by Toler, B N
Bailor didn’t know what to say for a few seconds. I’d confused him. He was well aware we didn’t have any hay bales, and I’m sure he was trying to puzzle out why I was fabricating excuses to get out of driving Emalee home.
“You know,” he finally said. “I’ve already got bike oil on me and you just put on a clean shirt. I’ll take care of the hay.”
I glared at him, cursing him silently. Why couldn’t he just be cool? “Okay,” I stated a little too loudly.
Emalee stiffened and looked away, her cheeks flushing, clearly picking up on the tension between Bailor and me.
“I appreciate the help and the ride; I’ll pay you for anything involving the bike,” she insisted.
“I tell you what,” Bailor said, propping his forearms on the truck. “You sing me a song of my choosing and we’ll call it even.”
Her eyes narrowed speculatively. “What song?”
“I’ll let you know when the time comes.”
She smirked as she studied his face. “So at any given moment, you get to request a song and I have to just sing it?”
“Yes,” Bailor replied. “Could be tomorrow. Could be ten years from now.”
“That’s dumb, Bailor,” I muttered.
“Do we have a deal?” he asked her, ignoring me.
“You don’t really have to sing for him,” I told her. I wanted to strangle him. He kept coming up with ways for us to have more contact with her, and all I wanted was to take her home and forget her.
“Yes, she does, and not just for me…for us,” Bailor motioned between us.
“Bailor,” I scoffed. “She doesn’t want to sing for us.”
Emalee put on a tight smile before she reached out her hand to shake his. “It’s a deal.”
After they shook, she glanced up at me and I could tell she was trying not to smile. “Would you mind driving me home, Cole? I understand you have the hay to deal with, and I’ve already taken up so much of your day. I can call my parents if it’s too much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” I assured her, offering her my hand to help her down off the tailgate. Once she slid off, I walked her to the passenger side and opened the door for her.
“Nice to meet you, Emalee,” Bailor called as he walked back toward the barn. “We’ll see you soon.”
“Bye, Bailor. Thanks for everything!”
The speed limit on 701 was forty-five miles per hour. I hoped she hadn’t noticed because I was barreling down the road going fifty-five. Then again, maybe she had but was just as ready to get away from me as I was from her. Slipping her sandals off, she propped her feet against the dashboard. Her tan legs, bare feet and strands of her hair floating in the wind…it was all extremely distracting. And I liked it. Too much.
“You always just throw your feet up on people’s dashboards without asking?” I groused.
She turned toward me, her face tight with shock and confusion. She stared, probably expecting me to say I was joking, but I just returned my focus to the road. Granted, it had been rude for her to be so casual in the vehicle of someone she’d just met, regardless of how old and worn the truck was, but I couldn’t bring myself to argue proper manners as an excuse for my irritation, even if it was valid. She was the reason I was so irritated; or more accurately, the effect she had on me.
Lowering her feet, she slid her sandals back on, turning toward the window and away from me, clearly upset.
I was on the verge of apologizing when I caught a glimpse of Howard Jones’s cattle standing in his pond. Hitting the brakes, the tires squealed before the truck came to an abrupt stop as I stared at the symbols of doom soaking in the cool water.
“What’s wrong?” Emalee asked, slightly breathless from the shock of us stopping so suddenly.
“We’re losing the wheat,” I bit out.
She didn’t say anything for a moment, then, “I don’t understand.”
“Damn cows,” I muttered as I hit the gas and took off again without answering her question. Realizing after a moment I didn’t intend to elaborate further, she looked back out her window. God, why was this so hard? Just because I didn’t want to like her didn’t mean I had to be an asshole to her. “Too much sun stresses the wheat,” I finally explained. “Cattle in the water means it’s too hot, which means our wheat is dying.”
Her brows pinched in confusion as she looked out the window at the passing fields. “But it’s so green. It doesn’t look like it’s dying.”
“You ever seen a person that looks healthy, but they’ve got something eating them up on the inside? No one would know to look at them?”
