Life After Wife : Small Town Romance (Balsam Ridge Book 1)

by Amber Kelly

  I watch as the boy grins up at her while Mom fusses over him.

  She points him in the direction of the playground, and then she calls over Chris, one of the long-term campers’ grandsons, and introduces them.

  The boys speak for a moment, and then they take off, sprinting toward the sprinklers.

  Pop makes his way over to Taeli and Mom. He hugs Taeli and kisses the top of her head. The three of them chat for a long while before she and Mom disappear into the office. I close the dumpster and head back to the pool area to finish cleaning up before the sun sets.

  When they reemerge, Taeli is clutching some paperwork, and Mom is talking her ear off. Taeli’s right hand comes up and shades her eyes as she looks over the grounds, searching for her son. When they catch sight of me, she smiles and waves. I wave back, and she excuses herself from Mom and makes her way over to me.

  She is breathtaking. Her long, toned legs are on display in a simple cotton dress that fits her oh so well. Her sun-kissed brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail that brushes the middle of her back as she walks, and she is smiling. She and Caleb must have had a good day.

  “Hey,” she says as she approaches.

  I stop and pull off my work gloves.

  “Hey yourself. How was the afternoon, introducing Caleb around town?” I ask.

  “It was good, I think. He didn’t say much, but I think he liked the creek and the trolley ride. He wasn’t very interested in the mountains and the views. I guess observation sites are lame or something.”

  “You took him to observation points?”

  “Yeah. I used to love them when I was his age. Daddy would take Gene and me up to the highest points. I loved standing and looking out over the mountainside. It was thrilling, being able to see for miles and miles. I would just sit and think about how big the world was and how I wanted to see it all,” she says.

  “I wouldn’t let it bother me that he wasn’t excited. Boys like action more than quiet contemplation,” I tell her.

  “Hence his fondness for the creek and trolley,” she agrees.

  I look out to where Caleb is currently running through the sprinklers with the other kids.

  “I think he’s going to like his time in Balsam Ridge just fine. We tend to grow on people.”

  “I hope so.”

  “What about you? How are you, really?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking me that?” she asks, clearly agitated.

  I shrug. “Because they want to know how you’re doing.”

  “No, they don’t. They are just being nosy,” she barks.

  “Jeez, the city really jaded you,” I accuse.

  Offended, she points to a man standing off to the side, watching his kids play.

  “Do you care how he’s doing?” she asks.

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. He lost his wife last month but brought his kids here for vacation anyway because that’s what they’d always done, and he didn’t want them to lose that too. I do care if he is okay. And I stopped by his camper last night and left a basket of fresh banana bread my mom had baked to make him smile because she knew it was his favorite. I’ll probably call him this weekend to see if he wants to go fishing to get him out for a while.”

  “Oh,” she mutters, averting her eyes.

  I take a step into her space, and her amber eyes come up to meet mine.

  “You’re going to have to retrain your brain to care about your community if you’re going to live here. We aren’t folks who just walk around, ignoring each other’s pain,” I tell her.

  She sighs. “You’re right. I’m jaded.”

  “I reckon you’re allowed to be a little. Are you at least happy to be home?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “It’s humbling to come back. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it until I was taking Caleb around. So much has changed, yet so much is exactly as it was when I left.”

  “That’s the way we like it,” I tell her.

  “Caleb kept asking me where the McDonald’s and Taco Bell were,” she says.

  That’s one of the things I love best about Balsam Ridge. We don’t allow chains to come in and push out the small business owners.

  “You’ll have to take him to Bubba Jay’s Steakhouse and ask for them to put pickles, lettuce, and Thousand Island dressing on one of their Angus burgers. It beats the fast-food stuff, hands down,” I suggest.

  “I’ll do that. Does Bubba Jay make a dupe for the McRib too?”

  I chuckle. “I’m sure he could find some pork product to mold into a rib and smother in barbeque sauce for you.”

