down beside her on the bed, comforting her. I wonder why they even married if she’s so unhappy all the time. “I know this is hard for you, sweetheart,” I hear him say. “I can’t imagine what it’s like, and I wish things were different, but—”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have your heart set on one sort of life. You have Samantha and I—”

  “You have me,” he says. “You have us.” His voice is lower than Alison’s, and I can picture Papa perfectly as she begins to sob. I imagine him holding her, rubbing her back while she cries into his shoulder. That’s what he has always done for me. “Shhh.” Papa placates her, and I resist rolling my eyes. This is the third time this week she’s had some sort of outburst and run upstairs, waiting for Papa to drop everything and come to her rescue.

  Deciding my video chat is much more important—it’s one of the only things I have to look forward to these days—I pad toward my room and shut the door behind me. I can’t wait to see Reilly’s face, his smile. I want to tell him about the new filly that was born earlier this week, about how Mr. Reilly greeted me in town yesterday and actually smiled at me. And I can’t wait to see the amusement on his face when I tell him that Mac is semi-seeing Connor, even though I don’t think it will last. I think of all the things that have happened since the last time we spoke, and I miss Reilly more.

  I plop down on my bed, pick my laptop up off the side table, and open it up on my lap. I hope we have longer to talk today, more than fifteen minutes, unlike our last chat sixteen days ago. Papa flew me to Missouri for Reilly’s graduation from boot camp, but since then I’ve barely talked to him. He’s not allowed to tell me where he is, at least not yet, and he’s only been gone six months, though it feels like it’s been a year. The days feel like weeks, and I still have months before I’ll see him again, years if he doesn’t come home on
leave for the holidays.

  Things are harder than I thought they’d be, or at least different now that he’s actually gone. Though I know he’s happy when we chat, there’s a distance in his voice, a sadness in his eyes. It makes me wonder what life is like there, what it’s really like.

  Haunting stories of how guys act in the military come to mind. Though I try not to, I remember the way Bethany nearly snorted when Nick mentioned we were “doing the long distance thing.” She was one of many people who’d joined us for his send-off party, Mr. Reilly not included. I try not to think about the horde of girls impressed as they pawed at him, imagining him in a uniform. The way they flirted with him made me strangely proud, though I was annoyed, but the way he flirted back lingers most acutely. He was just being polite.

  I wait for Reilly’s delayed image to show up until the screensaver comes on, then I wait some more. The minutes tick on, feeling more like hours, and I begin to lose hope that I’ll get to hear his voice or see his face today. Just like last week. His email said tonight was the only time he’d have over the next couple days. So, where is he?

  I try not to think about how much longer we have to do this, how much longer I have to live this way, a suspended stretch of waiting, constantly wishing and pleading that time would go by faster when it only feels like it’s slowing down.

  Leaving the screen open, I set my computer on the mattress and lie down on my side, pulling the pillow up under my head as I stare at the bubbles bouncing and illuminating my screen. At least I have our Texas road trip to pick up Papa’s new broodmare to look forward to. It will be a nice break from the ranch—from Alison. Just me and Papa.

  I pull Mama’s crocheted coverlet up over me and finger the delicate stitching. I bring it to my nose and inhale, but there’s no scent, like usual. I wish I remembered her more, something other than her soothing voice next to my ear the night of a loud storm in this very room. I peer out my window, at the baleful afternoon, and can’t help but feel depressed and alone. What would Mama’s advice be if she were still alive? My gaze shifts to her photo on the wall, me as a little girl with ringlet pigtails giggling in her arms. She was so fair, so angelic, I can’t help but think she would tell me to hold on just a little bit longer. Reilly will show, and if he doesn’t, he has a good reason for it. I know that’s true, so I comfort myself by letting my selfish need to talk to him go as much as I can.

  There’s a quiet knock on my bedroom door, and I peer over at it. “Come in.”

  Papa creaks the door open and steps inside. “Hey, Smurf,” he says, and the tone of his voice is too soft and sad for his next words to be anything good.

  “What is it?” I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  “I’m going to have to postpone our road trip, at least for a little while.”

  I lie there quietly, tears pricking the backs of my eyes.

  “I think we should wait until Alison’s feeling better. She’s . . .” His eyes search my face, like he’s contemplating telling me something. “She’s just having a hard time right now, and I don’t want her here by herself.”

  I say nothing because I have nothing nice or helpful to say.

  “Please don’t be angry with her,” Papa says, and he tilts his head. “She’ll come around, sooner or later. Things will get better and go back to normal. I promise.”

  I bite back a few vicious thoughts that spring to mind and clear my throat. Saying them will only make things harder on Papa, and he already looks exhausted. “I’m not angry,” I say.

  Papa smiles. “Liar. I can see it in your eyes.” He pats me on the hip and stands up. “Don’t be mad, Smurf. There’s plenty for us to do around the ranch. I’m gonna go make us some supper. Tell Josh we say hello.”

  I glance at the computer screen, the bubbles already gone and the screen blank in hibernation.

  I close the lid. It doesn’t look like I’ll be telling Reilly anything tonight. Again.

