“What do you mean you’re giving everything to Boone?” At twenty years old, I’d stared at the man I called Father. When my mother married Hasting, I was four and Janice six. We’d been encouraged to consider him our daddy as we didn’t know any other man to give the honor, but when Boone was born, everything changed.
“He’s my son.” Hasting had stated of his then fifteen-year-old offspring—his biological son with my mother.
“But I’m the one taking care of everything.” My life plans had included his land because the land wanted me. The farm. The horses. I’d be damned if I worked for my little brother. I’d worked hard—as hard as Hasting—to keep things running smoothly on his family’s legacy. The future was mapped out. Breeding. Therapy. Hasting Horse Farm was his pride and joy, next to Boone, apparently, and Boone didn’t care one horse’s ass for the animals or the land.
“Mama?” I’d questioned. Turning to her had been my downfall. Our mother would always side with Hasting, and Hasting snapped.
“Why you looking at her, boy? Your mama ain’t going to help you here”.
Hasting and I had been rivaling for a while. He’d thought I was trying to one-up him with my new ideas about horse rearing and rodeo possibilities. He also couldn’t use the belt as much when I grew bigger than him. His words lashed just as hard some days, but I developed a thick skin to leather straps and verbal slaps. He was delicate on his own son, though, spoiling him, and this turn of fate was my breaking point.
I was out. Out of Green Valley. Out of the mountains.
I ran off for the military.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Vernon stated when I’d arrived at his store some twenty plus years after leaving Green Valley, and we picked up right where we’d left off.
“Shower,” I announce as I enter his office in the upper levels of the supersized store featuring farm equipment, feed supply, and a garden center. As I don’t have running water in Beverly’s barn, Vernon’s been allowing me to use his office bathroom. An outdoor shower is on order to rectify the plumbing situation.
“Evenin’, Jedd,” Vernon states, reminding me I’m not using my manners. I’m running late. The eldest Grady is your typical mountain man, complete with thick beard and belly and a different colored flannel shirt for each day of the week. He loves the small-town community of nearby Green Valley and the large home he owns up on the ridge. He’s done his daddy proud with the family business, and he’s been a good friend.
“Evenin’,” I offer as an afterthought apology for my rush.
“Hold up,” he calls after me as I breeze by him with my shower kit, a towel, and a bag holding a clean change of clothes. I stop, not having time to hang out as I usually do. He holds out a beer to me, but I shake my head, so he questions, “What gives?”
“Got dinner tonight with Beverly.”
Vernon pauses in handing me the beverage. “Dinner?” His eyes widen, but his jaw tightens. “With Beverly Townsen?”
My eyes narrow as I take in the strange expression on Vernon’s face. I should ask him about Tripper, Beverly’s man. Who is he, and why haven’t I seen him come around?
“Hot date?” Vernon teases.
Is it a date? I don’t think so. Beverly is clearly repulsed by me, staring at my arm as though it will harm her and retracting from my touch as though pestered by an annoying insect. Still. I wouldn’t mind calling it a date. Wouldn’t mind having dinner with someone. It’s been a long time of eating alone and meager meals.
“Nah. It’s not a date. I’m working her for the land.” I pause with what I’ve said as the expression on Vernon’s face turns to ash. “I mean, I’m just there for the land. Nothing more.”
Vernon clears this throat. “You know Beverly’s good people despite what people say. She’s had it rough, Jedd, so don’t be laying on your charm, thinking she’s one of your buckle bunnies. Howard did a number on her, and it’s made her hard.”
I know what he’s saying even though I might disagree. Beverly’s tough on the outside—like armor used for protection. If nothing can penetrate it, nothing can hurt her. I recognize the defensive mechanism because I’ve used it myself a time or two. But underneath, Beverly is a fragile woman who I’d bet was once soft and tender. A woman willing to love until a man like Howard got a hold of her. He’d ruined her.
“I’m just warning you not to hurt her.” Vernon stands from his desk chair.
“You threatening me?” I tease, but there’s an edge to my tone, not liking the implication.
