Admitting how I felt surprises even me. I wanted his mouth on mine. I wanted his hands to dig into my hair and tug. His fingers to roam over my skin and massage. His lips to skim down my body and please me. I didn’t realize how much I’ve craved the intimacy of another until the recent touches from Nathan. Fingers around my wrist. A palm on my lower back. Hands deep in my wild locks.
But I hesitated because I couldn’t reconcile suddenly seeing Nathan and the reminder of my brother.
Because on the night I met Nathan, my brother died.
Because of me.
This is all your fault, Naomi. God has punished us for your sin.
Guilt lives deep inside me, festering like another flame, one made of brimstone, ready to scar me if I admit I want the man I was with that night. The sexy, persuasive stranger, who danced with me, spoke sweetly to me, and kissed me like I was the only woman he ever wanted to kiss.
The same man who left me without a reason. The man who didn’t return as he promised. So I called my brother.
It’s been a long time since his death, and I often miss him. My family blamed me when it happened, and I came to terms with their reproach. I’ve accepted it by denying myself. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t dance, date, cavort.
But now.
With Nathan.
Denial is becoming a struggle. I wanted to kiss him back, but I didn’t because Nathan plus Naomi equals catastrophe. A man died the last time I was with Nathan and I refuse to place myself in a similar situation again.
Am I being realistic or just ridiculous?
I need to talk to someone, and Bethany Winston had been one of the best people to talk to about these sorts of quandaries. I can almost hear her voice telling me not to ignore the signs in life, those gut feelings hinting at decisions. The universe works in mysterious ways, my friend.
Is Nathan a step forward or back? Is seeing him again a positive or negative sign?
Vilma’s Videos would tell me I don’t need a man. Self-love. Inner stability. Personal awareness. But somehow, I feel like I do. I need Nathan Ryder. This isn’t some submissive quirk or alpha-male obsession. I’ve read those fanciful romances. This draw to Nathan is something on another level.
The universe talking.
My inner goddess calling.
Would the heavens collapse if I kissed Nathan Ryder again?
The morning after the failed kiss, these questions continue to fill my head as I drive the curving switchbacks to my sister’s farm deep in the valley. Although she’s six years older than me, my sister—Beverly Townsen—is one of the only people I consider discussing my confusion with, which is a huge risk. I love my sister, but we don’t always get along. She can be ornery and unpredictable, and unreasonable on a bad day.
I try to visit her once a week. She’s homebound, more by choice than circumstances. Ten years ago, she was in a horrible accident, and thank the Sweet Goddess, she survived, but her spirit died. The doctors said her legs could work again—over time. Instead, she’s devoted her time to sulking and whining about her misfortunes.
Prior to the accident, her husband was a bit of a philanderer, eventually leaving her with their then seventeen-year-old daughter and a struggling farm. Beverly remains bitter about her no-good ex-husband and sour about her daughter’s line of work, although she’s the reason her daughter works where she does—the Pink Pony. After the accident, Hannah stepped up to care for her mother, giving up her own youth to work two jobs, one of which is stripping. I keep my opinions to myself toward Beverly and my niece’s choice of profession, because the few times I have opened my mouth, Beverly assaults me with her bitterness.
“If your Goddess is so good to women, why isn’t she helping me?”
I remind Beverly help comes to those who help themselves first.
She isn’t helpless, just without hope. At a young age, she threw herself at Howard Townsen, who provided her a way out of our small town, Cedar Gap, which is an armpit in the woods south of Green Valley. Too young, she found herself pregnant and strapped to a farm, like a hired hand instead of a beloved wife.
Howard spread his plentiful seed elsewhere and when Beverly found out, she lost herself. Drinking. Stalking. It’s how the accident occurred. She went looking for her wayward husband and the woman rumored to be his latest conquest—a woman from the Pink Pony of all places. My heart-scorned sister went a little berserk. A few too many drinks. A red light she didn’t obey. A motorcycle in the crossroad.
