The Rhubarb Patch

by Deanna Wadsworth

  “I’m so stuffed. That was amazing.”

  Clearing the table, Phin smiled. “Did you save room for dessert?”

  Scott stretched back in the chair, hoping the position would move his ribs enough to give his stomach more real estate. “I don’t think I could eat another bite.”

  “That’s too bad. I made rhubarb cobbler.” Phin began washing the dishes, and Scott joined him to dry and place them on the rack.

  “I’ve never had cobbler.”

  Phin gave him an incredulous look. “Really? I’m glad I made fresh ice cream, then. So you can have it the right way your first time.”

  “You made ice cream?” This man never ceased to amaze him.

  “No big deal. I have an ice cream maker attachment for my KitchenAid. It’s just like the sourdough bread. I let the bread machine do all the work.”

  Scott waved the towel in his hands. “No, no, do not shatter my illusion of you over here being all Martha Stewart, rolling out your bread, then churning an ice cream maker, all while wearing a puffy white chef’s hat.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t have a chef’s hat.”

  “But I bet you have the apron, right? One with something cheesy on it like Kiss the Cook.”

  Phin raised his eyebrows. “Is that what you want my apron to say?”

  “Perhaps that’s what you want your apron to say,” he teased.

  “Perhaps.”

  Their gazes held for another lingering moment. Then Phin leaned in and Scott’s heart skipped. He tipped his chin up for the kiss and let his eyes close a little.

  “Look out, that water’s overflowing,” Phin said.

  Scott’s eyes flew open.

  Phin dumped the excess water out of the tray of the drying rack. Their eyes met and Phin must’ve realized what Scott thought was coming at the same second Scott realized what wasn’t coming.

  Scott’s face flamed.

  “Oh, um, sorry. Did you…?”

  Looking away, Scott dried the dry plate in his hand. “That was some meal,” he said a little too loudly.

  Phin cleared his throat. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Phin looking at him, lips pursed in worry.

  Was he thinking about kissing Scott after all?

  Not interested in a pity kiss, Scott rushed over to the table to retrieve the empty bottle of wine and toss it in the garbage.

  Awkwardness floated in the room now. Maybe Scott should leave. But it wasn’t polite to dine and dash. And as embarrassed as he was, he wondered if Phin would kiss him. Pity kiss or not, he wanted to taste Phin.

  In every way his vivid imagination could come up with.

  Yes, he was supposed to be done with men, but didn’t they say you always found Mr. Right when you weren’t looking? Maybe he didn’t need to swear off men, rather he needed to approach dating differently. Be himself in a relationship and not let a man change him.

  Interesting theory….

  Once they cleaned the table and the dishes, Phin looked around the room, as if searching for something to talk about after the awkward almost-kiss. “Well, like I said, I have dessert. I can send some home with you. Unless you want to hang out here until you make a little room for it?”

  That innocent hopefulness made Scott’s heart leap. “I could hang, if that’s okay with you?”

  “It’s more than okay.” His face brightened as he opened the fridge and retrieved another bottle of wine. “How about the Pinot?”

  Scott didn’t have to drive, and he enjoyed Phin’s company immensely, so he picked up his jar and waggled it. “I’m game if you are.”

  The ease of the evening returned. Phin gathered a wine bucket with ice and led the way onto the porch.

  “Very classy,” Scott said as he set it down on the table beside the swing. Sister Mary Katherine followed them out and down the tiny dog ramp. “Is the ramp new?”

  “Yeah, I had to build it for her last—oh, come on, Katie!” Phin complained. “Don’t shit on the ramp.”

  Sure enough Sister Mary Katherine was hunched up and taking a dump on it.

  Scott chuckled. “I guess she couldn’t wait to get into the grass.”

  “No, she’s just getting senile and lazy. I make her walk as much as possible to keep her strength up, but she’s a lot skinnier than she used to be.” Though he sounded annoyed, the sadness in his eyes as he watched her sniff around on the edge of the porch light was undeniable.

  Once again, Scott’s heart melted.