“You’re full of deals, Jedd. Don’t make her a bargain.” My brows pinch. Hasting had the gambling problem, not me.
“If you weren’t one of my best friends, I might be offended.” I’m not joking anymore. Is he comparing me to Hasting?
“As your best friend, I’m saying tread lightly.”
“Don’t you worry about Beverly,” I state, defensive once again. “I’m not looking to plow anything but her back field.” I pause, letting that sink in before I change the subject. “Hear anything about Boone?” It’s like my brother vanished into thin air, and I need to remember he’s the reason I came back in the first place. I owe my sister a call. We need more information. I’ve been to the old house, but it’s vacant and slightly disheveled. How did things get so bad? I don’t understand what’s been going on back here, but I blame Hasting. He’s the one who lost it all. He’s the one who gambled it all away. If he’d only given it all to me as I’d thought would happen…
But no.
I can’t think of Hasting and Boone right now. I have dinner with Beverly. The non-date dinner date.
I arrive at eighteen hundred hours with nothing in hand. Dammit. I should have brought flowers or a bottle of wine. It’s been a long time since I’d done dinner with a lady, and I’ve lost my touch. Empty-handed, I stand on her back porch and knock.
Hannah answers the door, and I’m a little surprised by her presence.
“Mr. Flemming,” she states rather formally as she steps back and allows me entrance. Beverly is already seated at the table wearing a white blouse with some kind of collar that makes her look like a schoolgirl instead of a woman in her forties.
“I didn’t expect you this evening,” I address Hannah. “What a pleasant surprise.” Hannah nods at me and then points at a seat.
“Dinner’s ready. I called in late when Momma told me about inviting you to supper. I usually do the cooking as Momma really shouldn’t be using the oven.”
My eyes flip to Beverly who keeps hers focused on the empty plate before her.
“Momma mentioned you might be joining her for dinner from now on. We didn’t know you were living on macaroni and cheese. That’s not enough sustenance for a man working as hard as you do. I apologize I didn’t have more advanced notice of this evening. I typically prepare meals ahead of time if I need to work the dinner shift. I have a second job at the Front Porch, the steakhouse in town.”
Hannah works two jobs? She’s a busy woman. As directed by Hannah, I take a seat next to Beverly while Hannah sits across from me.
“Beverly,” I state, feeling an uncertain tension in the air.
“I thought you might not be coming,” she mutters. Her eyes shift quickly from her plate and then back to the stoneware, her voice remaining low. Her tone holds something short of expectancy with a dash of relief, and I grin.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I whisper. Hannah sets a meatloaf on the table, and I almost chuckle at the irony. She says a quick prayer of gratitude, and I bow my head, giving an extra thank you to a higher being for allowing me this meal with these two women. Beverly reaches for the serving utensils, but Hannah’s reach is faster, and she serves me first.
“I got it, Momma,” she states, and I watch as Beverly retracts her hands like a disappointed child. A glass of sweet tea already sits on the table by my plate, and I take a sip, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Beverly, thought any more on what I asked earlier?” I’m not good at chit-chat
, but I’m equally horrible at silence.
“What was that?” Hannah asks before Beverly can speak.
“I asked your momma what she has interest in.”
“Momma likes to knit and grow tomatoes.”
Beverly keeps her head lowered, not answering me and not correcting her daughter.
“Beverly says she hates tomatoes,” I say on her behalf but suddenly feel uncomfortable speaking about her as if she isn’t sitting at this table.
Hannah looks up at her mother. “Momma loves tomatoes. They’re award-winning, and she sells out at every farmers’ market. After she couldn’t garden any longer, tomatoes in pots was the next best solution.”
“You gardened?” I ask Beverly. Her mouth opens, but Hannah interjects.
“Momma loved gardening. She could grow anything. A real green thumb, but then…” Her voice drifts, leaving off the rest of the story.
“You like flowers?” I question, but it’s really a confirmation. Again, Hannah answers.
“Momma’s favorite were daisies but really anything that attracted butterflies tickled her. There’s an actual plant called a butterfly bush. Did you know that, Mr. Flemming? It lives up to its name, calling to butterflies like some kind of siren,” she explains.
