Kiss Me Hello (Sweetest Kisses)

by Grace Burrowes

  “I have a woodstove,” James said. “It gives off a nice heat, and you have enough deadfall in your woods to make heating with wood a cheap proposition. You heard Elroy mention I’m going into a joint venture with Hiram Inskip?”

  “I heard him giving you a hard time about something to that effect.”

  Elroy had barely been getting started when Sid had run him off.

  “Inskip and I are in a partnership,” James said, “which I will come to control over the next five years. I’d like to talk to you about it, because working your land figures prominently into our plans.”

  Sid’s smile faded; her hands came out of those back pockets. “Put the kettle on. I’ll tell Weese to collect the money while I’m listening to what you have to say.” She gave him a visual once-over, as if she could predict what he’d say by studying him, then hustled off.

  Not a pushover, Miss Sidonie, and James liked her for it. Good looks and charm in abundance meant James seldom had to work to win a woman’s approval, but he was about to work to win hers.

  Which, considering MacKenzie approved of her, was probably fitting.

  The kettle was whistling in earnest when Sid came back in through the kitchen door. “When does it get nice and hot around here, for God’s sake?”

  “Same time it does in Baltimore, I’m guessing.” James opened cupboards, one, two, three, finding mugs behind door number three, same place his mom had stored her everyday mugs. “You notice the weather more out here, you notice the sky, you notice the breezes, or the lack of them, and you surely do notice the smells.”

  To James, they were good smells, even the sharp scent of that dark topsoil wafting across the barnyard.

  “What kind of tea are we having?” he asked.

  “Hannah gave me some green tea with jasmine as a housewarming present. Will that do?”

  “It’s her favorite, and I like it. The nights aren’t as cold lately, and the sun’s gaining strength. We’ll be planting corn in the next few weeks and taking off the first cutting of hay right after that if the weather runs true to form.” James was looking forward to both, same as he had as a kid on the farm.

  “I know the frost date for this zone is May first, but don’t you sometimes get frost after that?”

  And with one question, Sid had him going. Frost dates, early hybrid strains of corn, the trade-off between the stress of the heat and drought of midsummer versus the cold nights of late spring, the potential for planting two crops in one year if the winter wheat came off early for wet wrapping and the corn went in late.

  James had finished off most of a pot of tea before he realized he hadn’t even approached his intended purpose for meeting with Sid, but to sit in this kitchen and talk crops and weather and possibilities had felt comfortable.

  Surprisingly comfortable.

  “How does a CPA know so much about all this agricultural stuff?” Sid asked, peering into the only orange ceramic teapot James had ever seen.

  The question caught him off guard. Most people thought of him as a lawyer, because he purposely didn’t lead with his accounting credentials. Lawyering was sexier than accounting, right? And yet Mac had cautioned him not to approach Sid from a legal angle.

  “I grew up on this farm,” James said. “I watched my parents live and die here, and I considered buying the place both times it came back on the market. Every farmer has to be a competent businessman, but few businessmen understand farming.”

  Sid topped up her mug from the teapot, fragrant steam curling upward. “You watched your parents die here? Both of them?”

  Too late, James realized his error. This was old ground, ground that did not need to be plowed up again.

  “I was speaking figuratively.”

  Sid set the pot down and peered at him, a slow, green-eyed perusal that had probably inspired Luis into admitting all manner of uncomfortable truths.

  “I do not abide untruths, James Knightley. Mac told me your mother died in the bedroom where Luis sleeps now. You were speaking literally. How did your father die?”

  He stood, taking his mug to the sink to buy time. He washed it out, set it in the drain rack, and tried to figure out why he was stalling.

  “Dad died in a farming accident. Tractor rolled; he didn’t suffer long. Best we can figure, he had a heart attack doing what he loved.” James very purposely did not close his eyes as he spoke, because he knew exactly which memories and which images would crowd into his mind if he did.

  They crowded anyway, but he focused on folding a dish towel over the handle of the oven.

  “How long has it been, James?”

