by K. A. Tucker
She waves her hand. “Oh, please! Call me Wilma, and this old house is all but falling apart. Sometimes I wish a bolt of lightning would burn it down because it needs so much work. Come on in. I have some sweet tea and sandwiches ready.” She pats her son’s stomach. “Benjamin’s favorite.”
He catches me pursing my lips together tightly to stop the burst of laughter from escaping. Flinging an arm over my shoulder, he asks, “What?”
“You are such a mama’s boy!” I hiss, earning a giant grin.
Wilma steals a quick glance back and beams.
And it clicks. I know what Ben is nervous about. It’s not about me teasing him in front of his “mama.” It’s about her getting the wrong idea about us.
Ben has made it pretty clear to the world that he has no intention of getting serious with anyone. Ever. And if he were anyone other than Ben, an arm over my shoulder might constitute misleading people into thinking we’re dating. But it is Ben, and so I don’t make the effort to push it off.
Plus, I have to admit, it makes me feel good.
Beyond the house, row upon row of trees stretch over the dips and rises of the property as far as the eye can see. We pass by a honey-colored barn to our left, obviously built much later than the house. Large doors sit closed at the front, flanked on either side by small windows. And in the darkness within, I’m almost positive I see a face peering out at me. But it’s gone so fast I can’t be sure.
“We can have lunch out on the sun porch,” Wilma offers, leading us into the house. The interior is dated but in a quaint way, with worn wood floors and floral wallpaper—some of its seams starting to lift—stretching up to crown molding that trims the high ceilings.
“Ben tells me this land has been in your family for generations,” I say as my fingers intentionally slide across the wood grain of a side table. Everywhere I look, I find a piece of rustic furniture. Each one is different, suggesting it’s not mass-produced, and yet there’s something about them that hints that they’re part of a set.
“Over a hundred years,” she confirms. “We’ve done a lot of living here.”
I feel Ben’s hand graze the small of my back as we step out into an all-white room of glass and wood. The wall-to-wall windows overlook the massive expanse of the family grove that I couldn’t quite appreciate from the driveway. I can’t help my eyes from bugging out at the beautiful oak table, laden with breads and meats and salads, partly because of my rumbling stomach, but mostly because of the amount. There’s enough for ten people here. And I don’t doubt that it’s all 100 percent homemade and made especially for her son.
“Manners, Benjamin!” Wilma swats Ben’s hand away from the sandwich platter. “Wait for Reese.”
“She likes me just the way I am,” he says through a smile, wrapping his arms around his mom’s shoulders for another bear hug and planting a kiss on her forehead. It’s cute.
And so completely foreign to me.
As we sit down to eat, I listen quietly to Wilma talk about the coming season—citing concerns over spreading disease and sub-ideal climate as well as the high costs of using the packaging company and having to cut back on staff—and how all the pipes in the house need replacing. All while I look for flaws in her. Deceptive flares, duplicitous statements, self-absorbed topics. Things that remind me of Annabelle. But I find none.
Ben’s mom is genuinely nice and she very obviously loves her son.
Like any mother should love her child, I suppose.
By the time we’re carrying the dirty dishes to the kitchen, my stomach is ready to explode, but I feel like an old resident of the Morris household.
“Reese, have you ever seen a grove before?” she asks, tucking one of her short chestnut curls behind her ear. The gray is just beginning to thread through.
“No, can’t say that I have.”
She pats Ben’s back. “Why don’t you take her out for a while?”
I’m expecting him to decline, insisting we have to get back. But he doesn’t. He simply nods and throws an arm around my shoulders. I look up in time to catch the secretive smile touching his lips as we pass through the house, on our way to the foyer again.
“Where did all of this furniture come from?” I dare ask.
Wilma’s blue eyes flash to Ben as she says, “They’re beautiful pieces, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” I confirm, running my hand along the carved leg of a small desk.
“Ben’s father made everything in here. He’s a carpenter.”
“Really?” Ben hasn’t mentioned a word about his dad and, given no father figure has made an appearance as of yet, I was beginning to think he wasn’t in the picture. Plus, Ben made that comment about helping his mom with her orange grove last weekend because she’s all alone—while groveling for my help at the office.