“Buddleia davidii,” Beverly mutters, closing her lids as if she can see the plant in her mind’s eye.
“It was the most beautiful purple color, remember, Momma?” Hannah asks, but Beverly doesn’t need to answer. The small grin on her closed-off face tells me everything.
“What other plants do you like, Bee?”
“Bee?” Hannah’s face wrinkles. “Beverly,” she corrects, but her mother’s eyes have opened and the grin on her face grows. I don’t understand what’s happening here. The same snarky woman who greeted me over a week ago and the one who snooped in my room earlier is absent. In her place is this meek, quiet woman seated next to me.
“We used to grow the most beautiful sunflowers.” Beverly finally answers for herself, and I watch as her face morphs from pride to sadness. She closed down as fast as she opened up, and her eyes snap over to her child. “I apologize, but I find I’m not very hungry this evening. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to retire early.”
Beverly’s hardly touched her meatloaf. Who retires at six thirteen in the evening? She reaches toward the floor, lifts her forearm crutches, and works her arms into the cuffs.
“Momma, I told you, you should have sat in your chair. It would be easier for you.” Hannah immediately stands to assist her mother as do I, and for the first time, Beverly looks at me. Her eyes plead with mine.
“Please, don't help me.” The normal bite and bark of her tone is absent, and hollowness remains. My hand lingers between my body and hers—my hook hand—and not for the first time, I wonder if Beverly is afraid of it. It seems preposterous to consider she’s nervous of a mechanical hand as she has her own assistive device, yet there are so many things I don’t understand about Beverly Townsen.
“Please don’t let me interrupt. Finish this delicious meatloaf my daughter prepared for you, Mr. Flemming. It was wonderful having you join us this evening. Feel free to come to supper anytime.” The emptiness of her tone laced with her finest manners troubles me. Who is this woman? Remaining standing, I exert my own manners as a woman excuses herself from the dinner table, and I watch in frustration as Hannah hovers behind her mother down the hall.
I should excuse myself, but I don’t. I wait until Hannah returns to the kitchen.
“Has it been difficult? All these years just the two of you?” I soften my tone, knowing I’m balancing on a precipice that’s none of my business, but I feel a kinship with Hannah Townsen, fearing she’s worked hard as a child to please her parent, who might not have been grateful for all she gave up.
Hannah lifts her head, and with conviction, she states, “I’m all Momma has.”
I’ve learned that isn’t exactly true as Beverly’s sister, Naomi Winters—a local librarian—took her to the Piggly Wiggly during the week.
“What about Naomi?”
Hannah straightens at the mention of her aunt. “Aunt Naomi’s been as dedicated as she could be, but Momma is very private. She’s always felt guilty for shunning her younger sister when she was in need. Momma didn’t want to be a burden to her. To either of her sisters.” Hannah’s lips twist as if she’s told me more than she intended.
“Sisters?”
“Momma’s older sister is Scotia Simmons.”
My brows raise in surprise. The Simmons family were Valley royalty like the Donners and the Olivers.
“Any relation to Karl Simmons?” He was the only child, the golden child, of old Mr. and Mrs. Simmons, and a few years older than me in school. His mother often referred to him as their miracle baby.
“His widow,” Hannah clarifies.
“What happened to him?” I ask like a church-going gossip.
“He was murdered. Mistaken identity.”
Oh my. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I offer, but Hannah dismissively snorts at the sentiment about her uncle. “What about Scotia? She couldn’t have helped your momma?”
“Financially, Scotia could have done all kinds of things, but Momma and she haven’t always gotten along, and Momma would have refused charity from her sister, had she offered.” Hannah’s mouth twists again as though locking her lips has been difficult. She quickly tries to rectify. “But Momma doesn’t want charity.”
How is helping a sibling charity?
I should ask Hannah about Beverly’s beau. Where is this mystery man? Why isn’t he helping her? But I don’t want the daughter to think I’m prying too deeply into the mother’s affairs. It’s none of my business if she has a man. A lackluster, surprisingly absent man.
