Brody, page 4
The door to the new barn stands open, much like its predecessor. The weather’s far too perfect out here to keep it shut. The new barn is a good size larger than the previous one. Curious, I head over to investigate.
Looks like Asher’s increased the number of stalls and upgraded the dirt floor to stone. The tack room is easily twice as big as before, and he’s got something that looks like a classroom set to the side with wooden benches and an old-fashioned chalkboard. High ceilings keep the air circulating, and if it gets too hot, industrial fans high overhead churn the air to keep it flowing.
I check in on our horses. Knight, Spirit, and Chesty come to the front of their stalls snorting hello. I don’t get to ride Spirit as much as I’d like, but I have a feeling he’s okay with that.
Evelyn seems to have adopted him as her own horse in my absence. I give them each a rub and move on. Asher’s added a dozen new stalls, but they stand empty. I’ll need to ask him about that. A noise at the far end draws my attention. Knowing what we used to do in the barn growing up, I call out to make my presence known. No need to be walking into something I have no business seeing.
“Hello!” I cup my hands over my mouth and shout.
“Who’s that?” A lilting female voice answers. Asher’s fiancée, Evelyn Thornton, peeks out from one of the stalls. It takes her a minute as she gives me a good hard look. “Nope. Not a clue. Which one are you?”
Poor Evie had a very interesting introduction to me and Cage. With no idea Asher was the eldest of identical triplets, the morning after her first night at La Rouge, she got handsy and shoved her hands down my pants. I remember the deep scarlet of her cheeks when she realized her hands were on the wrong man’s junk.
She then understood Asher had an identical sibling and made her second mistake, thinking we were twins. I may, or may not, have had a bit of fun and sent her out here, when the old barn was still standing, knowing full well Cage was inside. He didn’t get his junk felt up like me, but Evie certainly felt the rest of him up. To be honest, Asher is one hell of a lucky man. He wasn’t happy with either of us, but we didn’t care. As for poor Evie, she took it in stride. That’s when we knew she was a keeper.
“I’m the one you got handsy with, luv.” I toss her a bone, although I could make her sweat. The thing is, I like Evie. She’s cool, and I totally love that she still can’t tell Cage and me apart. She can pick Asher out of the three of us, we’ve tried to fool her, but she knows her man.
“Nice to see you, Brody. How’s it hanging?” Evie rolls right on past the fact she didn’t know which triplet, apart from her fiancé, I am.
I glance down at my running shorts, which allow absolutely nothing to hang left or right. Everything is nicely tucked up. A smirk turns up the corner of my lips.
“Wanna cop a feel and check me out? Will that help?”
“As if…” She opens the stall door and dusts her hands off on her jeans. “I’m sure there are plenty of ladies willing to feel you up. You don’t need me taking the plunge.”
“Well, you’re one of the few who knows the answer to a very important question.”
“And what would that be?”
“Who’s got the better package.”
“Now, you see, that’s unfair.”
“Unfair?”
“Seeing how I never felt up your brother, I can’t rightly judge who’s got the better package.”
“I would think you know every inch of my brother’s cock.”
“I do at that.” The corners of her mouth tilt up. “I meant Cage, and do you really want to know what I think?” Her pert lips lift in an impish grin. “I remember feeling something quite limp…”
“You wound me.” I press my hand over my heart. “I’d offer a hug, but I’m all sweaty.”
“Air hug.” She spreads her arms wide and gives a little beat of her arms. “So, what brings you out here? It certainly wasn’t to discuss your unimpressive dick size. Did we know you were coming out?”
“Just needed some fresh air. I’m staying with Mom. Didn’t want to interfere in your little love nest. And my package is quite impressive—as you should know, considering we’re identical triplets.”
“Is there ever a moment when you’re not thinking about sex?”
“Is there ever a moment Asher doesn’t think about sex?”
“Touché. But really, this is your home. You’re welcome anytime. You don’t have to ask, and you don’t have to stay with Abbie if you don’t want to.” She emphasizes the point.
