My Forever Billionaire

by Katie Evergreen

The familiar pain hit Jackson once again, rendering him breathless for a moment. His chest felt tight and he leant against the crumbling wall of the stables to stop himself collapsing in a heap on the floor. Maybe he shouldn’t have come back. Maybe he should have found a way to commemorate the ten-year anniversary back in the City. This was all proving too much, evoking too many memories that he’d spent the last ten years stuffing all the way down to his toes and cementing there. Plus, the daunting task of making the farmhouse habitable was just too vast, even for a man like Jackson who was used to sorting problems much bigger than this. He sighed and headed back through the front door.

  It was just past midday, the sunlight was streaming through the panes of dirty glass in the living room, illuminating the layers of dust on the fireplace. Jackson walked around slowly, taking in the amount of work needed. If he could make the front door safe, the living room draft free, and the kitchen habitable, then that would do for the few days he would be here. He could bunk down in the living room and wash in the kitchen. The family bath was upstairs, but Jackson wasn’t sure if he wanted to venture up the wooden structure for fear of ending up back on the first floor with a broken leg, or worse. There was a separate half bath downstairs that Jackson figured he would tackle when he was desperate. What creatures would be living in there was anybody’s guess.

  He pulled his phone from his jeans and Googled some local tradesmen. He needed at least the doors and windows safe by sundown this evening or he would have to look for a motel. The list was full of names he recognized, people he’d grown up with. Jackson chewed his bottom lip and kept scrolling until the names were out of the area and unrecognizable. With money no object he had secured a company to come and measure up to fit downstairs windows and a new front door by that afternoon. He was sure if he offered them an amount with enough zeros on the end, they may even get the work completed by the time he climbed into bed.

  With a few hours to kill before they got to him, Jackson thought about getting to work on the layers of dust that lined the whole property, but he had nothing to help him shift them. He needed to get to the store for cleaning supplies and some more appropriate footwear. He also needed to get back outside.

  He hadn’t realized just how neglected the house would feel. How neglected it would actually be. Another pang of guilt ran through him like ice in his veins. He wanted to go upstairs to look at his parents’ old room and to spend time in his own room. He wondered what was still there, how much of his old life would still be contained within the walls. He wanted to look in the other bedroom up there, but the thought made him feel dizzy and nauseous.

  He’d grown up between these walls, a happy childhood full of fun and love. He’d played hide and seek and freeze tag, spent hours making up imaginary worlds amongst the real life. The house had been a fort, protecting him from the battle raging outside; a boat, sailing over the ocean to find new lands; a maze, hiding secret treasures amongst its folds; the list was endless. He had loved the house, it had loved him. And now look at it, unloved by all.

  Just like me.

  Jackson scoffed as the thought popped into his head.

  Looking around, he knew that unloved was the was the best way to be. He didn’t deserve love. This wonderful space used to be more than just a house, it was a home. A home to a loving, caring family of four. And now it was a decrepit run-down shell and Jackson was the only member of his family still alive.

  And the only one to blame.

  5

  “What’s happened to the old Brodie Farm?”

  Clementine sat at the old battered table, hungrily scooping chowder onto thickly sliced bread laden with butter. Her dad had left for the fields again and her mom stood at the sink, elbow deep in soapy suds.

  “I thought they had a caretaker or gamekeeper looking after the place?” Clementine finished up her bowl full. “Oh mom, I’ve missed your chowder.”

  Her mom turned, wiping her hands on a cloth. She came to join Clementine at the table.

  “So sad,” she said, taking the chair opposite Clementine. “Such a sad, sad story.”

  Clementine felt her insides go loop-the-loop as her mom continued talking.

  “Well, you know when they all left, after… well after the horrible accident?”

  Clementine nodded. How could she ever forget? Not only had she spent a large part of her childhood grieving the death of Jackson’s younger brother, Chase, in an awful accident involving the machinery on the Brodie farm, she had also grieved the loss of her best friend after he had been whisked away from her arms. Jackson had always been there for her. No questions asked, he was simply there for her. And then, suddenly, one day he wasn’t. She hadn’t been able get hold of him and it hadn’t been for want of trying. They had been fourteen, just at the start of their adolescence when hormones and strange feelings were flying around Clementine’s body anyway. Then, on top of that, came the feeling that she had been abandoned, that Jackson had never really loved her. How could he when he had vanished off the face of the earth?

  Clementine had done her best to tame the feelings of despair, but she had gone on with her life feeling like she was missing a limb. From that, she had never really recovered properly. Memories of school felt like a hazy dream. It was as though when Jackson had left a fog had descended, and it was still there.

  “Clemmie?” her mom said, concern etched on her face.

  Clementine shook her head and apologized.

  “Sorry, mom, I am listening.”

  Her mom reached over the table and took Clementine’s hand in hers. It felt soft and warm and comforting.

  “After they all left, the Brodies hired a gardener, do you remember him? Hank, the older guy with the beautiful German Shepherd? Well, he worked there for a good few years. But, rumor has it—and it is only a rumor, no-one really knows—Ted and Sue Brodie both passed away soon after they left town and it was all left in the hands of Jackson.”

