by R. K. Ryals
A young woman chuckled from the chair next to him. “Before long, he’ll tell you he’s the better looking, more talented son.” She nodded. “I’m Chris’ wife, Samantha.”
Taking a seat, I smiled at her.
Faces and names blurred together as Heathcliff pointed out an additional three cousins, an uncle, and a great-aunt. But it was the woman at the head of the table who caught my eye. She was staring at me, her gaze boring into my face, her sharp green eyes bold and harsh.
“Clare Macy,” the woman greeted. My lips parted, but her wrinkled hand rose, stopping me. “It’s Clare, girl. That’s all I’ve ever known you as, and it’s what I’ll call you.”
“Mams—” Heathcliff began.
“Oh, hush up, boy! I didn’t reach eighty-eight by keeping my mouth shut, and I ain’t startin’ now when I know I’m one foot in the grave.” She nodded at me. “Just about raised your uncle Gregor, I did. Good boy, too. He’s got a good heart and a bright mind. It saddens me that he’s going to be taken so soon.”
“Mom,” Dusty warned.
She glared at him. “I ain’t sayin’ nothing she ain’t heard. Lawd, y’all act like I’m skinnin’ her cat right in front of her face. Getting down to it, then. I’m right glad to be seeing you among us, girl. You’ve been awful sheltered up in that big ol’ house.”
She grew quiet, and I stared. “Um … thank you,” I said, my eyes narrowing. “My uncle has told me a lot about you. Said you were the hand of God. A mean spirited witch with a heart of gold.”
Faint gasps emanated around the table, but I held Mams’ gaze.
She grinned. “I’ll be,” she cackled. “The hand of God. Did ya’ll hear that? You might have got your mama’s face, but you sure didn’t get her tongue. Right silver that mouth of yours is, and you know when to use it. I like that. I think your uncle got it right calling you Hawthorne.” She nodded at me. “Fine then, girl, you’ve earned the name. Now let’s crack open this meal!”
“She thinks dying means she can be meaner,” Chris hissed from across the table.
Heathcliff nudged me. “I’ll be damned. I’ve never heard her say so much and mean so many nice things all at one time.”
“My table, your tongue,” Heathcliff’s mom warned.
“You’ve done sullied the meal,” Chris joked.
Heathcliff snorted. “Mams cusses worse than that.”
My gaze scanned the table, half listening to the chatter, my mind wandering to the things in life I’d missed. Family mostly. Uncle Gregor had always been enough because he had to be, because his parents, my grandparents, were gone. My other grandparents had never wanted anything to do with me. I’d been a taint by birth, a child born out of wedlock to their wild daughter. It seemed I represented too much and lived too little.
“So, how’s the training going, Chris?” one of the cousins asked.
Heathcliff’s brother smiled. “Terrific! Not really a whole lot to learn considering I came out of the crib having to know it.”
The table filled with laughter, but Heathcliff tensed next to me.
“I got lucky,” Dusty declared. “Not one, but two sons to pass on the business to.”
Heathcliff shifted, his fork lying next to his plate, his jaw tense.
“Max’ll be good at the hardware stuff. He has a knack for putting things together,” another cousin added.
Heathcliff cleared his throat and glanced at me, his hand fisting on the table. “I don’t really think I want to work in the stores. Chris is much more qualified to run all of it. Better yet, he wants to.”
Chris threw his brother a look, but Heathcliff didn’t take the hint.
Silence descended.
“Well,” Mams said, “if that ain’t some bald faced honesty.”
Dusty’s fork met the table. “What are you saying, Son?”
Heathcliff’s gaze slid to his dad’s. “I’m not sure what I want to do honestly, but I kind of want to leave here to find out.”
If the silence was loud before, it was deafening now.
“Leave,” his mother whispered.
“Not forever,” Heathcliff amended. “Just to do some soul searching, I guess you could call it.”
“That’s madness!” Dusty roared.