  She smiles so big that a dimple pops out on her right cheek. It’s the most carefree I’ve seen her.

  Mom calls to me from the office porch. “Graham, can you light the charcoal, please?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer. “Duty calls,” I tell Taeli.

  “Meet you at the picnic tables,” she says and walks off toward the kids.

  I help Pop man the grills while Mom, Taeli, and the other parents wrangle the children and get them dried off and washed up for dinner.

  “The patch looks good, son,” he says as he looks back at the empty pool.

  “The tear was in a good place. I think it will hold and get you by. The glue should set overnight, but I’d give it another day. You can start filling it back up Friday morning,” I suggest.

  He nods.

  “What do you think of Taeli?” he asks.

  “Not you too, Pop,” I grumble.

  His brows furrow. “Huh?”

  I sigh. “I think she’s beautiful and smart but unsure and hard on herself. Scared and a bit lost. She feels guilty for dragging her boy across the country, and she doesn’t know what to do to make it better for him,” I answer.

  He looks in her direction. “Wow. That’s very observant, son. I was just wondering if you thought she’d be a good fit around here,” he clarifies.

  “Around here? What are you talking about, old man?”

  “Your mom wants to hire her. We need a new employee to oversee the cabins at Rocky Pass Vacation Rentals. Your mom is spread thin between the cabins and campgrounds and managing the realty office,” he says.

  I turn the wieners, so they cook evenly, and lower the lid to the grill.

  “You think it’s worth hiring and training someone to do the job, only for them to turn around and leave at the end of the summer?” I ask him.

  “That’s what I told your mother, but you know how she is when she gets something in her head. She and Leona think that working might get Taeli’s mind off things and help her make new friends while she’s here.”

  “Sounds like no matter what we think, it’s a done deal, but I do know from what Leona told me that she ran her husband’s office. So, she’s qualified,” I assure him.

  He nods and then slaps my back. “Yep, beautiful and smart,” he repeats my observations, “exactly what our office needs.”

  I pile a platter with hot dogs in various states of char before throwing buns on the rack to give them a quick toasting. Mom and Taeli cover the picnic tables with paper cloths and then set out the condiments and bags of potato chips.

  Leona shows up with pans of baked beans and mac ’n’ cheese.

  Everyone settles around the tables, and the women help the little ones add ketchup to their hot dogs.

  I sit at the end of one of the tables with Pop and listen as the roar of the children’s chatter and the laughter from Mom, Leona, and a few of their friends rise in the air and float back down around us.

  Pop nods toward the crowd. “This is what it’s all about,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  There’s nothing like eating creek side with good people by the light of the stars on a cool summer evening.

  Balsam Ridge might not be as exciting as Nashville or as packed as Gatlinburg, but it has a charm unmatched by any other town. That’s why people always return and why some of us never leave.

  Taeli

  “Y
esterday was fun, wasn’t it, bud?” I ask Caleb as we head down for breakfast.

  “Yeah, it was okay.”

  It’s as good of a response as I could hope for.

  “I’m thinking about taking a temporary job, helping Sara-Beth with their vacation business. That means we’ll probably be spending a lot of time over at the campground.”

  He shrugs. “That’ll be fine.”

  He won’t ever admit that he enjoyed himself last night, playing with the other kids. Stubborn boy.

  When we get to the landing at the bottom of the steps, Sara-Beth is at the kitchen table with Mom, enjoying a cup of coffee.

  “Hi,” Caleb greets as he takes a seat beside our guest.

  “Good morning, Caleb.”

  I walk to the counter and pour myself a cup and join them.

  “Sara-Beth rode up with Weston this morning,” Mom explains as I make Caleb a plate of eggs and bacon from the platters in the middle of the table.

  Weston is Graham’s second-youngest brother. He was behind me in school but we knew each other pretty well, as he dated many of the girls in my class, including one of my volleyball teammates.