  “Seventeen, eighteen years since Dad died.”

  “It’s still hard to talk about, isn’t it?” She stayed at the table, as if she understood James needed space to keep breathing. This wasn’t on his agenda. This topic was never on his agenda.

  “The accident was my fault, at least partly.”

  She regarded him steadily, and all James could detect in her eyes was concern.

  “It couldn’t have been your fault. You were a kid. My brother died of AIDS—that is my least favorite sentence in any language, by the way—but I still blame myself. Tony was an adult who made his own choices, but I blame myself.”

  She was still blaming herself, from the sadness in her voice. James shifted to stand at the window, where he could see Luis filling the bed of yet another pickup with vintage horse poop.

  “You’re right, in a sense, Sid. I didn’t push the tractor over on him, didn’t give him a bad ticker, but as the youngest, it was my job to take Dad his lunch if he didn’t come in for it. I got to making a hay fort in the mow, lost track of the time, and all the while, he was under that stupid tractor.”

  “But even if you’d found him earlier, James, could you have lifted the tractor off him? Fixed his heart? Pulled a medevac chopper out of your pocket, if they even had them around here that long ago? No, you could not. It was his turn.”

  “This isn’t what I came to talk about.”

  “You don’t ever want to think about it, either. I do apologize for prying. Tell me some more about why I should sign a five-year agreement to let you work my land.”

  To launch into the cost-benefit analyses, the figures and percentages, the risk assessments, was a relief, and all the while, Sid followed the discussion. She asked the right questions, comprehended the answers, and spared James having to break things down as he might have for a less savvy audience.

  “Does Mac know you’re so smart, Sid?”

  “I’m not smart, James, I’m educated.”

  “MBA?”

  She nodded, but it hadn’t been much of a guess.

  “From?”

  “Wharton. My primary emphasis was human resources management, but they don’t let you through that gauntlet without getting a thorough grasp of numbers. How about you?”

  “I’m Maryland educated. Maryland and the school of hard knocks. You want some time to think this over?”

  “No, I do not. I’ll read this carefully.” She tapped a folded document with her index finger. “If it says what you’ve represented it to say, I’ll sign it.”

  “You won’t have somebody look it over for you? I wouldn’t be offended.”

  “If a Wharton MBA can’t read a land-use agreement, then Wharton needs to lower its tuition. The last purpose I’ll put my money to is paying off some lawyer’s sailboat. You hungry?”

  Her animosity wasn’t the garden-variety lawyer bashing, which suggested retreat was prudent.

  “I told Twyla I’d have some dirt for us to make flower beds with this afternoon, so I’d better get moving. My thanks for the tea and the conversation.”

  “Who’s Twyla?”

  “My fiancée’s daughter. She’s eight and believes a deal’s a deal. I disappoint her at my peril.”

 
“I believe a deal’s a deal too, James Knightley.” Sid stuck out her hand, and James shook it, then held her hand a moment longer.

  “Mac likes you.”

  “I like him too.”

  “He likes you a lot. I can see why.”

  He brought her knuckles to his lips in an old-fashioned gesture of gentlemanly respect, and left her in her kitchen, her expression perplexed.

  * * *

  Why hadn’t Mac disclosed that his father died on my farm? Of course, any parent’s death would be hard to discuss, but should it be a secret?

  Sid made herself another cup of tea—James had pretty much downed the entire last pot—and took it back out to the porch. The spring sun was beaming through a greening canopy of leaves, and over the grind and growl of the loader, birds sang.

  Such a pretty place Tony had bought for them, but what she wouldn’t give to have her brother to share it with. To have somebody to share it with besides a teenager bound to leave for college in a couple of years, if she got to provide a home for him even that long.

  Why didn’t Mac ever talk about his clients, their horses, or their farms? Why didn’t he bring up work when he and Sid shared a meal? If he lived with them here on this farm, would those confidences and commonplaces be shared between them?

  What was she doing, letting her curiosity wander off in that ridiculous direction? The last place Mac would want to live would be the scene of his parents’ respective demises.