“Is it?” I asked. My voice was low but firm because I knew what was coming next; the blame. It would all land on me, on the daughter of people with running in their blood. “There’s nothing wrong with leaving. I know more than anyone that this town is growing smaller and smaller each year, but it’s not going anywhere. There’s too much pride, tradition, and strength in this town. There’s a difference between running and seeking. There’s a difference between running and quitting. If you’re running toward something, you’re not running away. It’s only when you’re trying to hide from your failures that you don’t come back.”
It was said. The words I’d always been afraid to admit hadn’t just been spoken, they’d been told to a room full of people. My parents had left, and they would never return because returning meant admitting the biggest failure they’d ever made; their failure as parents.
Discomfort made me push away from the table, my feet carrying me to the door.
My feet. They were soldiers. They fought battles for me I didn’t even know I was fighting. They walked me through things I normally wouldn’t walk through. It didn’t matter where I’d been, I was never the same person when I left. It was this realization that brought the smile. Pain doesn’t go away, but it does a lot to change you.
My hand wrapped around the doorknob, my gaze going over my shoulder. “I’m not running away,” I said. “I’m going home. And your son isn’t running away. He’s searching for something. He’ll find it, and when he does, he’ll come back. Because that’s what people who seek stuff do. They find it, and then they share it with the people they love.”
Twisting the knob, I left, my grin widening as the door clicked shut behind me. There was that irony again. Heathcliff was looking for something beyond our hometown, and in the process was helping me find myself.
The wind kissed my face as I stepped toward Heathcliff’s truck and climbed in. The seat was uncomfortable, the cracked leather cold against my jeans. It’s funny how life unveils itself, choosing the oddest moments to say open your eyes.
“Hey,” Heathcliff called, his voice breaking me out of my reverie. He stood outside the truck, his hands on the open window. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I answered, smiling. “I think I am.”
He gave me a funny look, his hand pulling at the truck door. “You aren’t leaving yet,” he told me.
I glanced at the house. “I’m fine right here until you’re done. Seriously. You need to go back to your family.”
“That’s kind of hard when it was the birthday woman who ordered me to leave.” He chuckled. “I think she likes you.” Pulling the door open, he held out his hand. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
My fingers met his palm, and he tugged me from the vehicle hard enough I stumbled into him, my free hand going to his chest. His sudden wink was proof that it’d been on purpose.
Tucking me close, he led me over the lawn to the backyard. Solar lamps threw dim light over his features, the shadows making his cheeks look sharper, his eyes fierce. He was an interesting mix of masculine and boyish, tall and muscular but vulnerable in a way that wasn’t noticeable at first.
“You aren’t a failure,” he said abruptly.
My gaze shot to his profile. “I know that, but I am their failure. It’s crazy, right? Where they failed, Uncle Gregor succeeded.”
Heathcliff’s hand tightened on mine. “I don’t think I would have seen it quite that way. You see things differently, Hawthorne. You take things and cast a whole new light on them.”
“You do, too.”
Releasing me, he shoved his hands into his pockets, the gesture reminding me of his father.
“Not the way you do.” He glanced at the house. “Thank you for
what you did in there. I’m not sure how they’re taking it, but I don’t think they would have even considered my feelings if you hadn’t spoken.”
I shrugged. “It’s fear. Everyone has it. They love you enough it hurts. This is probably going to sound stupid, but I … I think that if love didn’t exist fear wouldn’t either. You have to love something to be afraid of losing it, whether that’s simply loving ourselves or someone else. They love you, and they love this town. They fear losing both.”
He stared. “You’re an old soul.”
I smiled. “No, I just think people could use a dose of realism. Do you know what I want to do? You have to promise not to laugh though.”
He nodded, his lips twitching.
I chuckled. “I want to cook, but I want to fill whatever I make with philosophy, with life. We’re from the South. For our ancestors, food was often hard to come by. We needed it to survive. Now, we use it to live, to congregate, to express love, pain, grief, and comfort. I want to make cooking a philosophy.”
Heathcliff grinned, but he didn’t laugh. “The Philosophical Chef. That could work. It’d be an interesting brand.”