“And what if the two of you…” I make a rude gesture.
“Why do you think he built the barn as big as he did?” She spins in a circle, taking it all in. “It’s the perfect place to have tons of fun with a bit of rope, and you know…” She gives a mischievous wink. This is what I love about Evelyn. Not only can she take our shit, but she can dish it right out.
“I didn’t realize it was going to be so much bigger?”
“Are we talking about the barn, or…”
“The barn, wise ass.”
“Well, I’m expanding the trail riding business. Taking it over actually. Asher’s interested in expanding operations with the winery, but with that and firefighting, he doesn’t have the time for it. I’m also offering horse boarding and riding lessons for kids. I heard about this group that uses horses as therapy animals for kids with disabilities and children on the spectrum. We have so much; it feels good to give a little back.”
That’s an understatement if I ever heard one. Evelyn is an heiress, or was. I guess she’s no longer an heiress considering she lost her entire family in a tragic accident. All that inheritance is hers now, and her net worth is in the nine-figure range. The girl is loaded, not that you’d know it.
“Is Asher around?”
“Should be.” She glances at her watch. “Or actually, he might be out with George.” George is our foreman, responsible for the operations of the vineyard.
“You know where they might be?”
“Not a clue. I can call if you want.”
“Nah. I’m going to head in and take a shower, throw on some clean clothes. Mom’s supposed to be making pancakes.”
“You sure about that?” She props her hand on her hip. “I have a feeling Abbie’s not going to make it, so while you’re inside, you might as well make yourself useful and whip us up some food.”
“Me?”
“You can cook, can’t you?” She flashes a wicked grin, knowing full well that Mom taught all three of her boys to take care of themselves in every way. We just choose not to and let her mother us when we come to visit. “I know you’re good at whipping up bacon in the pan.”
Evelyn’s famous groping session occurred in the kitchen. I was making breakfast for everyone, frying bacon actually.
“Do you want bacon?”
“I’d love some. You know where everything is. I’ll call Asher and let him know you’re here.”
I head inside, plucking a few choice tomatoes off the vine, and head to my room to shower and change. Much like Cage, I never fully moved out. In fact, the only person who moved out of the family home is our mother.
After Dad died, she said the house held too many memories. We built her the tiny cottage at the edge of our property, nestled right up against forest lands. She moved out, but the three of us kept everything the same.
We often complain of the triplet curse, but the triplet bond ties us together. We’ll always be inseparable. My thoughts turn to Grace Atwood and I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about me. Although why I would think that makes no sense. She’s more likely to plot my murder than anything else, but still, I wonder if it’s not too late to make up for the sins of the past.
Six
Grace
I think about Brody for the rest of the afternoon. If Sterling Enterprises accepts my proposal, I’ll be one step too close to the man who destroyed me. I vowed to pull back my application from his firm, but I can’t do it. My finger hovers over the button that will withdraw my application, and I sit there wanting to yank it, but I can’t afford to be petty.
‘Grudges do more damage to the person holding them than the one they’re directed at.’ Those are my mother’s words, and I should listen to her wisdom.
I’m bigger than this.
What happened to me is in the past and has no part in my future. Besides, if that capital is what keeps Atwood Estates from going under, I’ll take it. My feelings mean nothing when it comes to the livelihood of our workers, and I owe it to them to explore every avenue before admitting defeat.
The alarm on my phone goes off. It’s time for Mom’s afternoon pills.
I head to the kitchen and pull down all the bottles with all the pills. Mom’s had a good day. She was able to rest without the unrelenting pain waking her up. In addition to a glass of juice, I load the tray down with fresh-cut fruit, a handful of pills, and three tiny chocolate bars; whatever I can do to entice her to eat.