  As they sat on the swing watching the dog, Scott felt like he was on an episode of The Andy Griffith Show. He didn’t even know people had back-porch swings anymore. The sun had all but set, a faint hint of pink changing the western sky on Phin’s side of the property.

  Sister Mary Katherine returned to her ramp and stopped in her tracks at the sight of the turds.

  “Don’t look offended,” Phin scolded her. “You’re the one who did it.”

  He stood, the swing rocking, and went down the steps to retrieve her. He placed her on the outdoor dog bed, then pointed at her. “Now you just stay here. Don’t need you to be coyote bait.”

  As if on cue, a faint howl echoed in the distance. A shiver went down Scott’s back and he clutched his jar.

  “You cold?” Phin asked. “I can get you a jacket.”

  I can think of a better way to warm up…. “No, I’m not cold. Just thinking of the coyotes.”

  Phin patted his leg, his hand lingering but not long enough. “Don’t worry. They’re seldom brave enough to get close to the house. And if they do, I got my Henry right inside the door.”

  “Henry?”

  “My lever action .22 rifle.”

  “Oh.”

  Scott had never been a fan of guns. After all the mass shootings, he definitely supported stricter gun laws. He wasn’t about to march on Washington to repeal the Second Amendment, but neither did he understand how hunting could be called a sport. It was just a bunch of hillbillies drinking beer in the woods and getting a hard-on to kill something.

  “Do guns make you uncomfortable?” Phin asked.

  “Anything that can rip through a crowd of innocent people and kill them makes me uncomfortable,” he said at once. “I understand why you have a rifle, but automatic weapons like the AR15? No one should be able to own something like that.”

  “Sounds like somebody’s been drinking the liberal media’s Kool-Aid,” Phin remarked after a moment.

  Did he just say liberal media? I’m listening to Joe talk!

  “ARs are just sporting rifles,” Phin told him. “Not automatic weapons. Those are nearly impossible to own. Not that the media ever gets that right.”

  Unable to believe his ears, Scott gaped at him. “Are you a Republican?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. But yes, I’ve been a registered Republican since I was twenty. A Log Cabin Republican these days.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A Republican who supports gay rights.”

  “Tell me you didn’t vote for Trump.”

  “Oh-ho, no, I did not. You know I don’t like preservatives. I wouldn’t vote for a Cheeto.” Phin chuckled.

  Scott sniffed at the joke.

  “I don’t just vote a red ticket like some drone,” Phin explained. “I weigh each candidate and issue, but my personal beliefs usually align with the right.”

  Though he appreciated Phin’s humor, Scott couldn’t believe he was on a date with a Second Amendment-supporting gay Republican. Weren’t gay people supposed to be Democrats? Not that he’d ever had strong political views. He’d only voted twice—usually far too busy to go wait in line, then have some delegate trump his vote anyways. But how could a gay man be a Republican?

  Part of Scott wanted to tell Phin he was an ignorant hick, then storm back to his house. The other part of him enjoyed this man’s company and wanted to stay for cobbler.

  But if Scott stayed, was he doing it again?

&nb
sp; Dismissing his own wants and beliefs for a man?

  His knee bounced irritably. Dammit, I don’t wanna be that guy anymore!

  Phin studied him. “I didn’t mean to start a debate, Mouse. It’s pretty obvious we have opposing views on the matter. I’m gonna assume neither of us is gonna change the other’s mind either. I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” Scott said, immediately regretting it. Phin should apologize for diminishing the threat of automatic guns—okay, so maybe not automatic. He’d have to google that later and see if it was true. But who cared if it was automatic or not?

  Guns killed people. Period.

  “Yes, I do need to apologize,” Phin insisted. “We were having a nice evening, and I ruined it by getting political. Maybe we should save serious debates for another time?”

  While Scott didn’t understand how Phin could be pro-gun or a fricking Republican, at least he hadn’t voted for Trump or tried to shove his ideas down Scott’s throat. That was enough to cut the guy some slack.

  With a sigh, he let the subject drop, agreeing to disagree. “Yeah, another time.”