I shrugged. “I’m sure it’s been done before, but everything’s been done before. The key is to make it your own. To take whatever you choose to do and make it yours.”
He nodded at the barn, and we walked toward it. “That’s kind of deep, isn’t it?” he asked.
My gaze found the woodshop within, landing on handmade benches, chairs, tables, furniture, and sculptures. It was beautiful, the scent of the wood as compelling as the artistry.
“I guess it is. Does that make me less appealing?”
He shot me a look. “If you think being deep makes you less appealing, then you must not think highly of me.”
My gaze caught his, my pulse quickening. “This shop,” I stuttered, “is it your dad’s?”
Heathcliff nodded. “It’s his, and it was my grandfather’s before him. I guess you could say that’s what makes a Vincent, timber and land. We respect nature. It’s been our survival, so we give as much as we take.”
“You’ve heard that quite a bit in your life, haven’t you?”
“I believe it, too.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and entwined his fingers with mine. Tugging me toward the back of the shop, he led me to a ladder leading up to the barn’s loft. “My brother and I spent a lot of time up here as kids. We’d watch my dad and uncles in the fields or whittling at wood. Sometimes they’d be doing something on the tractors or haying. We’d work, too, but we’d also hide and dare each other to jump from the loft to the piles of hay or leaves we’d stack on the ground below before our dad found the heap.”
Climbing the ladder ahead of him, I scanned the dark loft, the only light coming from a security post in the yard, the soft yellow glow surreal where it splashed over the barren area. Stray straw littered the floor, and a few pieces of completed woodwork sat propped against the walls, leaving the area before the large double doors open.
“Did y’all jump?” I asked.
He followed me into the loft, his soft laughter surrounding us. “More often than not, we chickened out. We got bolder as we got older though. I’ve made that jump plenty now. It’s kind of like a rite of passage I guess. I found my nephews up here one afternoon daring each other to do the same.” He walked over to the open doors and looked out into the night. “After that, Chris talked Dad into keeping one of the work trucks parked beneath the doors, the back full of hay. The drop isn’t as far that way, and it reduces the risk a little.”
“Why not just forbid them from coming to the barn?” I asked, joining him.
He grinned. “You’re talking about full on country boys here. We’ve got a lot of common sense, but we don’t always use it. Especially when it comes to adrenaline or acts of nonsensical bravery. Besides, this isn’t a big barn, not like the large working ones on the Parker farm. The drop isn’t that bad. With age, the fall looks less and less daunting.”
My gaze found his in the soft yellow light. “Now who’s being deep?” I asked with a smile.
He gestured at the night. “You should jump.”
My eyes widened. “What?”
“Jump,” he said. “Here, I’ll even go first.”
Without another word, he was gone, his body taken by the night. There was a light thud, a quick laugh, and then, “Your turn.”
Hesitating at the door, I glanced over the edge to find Heathcliff standing on a pile of hay in the back of a truck, his dimly lit face full of amusement. He was right, the fall wasn’t far, but it also wasn’t sensible.
“We’re not kids,” I called down.
He threw his hands up into the air. “We’re not quite adults yet either, Hawthorne. Embrace that. Jump. Don’t be afraid to fall.”
With his palms up, his hands suddenly seemed as important as his feet. It was like I hadn’t really met him, I’d met pieces of him, first his shoes, then his hands and face, each of them adding up to become something larger than they would have been had I noticed them all at once.
“Jump, Hawthorne,” he insisted, his voice gentle.
Inhaling the night air, I looked out over the yard, over the security lit and moonlit fields, and I did the most irrational thing I’d done in my life up until that point. I followed him down.
Air rushed toward me as I jumped, my feet hanging in the sky one moment and then standing in hay the next, my breath coming in laugh-induced pants, Heathcliff’s hands spanning my waist.
He laughed with me. “That’s the first unplanned thing you’ve ever done, isn’t it?” he asked.
My giggles tapered off, my head lifting to meet his. “And if it was?”