The doctors told her she’d always have a limp and that’s when Beverly shut down. As a person who uses a wheelchair, she could use arm braces or a walker even, and stand on her own two feet again, but she stopped trying.
“What’s the point of continuing with all this if I’m always going to be a cripple?”
I tell her cripple is a crippling word. She’s differently abled, which doesn’t mean things are impossible.
When I arrive, I notice a silver pickup parked near the old barn. Two-by-fours fill the bed of the truck. Hammering resonates from inside the decrepit building. Beverly hasn’t shown interest in her property in years, so I’m curious as I enter her two-story house. I don’t find her in her typical spot. She likes to sit at the front window and watch the road, which always seems a bit depressing to me. I have no idea why she’d want Howard to return. Today, she sits in her bedroom. It’s the former dining room, so she doesn’t need to tackle the stairs. From this vantage point, she has a clear view to the side yard and the drive leading to the barn.
Silently, I walk up behind her as she sits in a rocking chair, and even though the wooden floor squeaks, she doesn’t flinch.
“Whatcha doing, Bev?” The seat is almost fitting as my sister looks like a spinster with her graying hair severely pulled back to the nape of her neck. Frameless glasses perch on the edge of her nose. Her shirt is a tiny floral print which looks like something our mother would have worn and plum-colored slacks cover her legs. Slacks. Not dress pants. Not jeans. But old-fashioned looking polyester pants. Where did she get those things?
“Shh, I’m listening.”
I tip my head to hear what she hears. I’ve got nothing. “What’s going on in your barn?” I pull back the sheer curtain to get a better look outside the three-paneled window, but Beverly rocks forward and tugs the material out of my hand.
“Don’t be so obvious,” she growls. Her expression turns stern. Then her eyes shift to me. With a dismissive wave, she remarks, “That’s Jedd.”
I squint, trying to see through the transparent material, and get a glimpse of said Jedd, but still don’t see anyone.
“Jedd Flemming,” she clarifies. There’s something in the way my sister rolls over his name which catches my attention and I turn back to her.
“Who is Jedd Flemming and why is he laying wood in your barn?” I bite the corner of my lip at the innuendo. Her expression softens and something like a spark briefly flickers in her eyes. Her lip twitches. Is she fighting a smile?
“He’s renting space from me, so to speak,” she defends. I stare at her, waiting out an explanation. “He wanted a place to train horses and offered to fix up the barn in exchange for the use of the space. It’s nothing.”
Nothing, my sweet backside. My sister’s eyes pinch before she tugs her lip with her teeth.
“Does he stay here? In the house?”
She shrugs noncommittally. “He sleeps in the barn.”
“What?”
“He’s made himself a room out there.”
“Beverly, there’s plenty of space in the house.” The old farmhouse has four bedrooms upstairs. There’s more than enough space for the man to have a room inside.
“He says he doesn’t mind sleeping outside. He’s used to it from being in the military. Besides, I can’t have a strange man sleeping under my roof with my daughter here.” She picks at lint which doesn’t exist on her pants. Sometimes, I think my sister is jealous of her daughter, showing off her young body for other’s p
leasure while her own withers away from her decisions. She used to be so pretty, but life has worn her down.
I’m surprised my sister is allowing a strange male to even sleep under the roof of her barn. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement and I notice my sister sit forward. I turn toward the curtain and see a large, solid man with a military haircut exit the barn. Sweat stains the front of his T-shirt despite the cool fall temps. He rounds his truck and I can’t help but notice the spread of the tee over his broad back and the hug of his pants against his backside. Two perfect moons point at us as he bends forward to lug boards from the bed of his truck. He hefts the planks over his shoulder, and heads back toward the barn. It’s then that I notice his left arm. The entire thing is a prosthetic.
My eyes flit back to Bev who watches intently as Jedd passes from the daylight into the dark barn. When he disappears, she sits back as if leaning forward and watching him took all her energy. Her face flushes.
“Bev, his arm?” I question.
Her sour face returns. “It’s nothing. Take me to the store.”