  Phin’s face fell. “Oh, you’re leaving.”

  “No, why? Do you want me to—oh! You thought another time meant we could do this”—he gestured between them—“another time. No, I just meant we could have that conversation another time.” He gave a wry sniff. “Or never.”

  “That would be fine too,” Phin agreed with a chuckle. “But for the record, I’m not some open-carry nut. I own a rifle and a 12 gauge, plus a handgun for protection. I was jumped once, nearly beat to death. I didn’t feel safe anymore. So I learned to shoot.”

  “Was it a gay bashing?” It surprised him anyone would attack a guy as big as Phin.

  He sniffed a laugh. “Maybe? Probably? I was pretty wasted when it happened, so I don’t remember much besides the pain and the fear. I never wanted to feel that way again.”

  “And a gun makes you feel safer?” Scott couldn’t keep the cynicism from his voice.

  “Yes. It does. I’ve always believed everybody has a right to protect themselves. That night, I learned the hard way that there are worse things out there than coyotes. I’ll be damned if that happens to me again.”

  Studying the firm set of Phin’s jaw, the haunted look in his eyes, Scott sipped his wine. It was a little tangier than the previous bottle, but good. “I understand where you’re coming from, but I don’t like guns, and I never will. Especially after Orlando.”

  “Understandable. What I went through was nothing like what those kids have to live with. The whole thing….” He shuddered and then took a fortifying swallow of wine. “It was like we got killed in our own church. I don’t know if our community will ever be the same.”

  Our community….

  Were they really so different? Yes, Phin was a country mouse, and Scott a city mouse. Phin had a flip phone, and Scott would be lost without his iPhone. Phin made his own crackers while Scott lived off cereal. Phin owned guns, and Scott would never touch one. Everything about their lives and beliefs appeared so different… yet Scott felt a powerful kinship to this man. He had from the beginning. And more importantly, when Scott stated his opinion, Phin respected it.

  Scott never would’ve argued politics with Brent. Yet Phin’s open, nonjudgmental vibe left Scott comfortable to stick to his beliefs and defend them.

  It was an entirely new sensation.

  One he could definitely get used to.

  “More wine?” Phin said after a moment.

  “Yeah, I think we need it.”

  He topped off their jars. “We’re very different, aren’t we?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Scott was quick to say. “No one can ever agree on politics. That’s why it’s called politics.”

  Just two minutes ago, you were annoyed at this guy, and now you’re trying to appease him. Make up your mind! You sound like Mom!

  “My old partner was a Democrat,” Phin told him.

  “Really?”

  “We argued about it so much that we had to call a truce. Lord knows, I found plenty of other things to argue about, though. I was rather pigheaded back then.”

  “Did it end things between you guys?”

  “No, an SUV ended things when it drove right through him.” Phin wore a tight-lipped smile, eyes misting.

  “Oh, man, I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  If Phin had been on opposing political sides with his partner, he couldn’t be as close-minded as Scott always assumed Republicans were. And to own a gun because he’d been attacked? Scott could understand that, though he highly doubted a gun would’ve been his choice.

  “But that was ten years ago, and this is today,” Phin said. “And we’re kinda ruining this date, aren’t we?”

  Scott chuckled. “Yeah, we are.”

  “How about that cobbler?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “YOU REALLY are an amazing cook,” Scott said, for what felt like the hundredth time. Mom’s idea of home cooking was boxed stuffing, mashed potatoes from a bag, and frozen turkey on holidays.

  “Thanks. Been doing it a long time.”

  Empty dishes of cobbler and the best ice cream Scott had ever eaten sat on the table beside the second drained wine bottle. When Phin cracked open the third one, Scott didn’t protest. They were learning about each other—some good and some best to just ignore—and wine massaged the conversation.

  “I haven’t had this much to drink in a long time,” Scott told him as he sipped. “I hope I don’t get so drunk that you take advantage of me.”

  Gawd, did I just say that?

  Phin chuckled, filling his glass a bit more. “On that note….”

  They laughed, and Scott inched closer to Phin’s warmth. He took the hint, placing an arm around him.