She tilted her head side to side. “Yeah, I’ve seen that.”
“That’s what’s happening to our wheat right now.”
“What happens if it all dies?”
“It won’t all die, but we’ll lose a lot, which means we lose money.” And we needed every single dime we could get our hands on, but I kept that fact to myself.
When I parked the truck in front of her house, a tall brooding man stood from where he sat on the porch swing. He was smoking a cigar and held it between his teeth as he watched me exit the truck and help Emalee out. She allowed me to assist her until she had her footing, then she waved me away. She didn’t want me to touch her. Good.
“Hey, Daddy,” she called as she walked toward the house. Cue the overprotective dad act to intimidate the asshole he thinks is trying to get in his daughter’s pants. I’d seen it before, and the fact I had no interest in Emalee wouldn’t stop it.
“What happened to you?” he asked as he met her at the top of the porch, his brows drawn together in concern.
“I fell off my bike. Just got a little scrape is all.”
He scanned her before turning his hard stare on me. Emalee sighed as she followed his line of sight. “This is Cole Kepner. He and his brother stopped to help me.”
“Is that so?” he asked with the cigar still between his teeth. He was a tall man and he still had his hair, though it was mostly gray. My father was damn near bald by the time he’d passed away. Emalee had her father’s eyes for sure, though hers were friendlier.
The screen door let out a shrill screech as it flew open and a woman rushed out. “What happened to you?”
“I fell off my bike,” Emalee grumbled as the woman took her face in her hands and inspected it. “Told you, you should’ve let me drive the car.”
Only slightly taller than her daughter, the woman pursed her lips in mock sympathy. I had to press my mouth together to stop from smiling. “Well it looks like nothing is broken, and you’re still as sassy as ever.” She quirked a brow. “I think you’ll be just fine.” She patted Emalee on the head before turning to me. It wasn’t hard to tell where Emalee got her good looks from. The two resembled each other so much, it was like seeing Emalee as she would appear in about twenty years.
“And you are?” she asked with a friendly smile.
“I’m Cole Kepner.”
Her face fell, and before I knew it, she was hugging me. When she pulled back, her eyes were narrowed with sympathy. “I heard about your mother,” she explained. “We graduated together. I’m so sorry.”
My chest tightened at yet another reminder that my mother was dying. ALS was blind to the person it consumed. It didn’t discriminate—it would feed on anyone. My mother’s slow descent to her death was the centerpiece of our lives. ALS held her captive in her bed, and yet, in a way she followed us everywhere. Having been the prom queen of their high school, she’d held the unofficial title as the prettiest girl in town for many years and was the favored Sunday school teacher. Everyone knew who she was and how sick she was, but despite her popularity, as her condition worsened, the fewer visitors she got. I knew it hurt her feelings, though she’d never admit it, but she understood why they stopped coming. Living death wasn’t easy to look at it. It was too much of a reminder of the fragility of life.
“Thank you,” I managed around the knot in my throat.
“I
f she’s up for it, I’d love to stop by for a visit sometime. I don’t want to impose.”
I saw genuine caring in her gaze. “She’d like that very much, ma’am.”
“You can call me Betty. And this,” she gestured toward Emalee’s father, “is Stan.”
“You can call me Mr. Jennings,” he gruffly added before puffing on his cigar.
“Ignore him,” Betty insisted after rolling her eyes. “Thank you for helping our Emalee. That was very nice of you. She can be a bit…” she smirked as she cut a sideways glance to her daughter, “… high maintenance, so I’m sure it was quite the experience for you.”
“Funny, Mom,” Emalee snarked, rolling her eyes, just as Betty had done only moments before.
“It was no problem,” I assured her. “My brother is fixing the bike, and we’ll bring it by as soon as he’s done.”
“We’re happy to pay you for it. Let me grab my purse.”
“No,” I blurted quickly as Betty moved to go inside. I added quickly, softening my tone, “Thanks, but that’s not necessary.” All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there. It didn’t help that Emalee’s father was attempting to burn me to ash with his death glare.