  Clementine took a sharp breath at the mention of Jackson and her mom squeezed her hand a little harder.

  “Jackson let Hank go and we’ve watched the farm go to ruin since.”

  “But why?”

  Her mom shook her head.

  “No one knows.”

  She made her way back to the dishes.

  “Your dad keeps saying he’s going to tackle the nearest field, but he’s got so much to do here that he has never gotten around to it.”

  Clementine mused over her mom’s words, cupping her hands around her coffee to draw some warmth into her suddenly cold fingers.

  “Clemmie, love, could you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Could you nip to the store and pick up some flour and butter for me? I’m gonna make your favorite pie for dessert tonight.”

  “Mom, you’re overfeeding me!”

  The older woman turned her head and smiled, her hands still deep in the soapy water.

  “You’ll be needing the extra strength when we get you out there to help your dad!” she said, laughing. “You’ll find some cash in my purse by the door. Take the station wagon, the truck is on its last legs and doesn’t always start.”

  Clementine got to her feet. Her legs felt heavy and a sadness had settled in her stomach. This was why she tried to forget Jackson, because every time he popped into her mind she felt another part of her soul fade away. Trying to return her thoughts to the here and now, Clementine remembered her promise to the couple getting married and the cake she’d arranged to bake for them.

  “I might get a few supplies while I’m there. I’ve got a couple of orders I need to honor, and I’ve got no ingredients.”

  “You can raid my purse for those too if you like?” Her mom turned back to the dishes. “I know that Pete is being unfair when it comes to who’s paying what while you go through this break up. It’s not like he doesn’t have the money to cover the bills while you’re struggling to make ends meet.”

  “What? How do you know that?” Clementine asked, he
r brow furrowed.

  “Ahh,” her mom replied.

  Clementine knew that was a reply that would not be any more descriptive. When her mom said ‘ahh’ what she meant was ‘mind your own business’. She slid on her jacket and took a few bills from her mom’s purse, determined to not let Pete dampen her mood any further.

  Willingham was a small town. It had one Main Street that contained all of the stores. On one side was the general grocery store, a small diner, and a couple of clothing retailers. The other side boasted a blacksmith, a bank, and a book store. There was an empty lot along that side of the street now too, Clementine vaguely remembered it being a video store when she was younger.

  Clementine had always loved the community of the Main Street, in particular the lovely couple who ran the general store—the Porters. They had a post office tucked away at the back of the store, and Clementine had visited them every day after Jackson had left to see if he had written to her. He never had, and after a while Mrs. Porter started offering her a candy bar every time she visited to help ease her visible pain.

  Clementine parked up and headed straight there, smiling fondly at the familiar jangle of the bell as she pushed open the door. She wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Porter were still here. There was no sign of them, just a young girl behind the till point who picked at her nails and looked rather bored. The store looked much the same as it did five years ago, even the earthy smell of the fresh vegetables evoked so many different feelings in Clementine. She picked up a basket from a stack by the door and headed straight for the home bake section. Her feet took her there before her brain had even decided what to buy.

  It was much the same as she remembered, shelves full of baking ingredients that had filled a young Clementine with awe. It was here that she’d first discovered how much she loved to bake. She’d started simply, with batter cakes and loaf cakes. A few weeks in and Clementine had realized her adeptness for baking and quickly moved to more intricate recipes. It seemed that Clementine had an innate skill for concocting something delicious from simple ingredients, but for Clementine it was something else, an escape from what was going on, a therapy of sorts. She could switch off her mind and just let the baking take over, and at the end of it she had something to share with those she loved. It really was a win win situation. Her parents had just been relieved that she had moved on from mud pies to ones they could actually digest—and that their daughter was coping with her grief.

  She dug out her list and started filling her basket, a pang of nostalgia for mud pies stabbing at her heart. Worry grew like ivy inside her chest.

  How am I going to do this? How can I make something as important as a wedding cake with no real equipment? Can I do it justice? Maybe I should just outsource to another company. What am I even doing with my life?

  Clementine’s footsteps got heavier with every negative thought that flooded her brain. Not even the little dancing mice candy toppers that would work perfectly with the theme of the wedding cake could put a smile on her face, but she popped them in the basket all the same. Next, she picked up some food colorings, pastels and creams, wondering as she dropped them in with the mice if it was possible to have a mid-life crisis at twenty-four.

  With all of the items on her list ticked off, and her mom’s groceries sitting nicely on the top, Clementine headed over to the cashpoint to pay. The young girl looked up when she saw Clementine approaching, and a huge beaming smile lit up her face. Clementine couldn’t help but return the gesture. If she was going to have a mid-life crisis then at least she could do it somewhere where the people genuinely cared about each other. Her love for Willingham grew a little with the smile.

  “How’re you today?” the young girl asked, scanning and bagging the groceries.

  “Hey, thanks for the smile. I needed that,” Clementine replied. “Do the Porters still own the store?”

  The girl nodded, her pony tail swishing with the movement.