  “That’s nice. I haven’t seen him in forever. Where is he?” I ask.

  “He’s out back in the greenhouse, checking on the tomatoes,” Mom answers.

  It’s really sweet how Sara-Beth’s sons have taken Mom under their wing and stepped up to help her around here. Every morning, one or more of them show up despite their busy schedules to check in on her or to perform menial tasks for her. It’s endearing.

  Once I have Caleb settled and eating breakfast, I take my coffee and excuse myself to go find Weston and say hello.

  A warm mountain breeze envelops me as I step out onto the porch. The aroma of honeysuckle fills the air. I can still remember plucking the flowers from the vine and pulling the small stem that runs through the bloom to get to the drop of nectar that waits inside. I’d sit for hours and lick them one after another to enjoy the sweet taste of honey.

  I make my way behind the house in search of Weston and find the greenhouse door wide open. I step inside to see the long oak tables topped with potted flowers and herbs. Rows of lavender and thyme and basil lead me deeper inside, where I find him with a hand trowel, potting soil, and saplings.

  His back is to me, but I can see the signature Tuttle features from here. He looks so much like Graham. His dark hair is a bit longer and curls around his collar, and he’s a slightly shorter and stockier version of his older brother.

  When he hears my footsteps, he turns and grins.

  “Weston Tuttle, is that you?” I ask.

  “Hey, Taeli. I heard you were back in town,” he says as he stops his digging in the clay pots to come over and hug me.

  I squeeze him back and look over his shoulder to where he was working.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I ask as he releases me.

  I walk over to see a row of marijuana plants growing among the tomato stalks.

  “Um, no,” he says.

  “Weston! Are you growing weed in my mother’s greenhouse?” I screech.

  “Technically, I’m delivering more plants. Your mom grows them herself,” he explains.

  I stare at him in shock.

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask.

  “Nope. It’s kind of her hobby, I guess you’d say.”

  “My mother is a pot dealer?” I ask.

  “No. Absolutely not. These are strictly for personal use,” he says, as if that makes it any better.

  “My mother’s a pothead,” I mutter to myself.

  “It’s not like that. She doesn’t smoke or anything. She just clips and boils the plants and uses them to make gummies and brownies.”

  That’s not any better.

  “Oh, she doesn’t smoke it she just consumes it. That’s fine then,” I muse.

  “Look, I own the hemp farm on the top of Trinity Gap Road. You remember where the old tatter patch used to be by the river?” he asks.I nod.

  That old tatter patch used to supply potatoes to the entire valley when we were young.

  “I bought it from Mr. Whisnet’s widow a few years ago. We grow and sell one hundred percent organic CBD hemp products—oils, tinctures, gummies, et cetera. It’s all legal, and it has little to no THC in it, but it has all of the medicinal benefits of cannabinoids. Our products are high quality and natural. We sell them online all over the country and in the shops in town. Everyone is trying to reap the natural benefits of hemp. It’s a revolution,” he explains.

  I’m quite aware of the beneficial use of medical marijuana. Damon touts it’s praise as an effective alternative treatment for cancer patients who experience extreme nausea due to chemotherapy. He fought diligently for it to be legalized in the state of Illinois, and it was last January; however, the bible belt states are far less progressive than the rest of the country,

  “That’s amazing, Weston.”

  “Thanks. It’s been a dream of mine for a while now,” he says.

  So, why are you delivering plants to my mother, then?” I ask.

  “Because Leona likes it a tad bit more natural than we are allowed to sell,” he quips.

  “Oh my God, Weston!”

  I imagine my mother getting high with all her new bohemian friends and cringe.

  “It’s not a big deal,” he insists.

  I march past him, out of the greenhouse, and toward the house, where Mom and Sara-Beth are now sitting on the back deck.

  “It’s not that big of a deal, Taeli,” Weston calls after me, but I continue forward.

  “Mom, what the hell?” I screech when I make it to the front steps.

  “What?” she asks.

