Sam
Just as I’m about to power through the final traffic light and head back up the mountain, I hit my palm on the steering wheel. Ibuprofen. I forgot to buy Alison’s damn ibuprofen at the grocery store—her final request as I’d been walking out the front door.
“Crap.” I groan and let my foot off the accelerator. I know I only have one option, and going home empty-handed isn’t it; Alison doesn’t need another reason to resent me today.
So, postponing my long, twisty trek back to the ranch, I pull into Jack’s Save Mart and Gas, situated conveniently at the bottom of the hill. I have to make this quick if I don’t want the dairy products in my grocery bags to go bad, since it’s such a hot day.
Turning my music down, I roll the truck to a stop in one of the parking spaces on the side of the Save Mart and shut off the engine. Once again, I climb down out of my truck and hurry toward the door. I fan myself like it might help the sweat I can feel collecting on my brow. A dip in the lake sounds nice right about now.
The nearer I get, I notice the store’s neon sign is discolored and cobwebbed, probably similar to the inside of the place. Papa rarely stopped here when I was young, claiming that everything Jack had on his shelves was not only expired but overpriced. And I guess out of habit, I never came in here either. But today would have to be an exception.
With a little extra elbow grease, I push open the Save Mart door. Good ol’ Jack is behind the counter, wrinkly and bald as ever. I can’t recall him ever looking any different, no matter how much time goes by.
“Hey, Jack,” I say, offering him a half-smile as I step inside.
“Well, I’ll be... If it isn’t little Samantha,” Jack greets me in his old, shaky voice that sounds like he’s been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day all his life. He tips the brim of his cowboy hat. “Fillin’ her up today?”
“Not today,” I say, and I scan the aisles ahead of me, looking for hygiene products or first aid or anything that might guide me in the right direction. Spotting a row of deodorant and medicines, I meander down the aisle. There’s only one small bottle of ibuprofen, and I pick it up to examine.
Turning it in my palm, I balk at the price tag. “Jack, you’re killing me with these prices.” Almost ten dollars for an off brand seems excessive.
Hearing the doorbell jingle once, then twice as other customers step into the store, I decide to make my peace with the price tag and get in line. Just as I turn around, my body rams into a larger, firmer one.
“Shit!” I hiss, nearly stumbling. I catch the bottle I almost drop, then realize the back label is so faded I can barely read it. “Sorry,” I say, turning the bottle upside down.
“My fault,” a deeper voice says as I head up to the counter. I only wave.
“I should’ve known,” I mutter. The bottle expired six months ago, but all I can think about is the food in the sun in the back of the truck, and I just hope Alison doesn’t notice.
“You okay, Samantha?” Jack calls out as I walk up to the counter.
I scowl at him. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Waiting in line proves to be another test. I’m behind a short, brown-haired little girl holding a soda and two candy bars at the counter. She has a wad of ones and quarters she’s slowly counting out, no doubt the money she raided the couch looking for.
After counting and recounting her money for Jack since he can’t seem to see if the weathered bill is a one or a ten, the little girl takes her receipt, though she doesn’t know what to do with it, and says she doesn’t need a bag before she skips out.
When I step up to the counter, Jack’s existing smile warms. “Did you find what you needed?” For the first time, I notice Jack’s missing one of his front teeth. My smile widens, more genuinely this time. At least for a minute. I hold up the white plastic bottle. “These are expired, Jack,” I say, just in case he has no idea, though I doubt it.
Jack’s brow furrows. “They’re still good,” he says. “That’s just the sell-by date.”
Wondering if it’s illegal to sell expired meds in a public store, over-the-counter or not, I relent. It’s easy enough to convince myself the expired pills can’t do much more damage to Alison’s body than her excessive drinking already does.
Jack scans the container, and after a beep and the press of a button, he says, “That’ll be $10.96, please.”
“This container”—I lift it up—“that has twenty capsules in it is eleven dollars? And it’s expired,” I grumble. “Fantastic.”
“You forgot about the tax,” Jack replies, his eyebrows waggling. I’m glad he finds this whole thing so amusing.
I reach for my debit card in my back pocket. “You’re killing me, Jack. In fact, I’m sure this is extortion—shit.” I pat all my pockets, only finding my keys in one. I left my debit card in the truck.
“Here,” an eerily recognizable voice rumbles from behind me. “I’ll get it.”
I turn around to find a familiar, dark-featured face staring back at me. Reilly pulls out a few loose bills from his wallet that I pay little attention to. I’m shocked to see him, though I know I shouldn’t be. I’ve known all week I’d run into him eventually.
Dumb and frozen, I take in the sight of him. He’s . . . different than I remember, but I do still see Reilly in there somewhere. His brown hair is cropped shorter than before, with only a couple weeks’ worth of growth. He even smells different—clean and freshly pressed, like he just stepped out of a shower, though the day-old stubble on his face tells me otherwise. He looks older, tougher, and more severe than I remember. And the sheer strength his body exudes makes him seem a tad more imposing than I’m sure I’m comfortable with. He looks physically honed to fight—to survive.