There’s so much I suddenly want to know about Beverly. So many pieces to a puzzle that don’t fit, but I don’t continue interrogating Hannah. I thank her for dinner and see myself out.
Chapter Eight
[Beverly]
“Bev, do you think you’ll ever love again?” my sister Naomi questions as we sit in a booth at Daisy’s Nut House. It’s been a few days since that disastrous first dinner with Jedd, and I’ve decided to break my cycle of ogling him from the window, especially as I can’t really see the progress he’s making inside the barn. I haven’t ventured over to spy or snoop like I did the other morning, choosing instead to remain on my side of the yard. Still, I am curious, but I’m even more curious what has made my sister ask such a question. I sputter tea all over myself, and the spray rivals a hose pressurized by a thumb for maximum water coverage. Continuing to sputter-cough, I try to respond.
“Would I what?” I’m not looking at her as I reach for paper napkins in the metal dispenser on the table and then struggle to dab the large stains mercilessly spreading on my white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. It’s one of my best shirts. I haven’t bought anything new for myself in years, allowing Hannah to make all my clothing decisions and purchases in the last decade. I don’t want her wasting her hard-earned money, and I don’t feel right asking for personal items I don’t need. I don’t go anywhere other than to church on Sunday and my outings with Naomi on Wednesdays, so anything more than casual attire isn’t a necessity. I’ve had this blouse forever, and I wanted to look a little nicer today for no particular reason, so I snap at my sister, “You made me ruin my shirt.”
“That shirt needs to be ruined,” she bites. My head pops up, and I widen my eyes at her retort. My sister never talks back to me, and she never insults me, or anyone for that matter.
“What makes you say such a thing?”
“That blouse isn’t flattering on you.”
Just when I think I can’t open my eyes any wider, I try. “I meant why would you ask me about love?”
She shrugs, looking out the window toward the parking lot, and I stare back at her. My sister has gray-white hair in wild waves down to her breasts. It’s gorgeous, and so is she; she’s just been misundersto
od in this community. We both have. She hasn’t dated. Ever. After one night with a young man when she was twenty-one, she gave up on the opposite sex. Oh, the irony. Her heart broke in a million fragments, but she’s put herself back together as a new person. She’s very different from when we were teenagers. She was the reckless one while I was the one with stars in my eyes. Unintentionally mischievous—objects in the toilet, overflowing a bathroom sink, artwork on the back of a couch—I wasn’t a risk-taker like Naomi had been. Or like our brother Jebediah. I was just…creatively curious.
“Did something happen? Did you meet someone?” My forehead wrinkles. I’d be so envious in a non-threatening way if she did, but I’d also be overwhelming happy for her. She deserves someone. “Who is he?”
“Remember the night Jebediah died?” Her voice lowers as she sits up straighter, clasping her hands before her on the tabletop, and my eyes narrow. My sister shoulders unhealthy guilt over a situation she had no control over. Our brother was a menace, spurring the ire of our parents and the wrath of their sermonizing. Their condescending nature chipped at each of their children, some more than others, and I hate when Naomi lumps herself with what happened to Jebediah.
It was an accident. The words filter through my thoughts, attached to multiple circumstances.
“Do you remember Nathan Ryder? I’ve recently seen him.”
“What?” I choke again and then listen as my sister recounts all that’s been happening in her life over the past month. Reunited. Reacquainted. Renewed feelings.
“Did you sleep with him again?” I admonish, although I’m not admonishing. Actually, I might be a little proud of my sister if she gave in and experimented with someone after all this time. What would it be like, I wonder, as it’s been almost as long for me. The feel of tender hands on my body. The whisper of sweet words in my ear. The nip of teeth at the juncture of my shoulder. For years, I thought I missed Howard until I realized it wasn’t Howard. It was intimacy. On the rare occasions Howard expressed it as a husband would to his wife, I fell into a rabbit hole of overwhelming sentiment for a man who could not reciprocate the feelings.
Love in Deed: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 6) Page 8