  “Yo, Sid!” Luis waved from his perch on the loader. He hadn’t been off the thing all morning, apparently enjoying a masculine delight in powerful, noisy equipment.

  “Coming!” She set her tea aside and walked across the yard. “You ready for a lunch break? We’re enjoying a momentary lull, it seems.”

  “Get up here. I’ll show you how to run this.” He beamed a brilliant, open smile at her, a man-boy happy to share his new toy. “It’s really cool.”

  “I dunno, Weese. It’s really big.”

  “It’s a glorified skid loader. Stop being a girl and let me show you.”

  Squeezing into the cab next to her foster son was a little awkward, but he was right—operating the loader wasn’t that hard, and manipulating the bucket and the vehicle itself developed a rhythm that was almost fun. The noise of the treads and the engine became a kind of music, the rearrangement of the remaining topsoil a sculpture.

  “So you take care of that guy coming up the drive,” Luis said, “and I get a pee break.”

  “See that you don’t strand me out here, Weese.”

  He didn’t, but he sat on the porch with a sandwich and a bag of nachos, wolfing his lunch while Sid took care of the next three customers, two pickup loads and a three-bagger.

  Luis gestured with what remained of the bag of chips. “You going to let me back on?”

  “Not if you’ll get orange crumbs all over.” Sid climbed out, oddly disoriented without the vibration of the loader under her butt.

  “I counted up the money between sandwiches, Sid.”

  “How are we doing?”

  He named a figure.

  “You’re shitting me, Weese. That is not nice, not when money is so tight.”

  “I shit thee not, Sid. Anybody ever tell you to work on your trust issues?”

  “Shut up and scoop the poop. I’m going to recount the money.”

  * * *

  On Sunday morning, Sid took a break from reading the help-wanted ads to count the money yet again, amazed once more at what a certain kind of dirt was worth. She’d just set the jar aside when Mac pulled up in his horseshoer’s truck.

  “Hey.” Mac’s version of a greeting rose considerably in Sid’s estimation when he followed it up by drawing her to her feet and kissing her lingeringly on the mouth.

  “Hey, yourself, cowboy. I’m rich.”

  He settled back against the porch railing, crossing his arms. “Did the estate settle?”

  “Hardly. I’m the topsoil tycoon of this valley. We made a small fortune, Mac, and I met most of my neighbors. What have you been up to while I was raking in coin of the realm and cleaning out the muck pit?” Half cleaning it out—in one weekend.

  “Shoed a few horses, and yesterday was my standing date with my nieces. We took Twyla with us, and it’s the first time I’ve been outnumbered that badly.”

  “You look a little tired. Come on in. I made raisin bread this morning, and Weese hasn’t been around to scarf it all up.” Sid took Mac by the wrist and tugged him into the kitchen, which still sported a wonderful yeasty aroma. “Your brother James came by to get some topsoil yesterday and stayed to talk business.”

  “He’s good at talking business. The topsoil was because he’s landscaping Vera’s place before she and Twy move to his farm.” Mac leaned back against the sink, looking marvelous in his jeans and denim shirt.

  “What will Vera do with her property?”

  “They’re renting the house to her ex and his kids so the ex can sell his own place. James will farm the land with Inskip. We washing the bread down with tea or milk?”

  “What kind of woman rents her house to her ex?” Sid cut off a couple of slabs of raisin bread from a loaf that was still warm in the center. She passed Mac a fat slice, enjoying bustling around her kitchen while a hungry man looked on.

  “Thanks.” He saluted with the bread. “Vera’s a nice woman. Her former stepson will work for James and Hiram this summer, so the location will be convenient. Vera’s practical, and she loves her kids. Her ex is not a bad guy, though he’s got his share of faults.”

  “You want butter on your bread?”

  “Of course.”

  “Mac, how did your father die?”

  He paused with his bread partway to his mouth. “Would I like butter, how did my father die? What kind of segue is that, Sid?”

