Five Ways to Fall (36 page)

“Oh, yeah.” I rub a hand over my stubble as I recall his daughter, a cute little blond who was way more curious than her daddy could have imagined at eleven years old. A swat of my mama’s dish towel against my ass has me dropping the memory quickly.

I watch her with fondness as she rinses the plates off and slides them into her dishwasher. I got away with a lot more than I probably should have growing up but when Mama put her foot down, I always listened. Hearing bits and pieces of Reese’s childhood and that sad excuse for a mother only solidifies how good I had it.

When Rob phoned to tell me that Mama had had a heart attack in the middle of his kitchen, I was in my car and driving nineteen hours straight to Chicago without stopping, my own chest ready to explode from fear the entire way. With it being Easter weekend, there weren’t any available flights until the following day and I wasn’t willing to wait. Thank God she was okay.

Minor as it was, she didn’t escape unscathed. I can see it now. She’s aged a lot since, moving slower, the lines on her face more prominent. “How are things going here, Mom? Honestly.” Between me being tied up with school, then the bar exam, and now the new job, she has refused to shed much light on the situation. She doesn’t like putting the stress of the place on me. The problem is, it’s already on me. Aside from her, I’m the only one here.

With a deep inhale, she starts scraping the scraps off the plates. “It’s a lot for just me, Ben. I’m only fifty-one but I’m feeling so much older lately. Too old to be worrying about money, wandering around out there checking trees for disease, and dealing with drought and pesticides.” There’s resignation in her voice that I’ve never heard before. I have to wonder how different it would be if she had a decent man to share the load with.

“Have you talked to Rob and the others? What do they say?”

Her mouth twists with sadness. “Same thing they always say: sell it and leave your father.”

“And?”

“What do you mean, ‘and’?” A hint of irritation spikes in her voice now. “This place is my life. The Bernard family’s life! I can’t sell it.”

“I know, Mama.” She’d be miserable anywhere but here. “But he . . .”

“You know what my answer is. It’s the same as it’s always been: for better or worse. That’s what I signed up for.”

“Yeah, but does better or worse—”

“Leave it be, Benjamin. It’s my decision. It’s my business.”

Something Reese said has stuck with me. “Are you happy with never having a Christmas under your roof with your kids? Your grandkids? We haven’t all been together here in
eight
years
, Mama! And it’s all because of him!”

She sniffs, and I see the pain poorly veiled. “I’m trying my best. I still see them.”

“Yeah, you just have to go to Chicago to do it. No holidays, no birthdays.” I set the plates down on the table—the table that
he
made—and lean against it, my fists starting to hurt against the solid wood. I take a calming breath. “Your friends don’t even come around anymore. Walking into this house is plain depressing.” Her silence unnerves me. Though I don’t mean to, my voice begins to rise. “There’s like a thick fucking cloud of—”

“Watch your language with me, Benjamin,” she cuts me off, her tone sharp.

“Sorry, Mama. I just . . .” I groan loudly. “I don’t get it! I’ve tried, but I don’t get it.”

“Marriage is forever, Ben.”

“Yeah. A death sentence, apparently.”

A throat clearing turns both of us toward the entryway where Reese stands, holding up a set of owl shakers. “Should these stay in the dining room or come in here?”

“In here, dear. Thank you.” My mom quickly collects them from her hand, slightly flustered. “Ben told me key lime is your favorite, so I made one this afternoon. I hope it’s up to par.”

Reese accepts the plate, leveling me with a wicked smile. “I’m sure it’ll be the best I’ve ever had.”

I’m either getting laid again or slaughtered tonight.

It’s definitely one of those two.

Chapter 27

REESE

I’m too smart for Ben.

He’s so easily distracted. When I handed him my empty plate after devouring the pie Wilma made—which was delicious; limes and I may have found a common ground—and slid my free hand into his pocket, he assumed it was a prelude to later, grinning down at me slyly. How he missed my true intention—taking the set of keys in his pocket that I saw him deposit there earlier—I’ll never know.

And now I’m out the front door and darting across the front lawn, intent on getting the engine started on that dune buggy before Ben catches up to me. I know it’s childish, but just picturing Ben laughing as he chases me down makes me feel better.