She doesn’t answer my knock. I give it a second, then head inside. It’s bright and airy in her room. The gauze curtains billow in the light breeze blowing through the windows, and a shaft of sunlight spills through the open French doors. The chirps of birds tickle my ears as they frolic in the birdbath outside her window. I try to do as much as I can to make her last days as peaceful as possible.
Not really asleep, her rest is fitful, but it is rest. I take what I can get, focus on the positives.
Mom taught me that.
I’d love to let her enjoy drifting in the moment, but I learned the hard way not to let her miss a scheduled dose of pain medications. I did that, accidentally, one too many times. If I can keep her levels even, she manages the pain. Skip even one dose, and the pain magnifies. Fives turn to tens, and we have a hell of a time beating back the pain to simmer at a seven or eight.
It’s been weeks since her pain’s been a five. She sits around seven and eight constantly, although I think she’s lying to me. After setting down the tray, I sit beside her and take her hand in mine. The skin’s nearly translucent with thin, blue veins easily seen. There’s the bruising from the IV they placed last week. There’s always a bruise marring her delicate flesh. Like the rest of her body, the veins in her hand are fragile and tend to ‘blow.’ That’s what the nurses call it when her IV fails. Her hand is cold, limp, and weak. I’m holding onto the shell of the woman I’ve loved my entire life.
I hate cancer. I hate everything about it.
“Mom…” I thread my fingers with hers. “You need to take your pills.”
She doesn’t respond and there’s that hitch in my throat. It lasts a second before I realize she’s still with me. I hate that sinking feeling when my stomach drops and my breath catches. I’ve had months, a little more than a year, to prepare myself. Every time I think I’m ready to accept the inevitable, a moment like this comes along.
And I know.
I’ll never be ready to say goodbye.
She stirs and takes a breath. “Cupcake?” Her eyes open and a smile curves her lips. “I was dreaming about you.” A tear rolls down my cheek at the nickname. She and my uncle are the only ones who call me that.
It’s well deserved and comes from the Great Cupcake Massacre. I was five at the time, precocious and determined to be as grown-up as possible. Mom signed up to bake six dozen cupcakes for the church’s 4th of July picnic. She included me in everything, and I helped stir the batter, pour the milk into the mix, and set out the tiny paper cups to load up with batter. There wasn’t much else I could help with, but I worked hard to do what I could. My reward for being such a good worker was the coveted prize of the very first cupcake that came out of the oven. To this day, I remember the mouth-watering aroma of the batter baking and Mom’s smile as she pulled the first batch out of the oven. I remember her setting the hot tray on the counter and telling me not to touch it.
Which I did.
How could I not?
Of course, I burned my fingers and we had to deal with that. Meanwhile, my reward, that hot, delicious cupcake, grew cold.
I cried.
I cried because my fingers hurt. I cried because my cupcake was ruined. I cried when my mom tried to make it all better by allowing me to put the icing on my cold cupcake all by myself, like a grown-up.
Which I did and made a terrible mess of my cupcake, myself, the counter, and the floor when I dropped my cupcake and watched it tumble to land upside down.
I bawled my eyes out.
Mom soothed me.
I felt so bad. We weren’t going to make the picnic.
She never yelled at me, just finished icing the cupcakes, and then loaded them with great care into these big plastic cupcake containers. She replaced my cupcake with the very last one, placing extra icing on top for such a well-behaved kid. I ate it while she set me in front of the TV and took a shower to get ready for the picnic.
The cupcake was amazing, like they always were, and my five-year-old brain wanted just one more. Of course, the three tubs of cupcakes were up on the counter, but I knew how to push a chair close so I could climb up. I dragged the chair to the counter, climbed up, then stared at three containers of neatly stacked cupcakes. I only wanted one more.
Just one.
A smile fills my face as I remember Mom’s scream when she came back to the kitchen. I had tipped all three of the tubs onto the floor and sat in the middle of the entire mess with a half-eaten cupcake shoved in my mouth. She could’ve yelled. She could’ve punished me for ruining all the cupcakes, but my mom is a great mom.