After our trip to the Piggly Wiggly, Beverly wants to return home instead of stopping at Daisy’s. I can’t believe Bev’s skipping our weekly doughnut, but when we pull into her driveway and I see the silver truck, I understand her haste to return to the farm. Jedd.
Which reminds me of Nathan and my secondary purpose in visiting my sister today.
Beverly seems especially out of sorts though, and snaps at me once I assist her into the living room. “Help me back to my room.”
I could argue with her that she’s more than capable of tending to herself. Then I remember the farmhouse isn’t necessarily handi-capable. The halls are narrow. The doorways slim. Support bars and railings were added to the downstairs bathroom for her. Attachments to appliances were added to assist her in the kitchen, but Bev typically waits for Hannah to cook or the community outreach to bring meals. Based on how thin she is, she isn’t eating either way.
“I’ll get the groceries,” I mutter, wondering why I continue this farce of forcing my sister to town when she doesn’t cook or eat. As I stalk down the hallway, I stop. I’ve passed this wall for years and hardly notice the images anymore, but something stands out to me today.
The three Winters sisters in a photograph.
Were we ever as close as the picture makes us appear? My oldest sister Scotia—now Scotia Simmons—stands in the middle, ever the attention seeker. She holds me in front of her, laughing at something over my shoulder. Probably my father who loved her the most, and who was taking the picture. Beverly leans her head on Scotia’s shoulder, her face softer, sad even, as the middle sister. She stares into the distance, as if looking past our father, past anything behind him. What was she longing for?
Beverly knows all my secrets and didn’t judge me when I first came to her place, all those years ago, but she also wasn’t willing to let me stay.
“I need to keep Howard satisfied. You’d be in the way. Do you understand?” In hindsight, she might have been worried Howard would come on to me. I shiver with the thought. She knew of my guilty feelings, though. Both sisters did. At least, Beverly looked at me sympathetically when I first came to her, understanding my torment. I’d given myself to a man with false promises. She’d wanted Howard something fierce at first. She didn’t realize keeping him satisfied wasn’t her problem, but his. Nothing satisfied him, and she suffered her own false ideals married to Howard.
My oldest sister, Scotia, on the other hand, handed out judgment like a woman generously passing out Halloween candy. As if her life turned out so prudent. At first, Scotia blamed me almost as much as my parents for what happened, accusing me of tarnishing the good Winters name. Did she even know our brother Jebediah? He was a rebel his entire life. Drugs. Alcohol. Thievery. Women. And I loved him through it all. Scotia didn’t have a clue, but she had plenty to say when I arrived in Green Valley.
“Don’t be dragging your mud into my garden,” she warned as if she owned the valley. She’d adopted the area as her home as if she was a member of high society. Karl Simmons was valley-bred and raised. The Simmons name meant status—along with Donner and Oliver and Payton—and that’s what Scotia craved. Attention. Propriety. Prestige. With her self-righteous attitude, she would be the last to appreciate me finding Nathan after all this time.
“Naomi, bring me an apple,” my sister’s sharp voice snaps me out of my memories.
“Would a little please hurt you?” I mutter, continuing down the hall to the front door. Her tone decides things for me. I’m not ready to share Nathan with anyone yet.
Besides, there’s nothing to share.
I return to the car for the groceries. The minimal amount of food my sister needs could be delivered, but I think it’s important she get out of the house at least for a few hours every week.
You’ve become a pain in the ass, she often tells me. Yes, well, I miss you too, big sister.
As I lean over my trunk, a deep voice startles me. “Let me help you.” The command runs from the tip of my head down my spine. I stand upright and nearly salute. I imagine the man before me was a sergeant in another life and I stare as warm chocolate eyes set deep in a severe face meet mine. His cheeks prickle with silver scruff, as if he shaved only this morning and it’s regrown. His hair gleams white under the sun.
“Didn’t mean to startle you. Can’t hear myself speak sometimes.” He lifts his prosthetic hand which is actually a claw to motion toward his left ear. “I’m louder than I intend to be.”