  “They do, they’re not around much at the moment though, they’ve started seeding season so are busy at their farm. I could pass on a message if you’d like? Are you a friend of theirs? I have to say I don’t recognize you from around town.”

  It was a statement rather than an accusation, but Clementine felt a bit winded by the girl’s words. This was her town. She’d grown up here. Everyone used to say hi as they passed on the street. And really, she’d only been away for five years. Clementine realized with a heavy heart just how many feelings were being stirred inside her by being back at home.

  “No, it’s okay thank you,” she said trying to force the smile to stay on her face. “I’m sure I’ll see them around.”

  She paid and picked up her grocery bags, the tinkle of the door opening ringing somewhere behind her as somebody else entered the store.

  “Okay, you have a great day,” the girl said, still beaming.

  Clementine smiled at the girl, her anxiety fading. She vowed then to do exactly that. To have a great rest of the day. The sun was shining, she had her arms full of wonderful baking supplies, she was back home in Willingham, her mom was making her favorite pie. What more could a girl want? She could bake in the afternoon, then sit down to dinner with her parents and enjoy her time with them. Tomorrow she would worry about all the other little things, like paying outstanding bills and answering some of the million texts that Pete had sent her.

  She turned to leave and walked straight into a solid, muscular chest, clad in a denim shirt.

  “Oh goodness, excuse me,” she said, taken aback by the powerful stature of the man she had just bumped in to. Embarrassed, she looked down at his feet to see that his sneakers were caked in a thick coating of what looked like mud.

  Ah, an outsider, she thought, as she gazed up at his face.

  Then she dropped her groceries all over the floor.

  6

  He couldn’t breathe. The world had come to a standstill. Or at least he and Clementine had come to a standstill. There was a young girl fussing about at the broken eggs and spilt milk between them but neither of them could tear their eyes away from the other to assist her.

  All those years since he’d set eyes on her. Ten long years. And here she was standing right in front of him, as radiant as ever. She was utterly beautiful. Her shoulder length brown hair made him want to reach out and stroke it. Large, saucer-like eyes stared at him in disbelief. He saw them fill up with tears, like conkers fallen fresh from the tree to the dewy grass.

  There was so much he wanted to say. He wanted to reach out and gather her up in his arms and hug her forever. He wanted to look at her face, study her to find out how she looked somehow exactly the same and yet totally different. He wanted to wipe away her tears and vow there would be no more. Yet he couldn’t do any of those things because his feet were stuck to the floor—and it was nothing to do with the mud.

  “Jackson?” she uttered eventually.

  Hearing her voice sent shivers down his spine. He opened his mouth but only stutters fell out from between his lips. She was like a vision, rendering him incapacitated. Her voice was soft and musical, like the patter of rain on a roof, making him feel like he’d finally arrived home.

  “Jackson,” she spoke again, this time the question had all but been replaced with resignation.

  My little Orange, my little O, he wanted to say, his old pet name for her.

  Only she wasn’t his little orange anymore. She was somebody else’s little orange now. The air that was left in his lungs left in a rapid swoosh, but he knew he had no right to feel anything other than happy for her. Yet as she stood in front of him, back in the town they had grown up in, he felt as protective as a husband.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Jackson felt his stomach drop all the way to his muddy sneakers. He shook his head at her, his eyebrows knotted with anxiety.

  “No, no, you have nothing to be sorry for. It was me. It was all me. I should have called. Or written. Or… something.”

  His voice petered out a
s he realized how feeble his excuses sounded. But he wanted her to know that she wasn’t to blame for any of the distance that had opened up between them. He knew why he hadn’t been in contact, it had been the hardest thing he had ever had to do. Every day he had wanted to pick up the phone and tell her how much he loved and missed her, but he couldn’t, because he knew deep down that he didn’t deserve her love. Giving her freedom was the kindest thing he could have done, for both of them.

  He tried to formulate some more words that could soften the years between them, his brain floundering as if he was trying to speak a foreign language. She was looking at him as though he had sprouted two heads.

  “No, Jax,” she said.

  His heart skipped a beat. Nobody called him Jax except his sweet Clementine. And here she was, calling him it again after ten years. It felt so right. Except he knew it wouldn’t be alright because she’d said no. She didn’t want to hear his excuses and he didn’t blame her.

  “No, I wasn’t apologizing for… well… you know… everything that happened,” Clementine said. “I meant I’m sorry for that.”

  She nodded down at his muddy sneakers. If they had been dirty before, now they were ruined. What looked like flour and eggs had splattered together as they had fallen from Clementine’s arms and had landed on Jackson in an explosion of ingredients. A tube of small sparkly decorations was sticking out of the top of his sneaker like they’d been placed there deliberately. A bubble of laughter surged up from Jackson’s stomach and popped out of his mouth before he could stop it.

  Clementine bit her lip as a smile appeared there.

  “I’m in town to buy some new sneakers anyway, so you couldn’t have timed that better,” Jackson said, nodding at the mess on his shoes.

  Clementine’s eyebrow lifted.

  “You came all the way back to Willingham to buy sneakers?”

  Jackson almost managed a smile, but it didn’t last—vanishing from his face like a startled bird.