My body warms and my stomach coils a bit as I process the magnitude of him standing there, of him being back. I briefly wonder if I might throw up.
“Add these, would you?” Reilly says, and he holds up a bottle of iced tea and pack of spearmint gum. His voice is just as steady and kind as I remember, and the thrum it elicits sparks a fire in my chest I’m not expecting and definitely don’t appreciate.
Finally, his eyes meet mine. I take a step back, almost stumbling, and lick my lips. His lapis gaze is different than the one I remember, this one an expression that seems matured by sights and experience only a harsh life can bring.
With too many emotions to process, all I can do is stand beside him, speechless.
Jack grumbles something, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m following Reilly out the door.
“Here,” he says, holding out the pill bottle. We stop just outside the building. “Have a headache?”
I shake my head. “It’s for a hangover,” I say, and immediately regret it. “I mean, it’s for Alison. She has a hangover—err, headache.” I inhale a shaky breath. “Thank you for doing that, you didn’t have to.”
A disbelieving smile stretches across his lips. “Are you sure? It seemed like you’d forgotten something.”
I don’t like the snideness of his tone, or maybe it’s the ease with which he speaks to me when I’m still grappling to overcome my shock. Regardless, the fact that he’s been back only minutes and I’m already indebted to him is enough to rattle me. He ruined your relationship with Mike out of spite, I remind myself, and I grasp onto that thread of resentment.
When I don’t take the miniature bottle, Reilly pries my fingers open from my clenched fist at my side. He places the ibuprofen in my palm.
My hand tingles in his, making me bristle, and I pull away from him. “I’ll pay you back,” I say, willing complete sentences to form on my tongue.
“You don’t have to pay me back, it was eleven dollars. You can buy me a beer or some—”
“I said I’ll pay you back.” I squeeze my eyes shut, and my grip tightens around the bottle. When I open them again, Reilly’s unguarded air dissolves, and the smile in his eyes dims. He stares at me with pursed lips. “Fine. You can pay me back.”
“Thank
you.” I turn away from him, my body a tension-filled mass of nerves and confusion. I can’t get away from him fast enough. I climb into the truck, too much of a coward to look in my rearview window to see if he’s still standing there.
His Chevy rumbles to life, and I expect to feel my shoulders droop and my breathing to even out, but neither of them do. Not even as I watch him pull out of the parking lot and drive up the hill do I feel any better whatsoever.
All the possible run-ins and dreaded spottings swarm around inside my mind, and my vision blurs. I don’t know if I can do this.
Forcing myself to let out a deep breath, I shake my hands, flex my fingers, and grip the steering wheel to root myself in the moment. I push all the bitterness and hurt and confusion deep down to deal with later. Right now I have a truck full of groceries, a grumpy stepmother, and a butt-load of chores to get home to.
Thinking about Reilly will have to wait.
Six
Sam
When I finally get to the ranch, I pull up to the side of the house, honk a few times—which I never do—and pull to a stop in the drive. The screen door swings open as I get out of the cab. I’m not in the mood to deal with Alison’s badgering and complaining, but I fear I have little choice as she takes a haughty step off the porch and joins me by the bed of the truck.
Her perfume wafts around me, sweet and familiar, and when gravity suddenly feels too heavy against my chest, I have to take a shallow breath. I heave the tailgate down, forcing myself to ignore whatever this ridiculous feeling is, and load my arms up with groceries.
“You were gone a long time,” Alison says coolly, not too stern, not too telling, but enough for me to know she’s testing my mood. “I was beginning to worry.” She threads her arm through some of the bag handles to carry inside.
I flash her a placating smile as I head into the house. Her footsteps are quick to keep up behind me. “I told you I was having lunch with Nick and Mac,” I say, trying not to sound as impatient as I am.
She’s quiet for a moment, assessing. “I remember.”
“Sorry to worry you though,” I say and swing the screen open so I can pass through. Alison grunts behind me as the door half closes on her. I tell myself I don’t care, but then guilt flares. A bouquet of flowers rests on the kitchen table, I’m assuming for Papa’s grave.
Alison sets her bags on the counter next to mine, then leans against it, crossing her arms, expectant.
“What’s wrong, Alison?” I ask, and open the fridge to put a gallon of milk inside. Quickly, I survey the bags on the counter, looking for anything urgent that needs to be moved to the fridge or freezer. With a huff, I finally turn to face her.
Alison runs her fingers through her wavy blonde hair and sighs. “You were supposed to be back by 3:00 for that phone conference with the Swansons.”
Shit. I rub my forehead, wishing I’d paid more attention to that nagging feeling that I was forgetting something. I look at her. “Sorry. I’m sure you were able to handle it, though, right?”
She smirks. “I tried, but Jonathan wanted to talk to you, the one who’s most familiar with his horse.”
Suppressing a groan, I turn for the screen door. “I’ll call him back as soon as I’m done with the groceries.” I head back out the door, toward the truck. “There’s a reason I think you should be working with the horses more,” I call over my shoulder when I hear Alison step onto the porch. “Not to mention I could use the help,” I grumble low enough so that she can’t hear.
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.
Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1) Page 6