  Seven

  Reilly

  Sitting in the Rumbler, I stare up at the decrepit, foreboding house of my childhood. I never thought about it as anything other than a place to sleep, at least that’s how it felt the older I got. Now, I see it for what it really is—dilapidated, more than I remember it being. The sun ruthlessly beats down on the bubbled and peeling white paint, the warped shutters, and the leaning porch. With the exception of the roof I helped the old man lay my sophomore year of high school so that he’d sign my baseball waivers, the entire exterior needs a facelift, and I’m assuming the inside is no different. The whole place looks sad and feels lonely and I haven’t even stepped inside yet.

  With a resigned exhale, I reach for my duffel in the passenger seat and reluctantly step out of the truck, letting the door swing shut behind me. With one final glance at the shambles in front of me, I head for the house. There’s no sense in prolonging the inevitable.

  A coiling tension I haven’t felt in years creeps into my neck and shoulders the closer I draw to the front door. I knew coming home wouldn’t be easy, figured it would be blood, sweat, and maybe a few beers with Nick until I got the house sold and the hell out of dodge by the end of the summer. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the moment I open that front door, my best laid plans will go up in smoke, and I’ll be left with next to nothing in my savings.

  As expected, the porch protests beneath my feet. The shredded screen barely hanging by its hinges opens with a creak, and I’m left staring at the rusted door handle. The feel of the key in my hand is strange, feels a little heavy for some reason, but finally I unlock the door.

  Must and stale cigarettes assault my senses as I push the door open, and I use the back of my hand to cover my nose. It smells like the place hasn’t been opened in years, not months. I drop my bag in the doorway and stare at what seems like a weathered, sun-bleached image of a childhood I’m not sure I want to remember. Everything is caked in dust and the closed blinds only make the small, narrow house feel like one long, ominous cage. A quick scan of the connected kitchen, living room, and closed bedroom doors tells me I’ll have to do more surveying if I’m going to know what I’m up against, but I also feel the need to know what the old man’s last days were like.

  The house groans as I step into the living room, and I can feel the floorboards bowing beneath my feet. This whole place feels foreign, like I’m somewhere that should be familiar but it’s been grossly altered. The rug is covered with stray bits of food and dirt, and there are balled-up pieces of paper littering the ground, in the crevasses of the couch and in his “off-limits” recliner. Yellowed wallpaper peels from ceiling to busted floorboard, and I can’t help but think the old man was the glue that held this dying place together. Now that he’s gone, it’s like the house can’t stand on its own anymore. It looks like it wants to be torn down.

  I can’t imagine living in this dump alone.

  Analyzing everything, I step into the adjoining kitchen, filled with dirtied, molded-over dishes that look like they haven’t been cleaned in months, like they’d been piled up long before he passed. He clearly needed help, more than he’d ever let on, and I wonder how many times he thought to call me.

  Zero, I assume. The man was too proud, too stubborn to ever consider reaching out, let alone act as though he even liked me.

  Flicking the light switch, I’m surprised to find that the power’s still on, and that’s one less thing to put on this growing list of crap I have to worry about.

  Taking a step back, I leave the kitchen for what it is—disgusting—and walk back through the living room, passing the old man’s room that feels too impending to enter at the moment. I head toward the end of the house, toward the bathroom and my cramped bedroom that always felt more like a hole to hide in than anything else.

  Slowly, I open the door, uncertain what the old man did with my room after I left. He knew I was never coming back. He could’ve taken a sledgehammer to the walls, for all I know—he probably should have.

  So I’m surprised wh
en I find that everything looks exactly the same, like he’d never even gone inside at all. The afternoon light seeps through the only portion of the blinds that aren’t obscured by the shrubby limbs outside the window. My letterman and a too-small suit jacket that Nick’s mom loaned me once still hang in the closet with the busted sliding door, and baseball memorabilia clutters the walls. But so do pictures of Sam and me—photos of us at the beach, at the lake with the crew, at the fair . . .

  I realize I’ve drifted inside and I’m standing in front of them, too busy staring at her angelic face to care. The way her brown eyes glitter and smile at me through the photo makes it seem like it was all a dream, and I don’t like the way that makes me feel. I expected things to be different between us after what’s happened, after she tore my heart out and practically spat on it by dating the biggest ass in town, but I guess I didn’t expect the way things are now to bother me so much. The Sam from earlier today was distant and different. Though she was still a little awkward, something I always adored about her, she could barely look at me. It’s a sign of how damaged things truly are between us, and for the first time in years I don’t feel angry or hurt by her, I feel sad. The feel of her hand in mine, the way her lips were parted in surprise, makes me realize how much I really miss her.

  The sentiment takes me aback, and I step out of the room and shut the door. I quickly check the condition of the bathroom and decide I need to get to smashing things before I lose my shit and end up at Lick’s, passed out at the bar like my old man used to do.

  I head for the master bedroom and bath to check their condition, telling myself that the old man’s dead and whatever condemning words he’d have had for me going into his bedroom can’t hurt me anymore.

  Like with my room, everything inside the master looks untouched, like the old man hadn’t even slept in here. The covers on the bed are perfectly made but dusty. The physical condition of the room is much like the rest of the house—old, rotted, and ready to be torn down—but it doesn’t look lived in at all. There are no dishes or clutter on the nightstands or strewn across the floor like the living room and kitchen, save for a stack of old books. Was he even in here in his last days? I feel like that’s something I should know, but I try to ignore the fact that I don’t. It only lasts a fleeting moment before anger shoves its way into my thoughts.