His gaze became serious, his eyes studying my flushed cheeks. “I like being part of your firsts,” he whispered. “It’s more exciting than jumping from barns. I’m seeing the world all over again, and in a whole new way.”
His head lowered, and my lips parted, more prepared this time for the warm press of lips that followed. His fingers slid up my back from my waist, bunching my shirt in his fists as he went, the cool night air brisk on revealed skin.
My hands found his shoulders, my fingers digging into the long-sleeve T-shirt he wore, my short nails pressing into the tense muscles beneath. His tongue invaded my mouth, gently sweeping against mine, insistent but slow, as if time had stopped.
It was cold outside, but in the back of that truck, it was warm. The hay dug through my jeans to irritate the skin on my ankles. It should have bothered me, but it didn’t. The only thing that mattered was the moment. The only thing that mattered was that I’d jumped, that I’d bridged some strange gap between my childhood and my future.
A voice called out from the house beyond, and Heathcliff pulled away, his chest rising and falling as he glanced up into the darkness.
“I think I should probably get you home,” he breathed.
His actions belied his words, his mouth suddenly capturing mine again. His hands released my shirt and dove into my hair, his fingers tangling in the waves, his lips firmer than they had been before, more desperate. My arms wrapped around his neck, my mouth as insistent as his, our breaths mingling in the night, fogging up on the winter breeze.
“Okay,” he gasped, pulling away, his eyes on mine. “I should really get you home now.”
My arms fell away from his neck, and he released my hair, his hand finding mine as we moved over the hay to the edge of the truck bed. He climbed out first, and then assisted me, his hands spanning my waist briefly as my feet found the ground.
Neither of us spoke. We simply walked across the yard to his truck. The silence seemed important somehow, as if the kiss spoke for itself, the emotions in it too big for words. I wouldn’t call it love. It was more like discovery, like an uncharted journey into a confusing mix of emotions. Forget the cup half full or half empty thing. My cup was a little bit of both. One moment it felt too full, and the next it didn’t feel full enough.
Heath
cliff drove into the night, the windows down, the wind rushing around us. The sky was clear, the stars bright. Pine, wood smoke, and freedom. That’s what the night smelled like. It smelled like grass and pond water, like beauty and harshness, and we breathed it in.
The tires crunched over gravel, dirt, and then asphalt, over open roads and tree-lined dirt paths, from highway to back road. We were on the lane leading to the plantation when Heathcliff glanced at me. “What was better?” he asked. “The kiss or the fall?”
He pulled to a stop in front of the house, and I smiled, my face averted. “Aren’t they the same thing?”
Those words hung in the air as I climbed free of the vehicle and ran for the house before he could even think about walking me to the door.
My fingers found the unlocked knob. The door fell in, and I closed it quickly behind me, locking it before settling against it, my breath coming in gasps.
There was a light on in the kitchen, and I knew my uncle had remained up. It wasn’t too late, but it was for him, and I knew it.
The chair in the dining room scraped against the floor, Gregor’s shadow falling over the hardwood as he paused in the doorway.
His worried gaze found my face.
I smiled. “It’s okay, Uncle,” I said. “Tonight, I learned how to fall.”
Chapter 7
The next two days, I didn’t see Heathcliff outside of English class. He was doing work for his father on the Parker farm, but the separation didn’t matter. Something had changed between us, and we both knew it.
For two days, we traded glances, his foot hovering between our chairs, his hands fisted on the edge of his desk.
Our shoes spoke for us, color smearing into my sneakers as we wrote, erased, and then wrote again.
“Friday night?” his shoe asked.
“I’m in,” mine answered.
It was corny using our shoes to speak when we could have just as easily used paper, but there was also something really special and unique about it. I didn’t own a cell phone because my uncle and I had just never thought it a necessity, but now I wished I did. Maybe it would have eased the uncomfortable feeling in my gut as I lay awake at night staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t that he consumed my thoughts—he didn’t—but there was no denying that I felt his absence more keenly than I should.