But Wilma just used the present tense, so his father is obviously around. Otherwise why would she keep an entire house full of reminders? Poking Ben in the ribs, I ask, “Did you inherit your father’s talent?”
“Nope. Can’t say I did. Come on.” He hooks his arm around my neck, pulling me into a gentle headlock, his shirt deceptively soft against my cheek. “Let’s go, MacKay.”
“Don’t roughhouse her! She’s not one of your brothers.” Clasping his face between her hands, Wilma stretches onto her tiptoes and lays a kiss on his cheek. “Now go have fun. I’ll pack all this extra food up for you to take home so you don’t have to worry about cooking.”
I stifle my snort. Ben doesn’t worry about cooking. I’ve seen him walking past my office every day with a Subway bag in his hands. He may as well buy a franchise of the chain. That poor, unsuspecting woman . . . I watch her disappear down the hall and then can’t help but whisper, “Does your mom have any idea what her sweet little Ben is really like?”
With an arrogant smirk, he leads me out the front door. “What do you mean?”
“That your pants are off more than they’re on.”
“Not lately.” Eyes drive down the front of my body, stirring an unexpected flurry of nerves inside me, as he leads me toward the barn. “And that has nothing to do with whether I like to take my mama’s cooking home with me.”
“Fair enough.” I start needling his ribs with my fingers until he loosens his grip of me. “So you have a brother?” Ben knows far too much about me and I don’t know nearly enough about him, I’m realizing.
“Three. Jake, Rob, and Josh.”
Four Morris boys. “And are they all like you?” I automatically picture four giant blond men sitting at that table, grins and obnoxious mouths determined to drive their mother nuts.
“Like me how?”
“Big, cocky, whoring mama’s boys?”
He chuckles. “Well, we all look alike. I’m by far the best-looking, of course.”
“Naturally.” Good lord, four men that look like Ben?
“Rob’s married, Josh is divorced. Both with kids. Jake’s been with his girlfriend for a couple of years. They have a kid on the way.”
“So you’re the only one with commitment issues?”
He only laughs. “I guess. I have an older sister, too. Elsie.”
“Let me guess . . . you’re the baby?” His grin answers me. Makes sense. “You milk that for all it’s worth, don’t you.”
“Can you blame me?” Deep divots form in Ben’s cheeks.
“I guess not.” As we pass the barn, I catch movement behind the glass window again. As if someone is watching. “Hey Ben, is there someone in there?”
“Probably my father.” Ben weaves his hand through mine and pulls me around to the side of the barn.
“Does he not come out?” I can’t help but think it’s odd that his own father wouldn’t have come out to greet him. Unless his mother is a Betty Crocker psycho who keeps her husband chained up in the barn like he’s got an incurable disease. I’m sure I’ve seen a show like that before.
“Later tonight. He likes it in there.” Ben yanks a blue tarp off an object hidde
n beneath and all concerns about Ben’s peculiar dad disappear at the sight of thick-treaded tires and red-and-yellow roll bars.
“Yes, I’ll marry you,” I blurt out, heading straight for the driver’s seat of the dune buggy.
“Whoa . . .” A thick arm ropes around my waist to hold me back, pulling me tight against him. “You think I’m going to just hand you the keys to this? It’s fast.”
“I’m sure it is!” I feel my eyes light up once again. While other little girls were waiting in line to spin in the teacups at the fair, I was the little brat crashing my go-cart around the track. I was never your typical girl. I don’t know how many times I came home with grass stains on my clothes and mud in my hair.
“I don’t know that I trust you. You’re liable to take out half the grove and kill us.”
“I’m a very responsible driver!”
“Is that what you told the cops when you got busted for drag racing?”
“It wasn’t drag racing and no charges were ever laid!” I throw back.
“That’s not what Mason said,” he counters.
How Mason would . . . “Dammit!” Lina must have told him. Change of plan. I roll my body around and press myself against him.
A bark of laughter interrupts my very obvious attempts at seduction. “Oh, hell, I’m an idiot but I’m not falling for that.” He spins me around and gives my ass a hard slap before he climbs into the driver’s side of the dune buggy, moving fluidly for a man with such a large, tall frame. “Get in.”
I do so but not without a grumble, mentally planning the steps of the distraction and siege.