She looked at the chaos, surveyed the destruction, then gave a shake of her head and sat down beside me right in the middle of the mess. She reached across me to grab one of the few intact cupcakes left on the floor.
“Well, I guess you really like cupcakes.” I’ll never forget her smile.
I giggled and finished off my half-eaten cupcake. It’s one of my fondest memories. She always knew how to turn something bad into something wonderful.
It’s a lesson I’ll never forget.
“The birds sung me to sleep.” Mom grips my hand and draws me from my memory.
“Did they?” I try to focus on the present, but my memories of her are too beautiful. I miss her already.
“Such a pretty song they sing.”
“I’m glad you got some rest.” It’s hard to drag myself from the past, but I do. She needs me now more than ever.
“Me too.” She shifts in bed all by herself, and I barely hold back a gasp of surprise. Today really is a good day. I can’t remember the last time she moved without help.
“I brought juice.” I lift the glass and wait for her to respond.
“That sounds wonderful.” She struggles; maybe she’s not all that strong after all. I hate the way the cancer saps her strength.
“Here, let me help you.”
With the difficulties she’s having drinking from a cup, I place a straw in her drink. I hold it for her until she can wrap her lips around the small tube. Her cheeks suck in, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I watch the calories go down her throat.
When we moved her out of the upstairs master suite and into the guest bedroom on the ground floor, we did it knowing what the future held. Uncle Mark and I removed all the furniture to open up the space and rented one of those adjustable hospital beds. I settle her into a better position, then place the remote in her hands. I try really hard to let her do as much as she can for herself.
Her frail finger presses the button to elevate the head of the bed, and she slowly transitions from lying flat to sitting semi-upright. Once the bed stops moving, I take the bed remote, and leave it where she can reach it.
“What’s your number?”
“Seven.” Her hand shakes as she brings the straw to her mouth. She’s lying, but that’s okay. I’ll play along. Out of her line of sight, I add another pill to the pile. The juice in the cup sloshes.
I want to help with her drink, but hold off. I’ve learned never to fill her glass more than three-quarters full. Surprisingly, none of it spills on her when she finally takes a sip.
“Let me…” I take the glass from her and exchange it with three pills. Two are pain pills. When she places them in her mouth, I give her the glass back. We do this several times until all the pills are gone and she finishes the last sip. “I cut some fruit for you. Do you want some?”
She presses a hand to her belly and I know she doesn’t feel like eating. Her eyes close and she takes a breath, but then she opens her eyes and tries to smile.
“I’ll try a little.”
Her answer breaks my heart. She’s too sick and fatigued to eat the most basic things but will try for my sake.
“Grape, strawberry, or melon?” I can probably encourage her to eat one bite, maybe two.
“Melon.” She opens her mouth and lets me feed her, as another piece inside of me crumbles.
“The doctor mentioned a protein drink. It’s supposed to taste good and has all the nutrients you need.” It’s high in protein, high in calories, and I need her to eat. She’s wasting away to nothing in front of me.
“Have you ever tried those?” Her mouth twists with distaste.
“No.”
“When you find one you can stomach, I’ll try it, until then…” She pats my hand as she slowly chews the melon. It’s a good day because I get her to eat five more bites.
“How are you doing, cupcake? Hanging in there?” She’s not asking about me, but rather about how I’m managing the winery.
“Things are okay.”
“Okay? That doesn’t sound okay.”
I take in a deep breath. This is something I hoped to avoid discussing with my mother, but I can’t lie to her. I never could, not as a kid, never as a teen, and I won’t start now.
“Things are tight right now.”
“Tight?” She rallies a bit of strength and shifts her position in bed. “What does that mean?”
I go into a discussion of lagging grape production from the vines, how our water costs escalated due to the drought. I talk while she listens because I know she’s too weak to carry on a real conversation, but her illness has not stolen her mind. She takes in everything I say and reaches out to touch my thigh to get me to stop spewing facts and figures.