“Emalee,” I said after a beat of awkward silence. “I hope your leg feels better and—”
“I’m sure your number is in my mother’s address book,” Betty interrupted me. “She was always good at keeping the neighbors’ information up-to-date. In case we need to check about the bike.”
“Why would Nana have Cole’s cell number?” Emalee scoffed at her mother’s ignorance.
Betty sighed, “How many times has your cell worked since we arrived, Emalee? Out here, we use landlines.”
Emalee’s face contorted as if the idea of a landline baffled her, but she quickly let it go and said, “Thanks again, Cole. It was nice meeting you…under the circumstances.” I think Emalee wanted me to leave as much as I wanted to.
I held my hand out to her father. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
He grunted around the cigar as he glared briefly down at my hand before reluctantly shaking it. With another grunt, he went back in the house, letting the screen door slam behind him, and I turned to leave.
“Oh, Cole,” Betty called just as I reached the truck.
“Yes, ma’am?” I said, turning back.
“You going to be at the festival next weekend?”
“Uh,” I stammered. I hadn’t planned on going. The wheat harvest lasted several weeks and was a grueling, all-consuming endeavor, so every year our town held a festival at the end of May, just before the harvest began, as a way for families to get out and spend time together before hunkering down to work.
“You and your brothers should come. Emalee will be performing at eight.”
Emalee shot a wide-eyed look at her mother, clearly not pleased, before meeting my gaze again and plastering on a friendly smile. “Don’t feel like you have to come just to see me,” she insisted, her cheeks warming with a soft pink glow.
I glanced away, searching for a viable reason why I wouldn’t be able to go, eventually settling on the truth. “Things are pretty busy right now. The cattle are already in the pond.”
Betty winced. “It has been so hot.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Just saw them on the way over here.”
Her features softened with sympathy. “I’ll pray for rain and cooler temperatures.”
I didn’t really want to talk to anyone or be social, but I had to admit Betty wasn’t so bad. She got the plight of the farmer. Her genuine concern for my mother and the viability of our crop meant a lot, so instead of out-right declining to go to the festival, I found myself saying, “If we can get away, we’ll try to be there.”
Emalee’s stance straightened and her expression tightened. Was she…upset?
“Drive safe,” Betty offered with a wave.
I opened the door and climbed into my truck, relief flooding me to have finally escaped. I hesitated, watching Emalee and her mother climb the porch steps and disappear into the house, but as I started to pull away, I could swear I saw Emalee watching me through the screen door.
My mother was tying on my grandmother’s faded floral apron when I found her, the pattern clashing with the vintage polka-dot dress she was wearing, also my grandmother’s. Since we’d arrived, every day she’d rummaged something out of Nana’s closet and worn it. My grandmother had been a beauty, but her wardrobe was a stark contrast to the usual wealthy-wife-and-mother attire Mama usually sported. She had been different since we’d arrived—a version of herself I’d never seen. At home, she kept busy with charities, club functions, and home projects, but in her childhood home, she seemed to float along in the nostalgia and reverie of her youth.
After Cole’s truck disappeared down the driveway, I’d marched right up to her in the kitchen, crossed my arms and popped my hip out. “Is your sole purpose in life to mortify me, Mother?” She was at the counter shucking corn and held an ear out to me in response. I let it hang in the air for a moment, waiting to see if she’d turn to face me, but finally sighed in defeat and started tearing at the green husk.
“How exactly did I embarrass you?” she asked. “I merely invited the handsome boy you clearly like to come see you do something you’re very good at and happen to love doing.”
Ugh! She was a master at invalidating my grievances by making them sound so basic and innocent.
“Of course, you’d generalize it that way,” I argued. And this is how our disagreements usually went; a dance of technicalities. Could encouraging Cole to go to the festival be seen as crossing the line, interfering in her daughter’s social life and possibly embarrassing her? Yes. Could it be seen as a friendly invite from a caring mother? Also, yes. “You know what I’m saying, Mother,” I whined in annoyance.