“You’d better hold on. This thing is old and jumpy.” He cranks the engine and a low, throaty rumble escapes as it comes to life, my entire core vibrating with the seat. It lurches as Ben throws it into first gear, chugging and jolting slightly before leaping forward through the tall grass.
Ben steers us down a sandy trail with a sea of trees and then shifts into second and then third gear, the rush of the acceleration exhilarating. It’s too loud to talk and so I happily settle in as the trees whizz by and the sand kicks up a cloud dust behind us, the bumps along the path jarring my head this way and that. I don’t care. We continue down past that path and to another one, and another, until I’m sure we’re in an orange grove maze. I don’t know how Ben knows where he’s going.
We must be half a mile away from the house when Ben takes another sharp right turn that would have thrown me right into his chest if not for the seat belt cutting into my neck. He pulls over a crest and suddenly we’re overlooking a sea of trees and other properties and, beyond that, far in the distance, blue water.
“Wow,” escapes my mouth as I stare out at the mesmerizing view, no longer paying attention to the path Ben drives along, until he pulls up in a sandy spot next to a yellow farm truck, its tire flat and a giant rust hole eating into the side panel. Ben kills the engine and we climb out.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” I hear him say, and I can feel his eyes on me as I just stand there, staring out at the view. Wandering over to the closest tree, he gently grasps at the small green sphere hanging from it. “You should see this place in spring, with all of these navel orange trees in bloom and the air filled with this flowery-honey smell. It’s something else.” Glancing over his shoulder, he must see my smirk because he quickly adds, “And don’t make fun of me for saying that until you actually see it. And smell it.”
“It does sound pretty,” I admit, still a bit in awe that a place like this exists so close to my home. “You know a lot about citrus farming?”
Sliding his hands into his jeans casually, he turns and saunters back. “I grew up here and we helped my mama, so, yeah, I know enough.” Kicking at the tufts of grass trying in vain to take root among the sand, he explains, “My granddaddy used to say this place is the perfect storm for growing. The soil, the sunshine, and warm nights, and being by the ocean—all of it together makes this the best citrus farming country.”
Ben picks up a stick from nearby and slowly circles the old truck, slamming the wood against the metal and poking around the tires, watching the ground around it. “Mama’s got eighty-six acres of trees; mostly grapefruit and navel oranges. Some tangerines. The season starts in October and runs through until May. There’s no warehousing, no cold storage. The orders come in, we pick them, and then we send them to the packagers. Simple. I’m here most weekends during the season, helping. It cuts labor costs.”
Of course he is. For whatever else he is, Ben is a very good son to Wilma and, while I may have teased him about being a mama’s boy, seeing this side of him is endearing.
Tossing the stick to the side, he mutters more to himself, “Huh. Normally I get at least one rattler in here.”
I shudder as Ben drops the tailgate. It lets out a loud creak in protest; I’m surprised it hasn’t seized shut, as everything else about the truck is so old and decrepit. “This used to be my granddaddy’s.” He settles down on it and then holds his hands to beckon me forward. I relent, letting him grab me by the waist and lift me up next to him as if I weigh nothing at all. “Jake and I used to spend all day racing around out here, and then we’d sneak out of our rooms and hang out all night with friends, drinking under the stars. Those were the good ol’ days.” Ben leans back until he’s lying in the truck bed with his legs dangling over the edge. He nestles his head within his arms, the move pulling his shirt up just enough to expose a strip of hard flesh above his belt line. I don’t know when the hell Ben has time to work out, but he must still be doing it a lot. Maybe I should make more of an effort, given that he’s acting like he’s genuinely desperate to see me naked again.
But why am I thinking about impressing Ben? I’m so far from ready for another relationship and, when I am ready, it definitely won’t be with someone like him. What I’d get from Ben would be exactly what I was looking for in Cancún.
Something easy. Fun. Harmless. With an end date and no expectations.
“Do you see your brothers and sister a lot?” I ask, trying to distract myself from those thoughts as I eye his torso, his shirt strained against its curves.
“Nah, which is crazy, considering how close we were growing up. There’s only seven years between Josh and me. Jake and I are eleven months apart. He’s out in Mississippi working in the casinos. I talk to him every once in a while but I haven’t seen him in . . .” His brow bunches up in thought. “Three years now, I think?”