  “Much better.” Scott shamelessly snuggled in. Phin felt so warm, soft, and… safe?

  Enjoying being so close to Phin and how the scent of him made Scott’s stomach flutter, he stared out at their adjoining yards. Phin had shown Scott how to use the lawn tractor, and now both yards looked good. The faint clucking of chickens mingled on the air with the soft breeze.

  “It is beautiful here,” Scott admitted.

  “It’s been two weeks. Is the place growing on you?”

  Warm and satisfied from the best home-cooked meal he’d ever had in his entire life along with the hazy relaxation of wine, Scott remained quiet for a moment as he pondered the question. “Yeah, I think it’s growing on me. The neighbors are nice. Even if their politics are skewed.”

  He instantly regretted saying that until Phin laughed.

  “Skewed, eh?” Phin tightened his arm a bit. “Says you.”

  Relieved Phin could take a joke, Scott smiled. “I like the quiet in the morning. It’s easier for me to sleep out here too. I’ve always been a bit of an insomniac, so traffic and city noise made me a light sleeper. But here I kind of just fall asleep and stay asleep.”

  “It’s that fresh country air too.”

  “With its lingering aroma of chicken shit.”

  They chuckled.

  “But it’s peaceful,” Scott went on. “I mean it’s still weird. I’m living in a house that I guess is mine, but it’s not mine. There are little doilies and pink things everywhere.”

  “Nancy liked her knickknacks.”

  “I’m sleeping in the guest room.”

  Phin arched his brows.

  “I feel like I’m intruding,” Scott explained. “Like I’m still a guest.”

  “It’s your house now. There might be a few things in the house with sentimental value, but Nancy collected a lot of junk,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Most of it she picked up at garage sales. And she was a QVC nut. I wouldn’t be surprised if the UPS driver figured out she passed when he stopped making deliveries every other day.”

  “Yeah, there’s stuff everywhere. Who needs four electric toothbrushes? She even st
ashed money around the house. I found a couple hundred bucks in a Bisquick box. Can you believe that?”

  “Yeah, Nancy didn’t trust banks. I’m sure you’ll find more money. Make sure you open everything before you throw it away.”

  “Good idea.”

  “It might not be a bad idea to have a sale.”

  “Is that rude? I mean, to dismantle someone’s life and slap a twenty-five-cent sticker on their stuff?”

  Phin topped off their glasses, a little more than Scott would’ve preferred, but he didn’t complain. “People live and people die, Mouse.” He gestured in the direction of Sister Mary Katherine licking her paw. “Take her, for example. She won’t be around forever. It’s just the cycle of life on this planet. I’ll miss her just like I miss everyone I’ve lost, even if she’s a little shit sometimes.”

  Was Phin thinking about his dead partner? He’d shared the tale of his attack, but it was too soon to be discussing exes, especially dead ones. Wanting to distract him, Scott laughed. “Sister Mary Katherine a shit? No, I don’t believe it. I’ve never seen a more docile dog in all my days.”

  All my days? What are you a Southern belle?

  Was Scott so immersed in the formal dialogue of his novel that he’d started speaking that way? Such a dork!

  “You wouldn’t say that if I told you how I met your grandma.” Phin pointed to his dog again. “That one was out playing in the yard, chasing chickens. She knows not to go anywhere near the road because the front yard is off-limits. But she can wander all around back here. Well, I came outside to find her sitting on the porch chomping on a steak.”

  “Like a piece of meat?”

  “Yeah, a nice sirloin steak,” Phin said, chuckling. “I asked her where she got it. Then I noticed a foil-wrapped baked potato with little doggy teeth marks in it too. Now, your grandma moved in the week before. I’d only said a polite hello, took her some tomatoes and cucumbers, you know? To welcome her to the neighborhood.”

  “So I guess I got a special welcome with the tighty-whities?”

  “Yes, you did. Well, I glanced over to Nancy’s because I smelled a grill going. She was looking all around like she lost something. Then it dawns on me, that little stinker went over and stole food right off her grill.”