  “You can’t just grow marijuana in the greenhouse!”

  “Why not? It’s legal now,” she claims.

  “Not in the state of Tennessee,” I inform her.

  “Really?”

  “Really, Mom.”

  She waves me off. “Oh, well, it will be.”

  I climb the steps and stop in front of her chair. “Will be? That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

  She sighs and sets down her glass. “It’s medicinal. It helps with my arthritis.”

  “There are medications for that,” I remind her.

  “Pharmaceuticals. Narcotics. Those things make me feel bad. They might help with the stiffness and pain, but they make me loopy and want to sleep all day. I don’t like them.”

  “And getting high doesn’t make you loopy?” I ask.

  “I don’t get high. I just have a nibble here and there. It makes me happy, and I no longer feel my knuckles,” she says.

  “Your knuckles?”

  She makes a fist and raises it. “Enjoy the time before you start feeling your knuckles.”

  Sara-Beth nods in agreement.

  “What?”

  “There’ll come a day—and it sneaks up on you—when you’ll wake up and become very aware of your knuckles. For most of your life, you just walk around, not realizing they’re there on your hand and how important they are. Then, suddenly, out of the blue, you feel them. Everything you do from pulling up the blanket on the bed to washing your hair or even scratching your nose requires them. They start to ache, and before you know it, they ache all the time. Then, it spreads to your knees and then your ankles. Walking hurts, sitting hurts, and even lying down hurts.”

  I sigh. “Mom, I don’t want you to hurt.”

  “Then, mind your business and stay out of the greenhouse,” she suggests.

  My staunch Christian daddy must be rolling over in his grave. Before I can scold her any further, Caleb walks out of the back door with his phone. I can hear that he is on a video call with his father. The sound of Damon’s voice causes me to shudder, but I try to control my reaction in front of Caleb.

  “Mom, Dad wants to speak to you,” he says.

  “Tell him I’m busy right now and I’ll call him back later.”

  He probably
received the divorce papers today. My attorney sent me an email last night to warn me that they would be served at his office this morning.

  Caleb tells him I’ll call him later as he walks back inside.

  I let out a breath.

  “Avoiding Damon?” Mom asks.

  “He got served today. I don’t want to deal with him picking the entire filing apart,” I tell them.

  “It doesn’t seem to me that he has a leg to stand on. He should just agree to what you want. It’s the least he can do,” Mom states.

  “He should, “ Sara-Beth agrees.

  “You’d think, but I’m going after child support, alimony, the house, and half the equity in the medical practice. I know my ex, and he’s boiling. I’m sure he hoped he could pay me a one-time settlement and be done with me.”

  “Of course he did,” Sara-Beth says.

  “Don’t you let him bully you. I have some money in the bank, and I’ll help you hire the best attorney in the state of Illinois,” Mom offers.

  “I can handle him, but I don’t want to fight with him in front of Caleb.”

  It’s a douche move to call our son’s phone and have him bring the call to me.

  “You know, signing the divorce papers doesn’t make you legally obligated to hate him. Langford and his ex-wife get along splendidly,” Sara-Beth tells me.

  “I know that. I’ll admit, in the beginning, I wanted revenge—I prayed for it—but I don’t want us to hate each other. He’s Caleb’s father. We’ll always be a part of each other’s lives. All I want is what’s fair and for him to step up for our son.”

  “That’s not unreasonable,” Sara-Beth agrees.

  “But Damon is. He’ll fight this,” I mutter.

  “He’ll lose. Besides, you don’t have to worry about revenge. Karma will catch up to him. It always does, and if you’re lucky, God will give you a front-row seat when it does,” Mom assures me.

  My biggest fear is the only loser in this will be Caleb. He doesn’t deserve to suffer for our adult choices. Yet here I am, dragging him away from where he wants to be because I can’t handle the situation. I’m as much to blame for his unhappiness as Damon.

  And that hurts most of all.