  “Death is on my mind a lot. I know your mom died in this house of an aggressive cancer.”

  Sid got the butter dish out of the fridge, purposely turning her back on Mac to give him a measure of privacy. The question had come out of her mouth without forethought or planning, and now she wished it hadn’t.

  Mac stared at his piece of raisin bread. “Dad had a heart attack as best we can figure. He was on the tractor when it happened. Why do you ask?”

  “James sort of brought it up.” Or she’d sort of pried it out of James.

  “James was just a kid, and it was bad. Dad was conscious when we found him, but Dad understood the situation. Mom and James did not. I’m not sure about Trent.”

  And in all the intervening years, Mac and Trent had never discussed this?

  Sid slid an arm around Mac’s waist. “You were all with him when he died?” Along the length of her body, he felt as unyielding as one of the centuries-old oaks in her yard, so she laid her head on his shoulder.

  “We were. Dad understood that as soon as the tractor was moved, he’d bleed out. He told me to get the horses, when I wanted to call for the medics. I got the horses, and he said his good-byes while I hitched them up.”

  “Tell me, MacKenzie.”

  “James kept assuring him help was coming and everything would be fine. Mom sat beside him, holding his hand, crying. Trent cursed a lot, and pulled Dad free when the horses got the tractor up. I knew, and Dad knew. He said he’d always been proud of his family, and that he loved us very much, and then he was gone.”

  Sid held on to him, mentally raging at herself for the casual cruelty of her stupid, curious question. This was why Mac avoided mention of the past: because his father’s death had been terrible beyond imagining. A memory of horror and helplessness and loss that likely abated little with the years.

  “I’m so sorry, MacKenzie. Sorry I asked, sorry you had to live through that.”

  A big sigh eased out of him, and some of the rigidity left his shoulders.

&
nbsp; “I thought James would never stop crying. He was the baby, Dad’s little buddy. Of the three of us, James was the one most likely to be at Dad’s side. Trent and I were older, thinking in terms of life beyond the farm. Not James.”

  Mac had apparently only seen this with the perfect torment of hindsight.

  “James is a successful man, and he seems happy,” Sid said.

  “You should have seen him a year ago. I’ve always wondered why I went and got those horses just because Dad told me to. I was an adult, technically. I knew the consequences, I knew there was a choice, but I ran to get those horses.”

  “Are you blaming yourself?”

  “Not blaming, exactly. Second-guessing. There’s a trauma center out here in Western Maryland. Dad was in good health otherwise, and he wouldn’t have been on that tractor if I’d been more conscientious about the farm work.”

  Good God, worse and worse. Sid fed Mac a bite of raisin bread, wanting to give him something, anything.

  “What the hell does that mean, MacKenzie? I cannot imagine you shirking a responsibility for love nor money.”

  “Someday I’ll walk the north pasture with you. We always kept that parcel in pasture, and for good reason, because it’s littered with granite outcroppings. You can’t plow it safely with a tractor. Dad’s death proved what should have been obvious.”

  Obvious in hindsight. “He had an accident, very likely because he had a heart attack, not the other way around. Don’t be an idiot.”

  He brushed a crumb from her lip, a hummingbird wing-beat of a caress. “You’re saying the heart attack caused the accident? I guess we’ll never know, but I do know I told him I’d turn up that ground with the horses, and then I didn’t see to it. You have to plant when it’s planting time, and I wasn’t getting to it.”

  Sid endured an abrupt certainty that even the departed Mrs. Knightley had blamed herself for her husband’s death.

  “So your dad didn’t remind you? His only choice was to hop on that tractor and start taking risks? He couldn’t have used the horses?”

  Another stare, this one downright perplexed. “With horses, you farm ahead of yourself,” Mac said. “You can see the ground as it meets your plow or your rake. With a tractor, you’re always farming behind yourself. You drive the tractor over the ground before you till it, or plow it with whatever you’re dragging along behind you. I’ve never enjoyed that, but it didn’t bother Dad. He was an engine guy, like James.”