I’ve only ever seen one side of Ben—the playful, easygoing guy who’s unruffled by anything and confident as all get-out. I didn’t realize how much I’d come to appreciate that consistency until it was disrupted by an argument with Wilma. I don’t know what they were arguing about but when Ben’s voice started rise, I was desperate to interrupt it. Hence the lame owl salt shaker excuse.

I think Ben has a strange power over me—the ability to balance my chaos. And, the more time I spend here on the grove—in his life—the more I think that his entire world seems to stabilize me. Or at least makes me care less about my own problems. Hearing Ben upset the way I did today, though, and with Wilma no less, was like a kick to my little self-centered universe, pushing it off its axis.

A loud clatter comes from the barn, followed by a hushed curse. A mixture of concern and curiosity—more curiosity—pricks me and I step forward to the window next to the large closed barn doors to peer inside.

And jump back with a yelp as a face appears inches away. The image comes into full view a moment later when Ben’s dad pushes open the door to stare at me through red, glassy eyes. Ben obviously gets his height and frame from his father, though this man has long since lost all of his muscle mass, replaced with the lanky skin-and-bone look of a deep-rooted alcoholic. I’m betting that at one time he was quite handsome. Maybe as handsome as Ben. Maybe that’s how he managed to interest so many women. Except there’s no charming smile, no dimples, and certainly no friendly crystal-blue eyes to win me over. Those are all his wife’s contributions to their son.

“I’m sorry,” I offer. “I heard a noise and just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh, yeah?” I catch a hint of the slur seconds before a waft of whiskey hits my nostrils. “I’m fine, but that’s nice . . . nice of you to check.” Taking a quick step to correct his balance, he says, “I heard you were admiring my carpentry?”

I guess Wilma and he do still speak. Knowing what I know, I wonder what those conversations are like. “Yes, the furniture in the house is beautiful,” I offer with a tight smile. I’ve never been comfortable around drunk parents. I’m even more uncomfortable around drunk
fathers
. Especially ones that I know are prone to cheating on their wives. Especially ones that are looking at me the way Ben’s father is looking at me right now. I fold my arms over my chest.

He waves his one arm dramatically. “Come in!”

I glance over my shoulder. Ben’s not out yet.

“Oh, he’ll come find you,” Ben’s father says. I try not to stiffen as his hand falls to my back, guiding me farther into the barn. The smell of cut wood instantly permeates my nostrils and I inhale deeply. “You can smell that, can’t you? Wood—the best smell in the world.”

I relax a little as he shifts away from me, stumbling over toward the opposite wall, where a myriad of saws sit lined on tables as if on display, the metal on the tools gleaming. An old tube TV lights up a corner, the sound of the baseball announcer’s voice buzzing softly in the background, competing against the crackle of country music over the radio.

“It’s very clean in here,” I remark, looking at the piles of wood neatly stacked along another wall. And in the center of the room—a giant two-story space with naked bulbs dangling down from the rafters—sit several pieces of furniture in various states of completion. “I always imagined a lot of sawdust in wood shops.”

“Used to be.” Strolling over to place his only hand on a giant slab of grainy wood, he murmurs, “This was going to be a beautiful coffee table. I could have made thousands selling it.”

I let out a low whistle.

He peers up at me. “Would you like me to finish it for you? It’s black walnut. Not easy to come by a piece like this.”

My eyes widen in surprise with the offer. Jack would love a coffee table like that. I open my mouth, the beginnings of “Sure!” escaping, when Ben’s voice cuts into the murkiness with a harsh, “No!” Spinning around, I find him standing just inside the door, his jaw taut with tension as his eyes dart around the space as if chasing ghosts within the shadows. Even the darkness can’t hide the ashen color of his skin.

“What’s wrong, son? Forget what this place looked like?” The resentment laced through Joshua Senior’s voice is unmistakable.

I hear Ben’s hard swallow as he steps up behind me, curling his arms over my shoulders and across my chest, hugging me to him. Almost protectively. “Come on, you little thief. I’ll let you drive, seeing as you’re hell bent on it.”