Is that normal? I have to think that it’s not, especially after meeting Ben’s mom. I’d think getting the family together would be a priority for her. “And the others?”
“Elsie moved out to San Diego for college and never came back. We talk on the phone once a month or so.” I catch a hint of regret in his tone when he admits that. “Rob and Josh are both living in Chicago. I haven’t seen them in years, but they send pictures of their kids.”
“That’s weird, isn’t it? I mean,” I look over my shoulder in the direction of the house, though I can’t see it from where we are, “I’d think your mom would be big on family holidays together.” I’m guessing Christmas with Wilma would be a just like in the movies, the house smelling of gingerbread and decorated in mistletoe.
“Yeah, it used to be a big deal around here,” he says with a sigh, and I feel a hand casually graze my back. “A lot of shit has gone down here, with my dad. No one comes around much anymore.” I feel like Ben has more to say but he leaves it at that.
“Not even to see your mom?”
“She went to California a couple of years ago to see Elsie. And she went to Chicago for a weekend to see Rob this past Easter. She ended up having a minor heart attack while she was there. A fluke really, but it’s a good thing it wasn’t out here, all alone.” Ben closes his eyes. “Everyone misses her, but not enough to come back here.”
“Why? What happened?” I know I’m prying, but this is Ben. If he doesn’t want to tell me, he’ll find a way around it.
“Just . . . famil
y drama. My dad’s an asshole and he doesn’t treat my mama well. He used to treat her really bad. You know, cheating on her and stuff. Now he’s just an old, pathetic drunk who hates the world.” Ben heaves a sigh. “I hate drama. I stay far away from it.”
“Switzerland.”
“Yup, you got it. Switzerland,” he murmurs, seemingly peaceful with his eyes closed. But there’s not a hint of a smile touching his lips and that’s rare for Ben. It makes me think he may actually be sad. “What about you?” he asks. “Brothers? Sisters? Besides Mason, of course.”
“Nope.” Annabelle said she didn’t want to ruin her body any more than she already had, having me.
“What’s with you two, anyway? I can’t tell if it’s all an act or if you actually hate each other.”
“It does seem like that sometimes, doesn’t it?” I’ve often asked myself that question. “I know I drive him nuts with the way I don’t hang my jacket up and how I leave coffee stains on the counter. I’m not sure if that’s just him being a neat freak or what.”
Ben chuckles. “Yeah, I love bugging the shit out of that guy. I go into his office and move all of his stuff around.”
“You’re the one doing that? He’s been blaming me for it for the last two weeks!” I reach out and smack the width of his bare stomach, just above his belt line. I swear, I’d believe he was waiting for it because the hand that was touching my back hooks around my side and pulls me back until I’m lying down, my head resting in the crook of his arm. He chuckles softly. “Keep your hands to yourself or I’ll tell my mama that you’re trying to sully me.”
“She won’t believe you,” I throw back, trying to squirm away. When I realize Ben’s not letting me go anywhere, I give in and nestle into the cushion of his chest. We lie in silence for a few long minutes as the sun beats down and the cicadas sing. I know a lot of people can’t stand those things, but I kind of like the melody they create.
“What about when you two were kids? Did you get along then?”
“Oh, he definitely hated me then,” I admit. “I remember the day we moved into Jack’s house. I had only met him a handful of times and he seemed really quiet. Stupid me—I thought things would be different. It was going to be cool to have a brother . . .” I smile at the memory of nine-year-old Mason, a scrawny kid with glasses and really messy black hair. Funny, all that’s changed is that he’s a man instead of a kid. “Jack said Mason was just mad at him for ‘replacing’ his mom—she died of a brain aneurysm a few years before that—and that’s why he was hiding in his room all the time.” I shrug, a strange sadness enveloping me as I recall the day I realized that Mason would never be like one of those older brothers you see on television, who gives bear hugs and chases all the mean kids away. “One morning when I was about eight, I decided to put all three of his Siamese fighting fish in one tank. I didn’t believe they’d actually kill each other. But when we came home from school and Mason went to his room, well . . . let’s just say he was down to one pet.”