I simply smile in return and extend a hand. “I’m Naomi. Naomi Winters, Bev’s younger sister.”
His right hand reaches for mine and we shake. His palm is hot, fingers callused from working with the wood. His grasp is firm and delivers instant protection and comfort.
“Beverly tells me you’re fixing up the barn. Going to raise horses here.”
His grin grows, and his hard-edged expression softens. “It’s beautiful land and the perfect space for a couple of thoroughbreds. It needs some TLC, but I’m not opposed to the hard work.”
My eyes leap to his arm and away. I don’t want to stare or make him uncomfortable.
“So Bee let you take her to the store.”
Bee? He has a nickname for her. I bet she hates it.
“Every Wednesday, if I can.”
“Huh,” he snorts as he looks over in the direction of Beverly’s bedroom window. The curtain shifts over the glass, and I watch his expression harden once again.
Huh, indeed.
Just what is going on here with my sister and this man?
I pick up a night shift at the library and enter with wandering thoughts of my sister and this new man, along with continued confusion over Nathan and the failed kiss. Julianne greets me without her usual cheer.
“Everything okay?” I ask, hanging my coat on a hook before turning back to the matron of our library. Mrs. Julianne MacIntyre is practically an icon in this community for her dedication and book love. Her motto is: if you don’t have anything nice to say, come to the library where you aren’t allowed to speak. We had that printed on a sign, resting on our front counter, for the longest time.
“I …” her mouth opens and then snaps shut as she spins to face me from the swivel desk chair where she sits. Her hands come to her skirt-covered knees and she takes a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. The exaggeration concerns me. Is she ill?
“We’ve had some distressing news, Naomi. It’s about the library.”
Chapter Eight
Dewey Decimal Classification: 100 Philosophy and Psychology
[Nathan]
A few days after the night I dub the failed kissed fiasco, I need to pick up Clementine from the library. Usually, my mother takes care of these things, or I ask Dahlia to fetch Clem but as I’m so close with the Bickerton job, I volunteer. The library is the last place I want to go, since I haven’t been able to shake the disastrous lip-lock with one particular librarian. Yet, so
mething ripples through my chest at the thought of entering the building and finding Naomi—despite her rejection.
It’s been a rough few days trying to cover some mishaps with Dwight on the build. Then there’s Dahlia lipping off at me again. I swear I’ll never understand seventeen-year-old females. Even when I was seventeen, I didn’t understand them.
My underaged daughter can’t comprehend why I won’t allow her to date a college man. First of all, I don’t want her hurt. A man at a university chasing the skirt of a high schooler only wants one thing—the one thing he’s not fortunate to get at said college. Secondly, I don’t know this guy and letting her go off to visit him doesn’t seem like sound parenting.
“It’s a college visit,” she argued.
“Uh-huh.” I might not have gone to college, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what guys want. And from what she wears some days, she knows they want her.
Please let Clem stay a child a little longer, I silently pray, as I approach the library doors and take in the front windows decorated in a fall motif. Immediately upon entering the building, I find Clem speaking with Naomi in the lobby.
“It’s our secret, right?” Clem says to Naomi. My chest squeezes when I see Naomi brush back Clem’s bushy blonde curls.
“Our secret.” She winks.
I don’t recall Margie being tender with Clem. I don’t know how well she does at mothering the two times a year when Clem visits. I do know Clem is old enough to become more vocal about visitations—and her lack of desire for them. Margie likes things neat and tidy. Clem tells me the inside of her house is like a museum. She and her lawyer-husband have filled their house with expensive things and worries that Clem will break, or spill, or soil something. She’s isn’t a dog, though. She’s a child.
I’m not allowed to eat on the couch. Or in the guest room. Clem doesn’t even have an official bedroom she can call her own at her mother’s home. Margie also doesn’t offer much age-appropriate support for her daughter, which is the reason why I’m the one to check out books about menstruation.
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