His words are teasing, but I know not to argue or joke or give him a hard time; the odd softness in his voice echoes like a shriek within these walls. “Okay.”

“What’s the rush? You haven’t been in here in, what, eight or nine years? How long has it been since
the accident
?” Ben’s dad slaps the wood table surface. “Don’t you want to look around? Relive some memories?”

“Joshua!” Wilma’s cry comes from the doorway and when I turn to look at her, her pale face matches Ben’s. And I see the tears. There are definite tears welling in her eyes as she looks from her husband to her son—pausing on him, a pained expression furrowing her brow—and then back to her husband. I catch the subtle nod of her head. “Why have I let this go on for so long?” I think I hear her murmur faintly as a mask of resolution slides over her face, a moment before she closes her eyes and squeezes them tight.

And glancing at her husband’s face, I believe he heard it too. I watch as whatever little spark of fury sat burning in him dies. He hangs his head and shuffles quietly past us and out the door.

Walking slowly forward to Ben and me, she reaches up to lay a hand on his cheek. “It was an accident, Benjamin. We all know that. Even he knows that, whether he wants to admit it or not.” Fresh tears find their way down Wilma’s cheek. “But everything after is all my fault.”

Ben releases me to pull Wilma’s tiny frame into his arms. “None of this was ever your fault.”

She steps away, guiding him back to me with a sad smile. “I’m just so happy to have you both here. You go enjoy yourselves. Benjamin, I’m going to fix this. I’m going to make it right.” With that, she turns and steps away, a fierce smile of determination painting her face.

And I’m left standing in the middle of this vast open space, watching a very quiet Ben stare at that old unfinished coffee table with a lost look on his face, battling something privately.

“Ben?” I call out, fighting against the shiver as I hear his name bounce off the high walls.

It seems to break him free of his trance because he turns to me and cracks a grin. “Come on. Let’s go.” The strain in his voice is unmistakable, though, and there’s certainly no twinkle in his eye.

“What happened in here?”

“Ahh . . .” His gaze drops to the ground, his lips tucking into his mouth in a tight purse. “The worst day of my life. That’s what.” He tries to cast it off with a lazy shrug.

My sneakers scrape against the concrete as I do a circle around the table, running my finger along the deeply defined grain of the wood. “It’s beautiful wood. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Reese, don’t . . .” he starts when my fingers run over a giant splotch, as if someone spilled something on the untreated wood and stained it. I look up to see the pained expression on Ben’s face.

“Come on. You’re my obnoxious, loud, insensitive Ben!
I’m
the melodramatic one.”

“I’m yours?” he repeats with an arched brow, though that teasing lilt is missing.

I gulp. “What’s wrong with this table?”

He strolls over, making a point of sidestepping an area on the floor instead of walking straight to me. “You remember what I told you about my dad and the things he did behind my mom’s back, right?”

I nod quietly.

Licking his lips, he studies the wood for another long moment. “Normally he’d stay away from the local bars. It’s a small town and people talk. Everyone’s up in everyone’s business. Well, one night he decided the local bar was good enough. The next morning, Mama started getting calls from friends. So-and-so’s brother-in-law or something saw him stumbling out with my football coach’s wife. I guess Coach was out of town.” Ben snorts as he shakes his hung head. “Mama was mortified. And not even for herself. She knew Coach would hear about it and she was afraid he’d take it out on me.

“When my dad pulled into the driveway that day, I guess she laid into him. Slapped him across the face. Well,” Ben grits his teeth, “he swung back. I came home a few hours later to find her hiding in her room with a broken nose and an ice pack. And when I found out what happened . . .” His mouth twists up. “I charged in here, ready to beat the hell out of him. He was already hitting the bottle again, working on that table. I was so angry, I ran at him. I shoved him. Hard.” Ben pauses to swallow, a hand running through his hair. “And then, I don’t really know how everything else happened. One second he was tumbling back, the next his arm was lying on the ground and there was blood everywhere. Jesus, Reese! The whiskey made it worse. It was pumping out of him like we were in a Quentin Tarantino movie.”