Without warning, she threw her head back, eyes squeezed shut as if in agony, and cried out, “Merciful Father! How could you create such a horrendous mother? Please. Please, I beg you,” she dropped the ear of corn she was holding and clasped her hands together, “spare this poor child from her mother’s evil ways.” Then, as if it never happened, she opened her eyes and resumed shucking corn.
I stared at her blankly for a moment, a little thrown by her outburst; not that she did it—it’s no secret I get my performance skills from her—but for what she was implying. “Was that supposed to be an imitation of me?”
She grinned, her body shaking softly as she chuckled. “Caught that, did ya, Emalee?”
Even though I knew she had a point, I wasn’t ready to let it go. I grabbed another ear of corn and began shucking it before I calmly explained, “It was embarrassing. I don’t need my mother trying set me up with guys.”
“Oh, Em, quit exaggerating.” A hint of laughter still danced in her tone. “I simply gave him a little push. Encouragement. He needed it. I’m not sure a young man from around here would have any idea how to pursue the likes of you, dear daughter.”
My mouth fell open. I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant but feeling affronted seemed appropriate. “The likes of me?”
“Poor boy. It’s like an antelope trying to pursue a lion.”
I scoffed. “Oh, I’m a man-eater now, am I?”
Bumping me with her hip she laughed, “He’s a moth and you’re the sun.”
“Mom!” I bumped her back. “I’m glad you think so highly of me,” I deadpanned. Had my own mother just implied I was unapproachable and to be feared by men?
This time she looked at me, her smile softening. “No, Emalee. That’s just it. I think you are the sun and just as fierce. I’m proud of that. I just want you to remember it’s okay to temper it once and a while so others won’t be so scared to get close.”
I furrowed my brows. “So, I need to be more docile?”
“You know what I mean, Emalee. Besides, I imagine those Kepner boys could use a little time in the sun,” she released a heavy sigh then quirked a snarky brow. “Even if they do get burned by the e
xposure.”
“What?” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Their mother, Emalee.” She turned her head to meet my gaze her tone serious. “She’s sick. Very sick.”
“ALS?” I asked, remembering the brochure I’d found on the dash of their truck.
Mama’s brows lifted in surprise. “Did they tell you about her?”
I shook my head. “Just saw a pamphlet in their truck.” I tore more husk from the ear of corn I was holding. “So she’s going to die?”
“Yes,” she answered directly.
Before I could ask more, my father entered the kitchen. “How long until supper?”
“Be just a bit,” my mother answered, her tone teetering on the edge of annoyed, not bothering to look at him.
“I have to go to Texas tomorrow. Checking out a venue for Emalee.”
She whirled around, her face tight with discontent. “Again? We’ve only been here a few days and you’re leaving?”
“Don’t start, Bets. You know I have to get everything lined up for her tour.”
Great. Now he was making this about me.
She nodded slowly, her brow furrowed, an indication she wasn’t buying what he was saying.
Mom and I were at the classic mother-daughter butting heads stage—most days she drove me bananas, and I’m pretty sure the idea of how some animals eat their young had crossed her mind a few times—but it appeared she was driving my father nuts, too. If he wanted to bail and get out of town, I couldn’t blame him. Kansas sucked, and if I could figure out a way to convince my mother to let me go with him, I would, but she was hellbent on me spending the summer there. Still, I hated to see her upset. I understood why my father wanted to go, but I hated how easily he did it.
“I’m going to go wash up.” I excused myself and awkwardly weaved between them to leave.
“It’s for our daughter,” he went on.
“No, it’s for you, Stan. Let’s be honest.” As I climbed the stairs, my mother’s hushed voice drifted through the house and something in the pit of my stomach twisted. My parents had arguments like any parents did; my mother tried to shield me from them, but the older I got, the harder that became. When they’d argued in the past, they usually resolved it quickly and things went back to normal, but lately it seemed whatever was going on between them just wouldn’t settle.