Cider House Fools, page 17
“Okay.” I hold my hands up, palms out. “I won’t push. But I’m done expecting people to read my mind, so I’m going to say it out loud. Just so there is no confusion. I want my family back. And if that family includes you now, Franklin, I’m in. I can’t speak for Whittaker, or my brother, but, welcome home Franklin. When you pull your head out of your ass and can admit that you’re in love with her, I’ll be here to welcome you home with very open arms. I push the door open and hop out of the truck. “Let’s go buy some fuckin’ chicken and make our first family meal.”
Chapter sixteen
December 1 Thursday
Franklin
I’m so lost in my thoughts imaging the wonderous possibilities Balthasar presented that I don’t notice the strange vehicle parked in the drive when we pull into Bennett’s childhood home. Balthasar’s door banging shut brings me back to the present. I’m whistling until l see Balthasar frozen, staring at the pretentious red Saab parked on the opposite side of the house. “Whose car is that?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I don’t know anyone who drives a Saab,” he answers slowly. My body tenses as I notice there is no one in the car. The animals are quiet. The sky is clear, the snow blinding as the sun glints off the crusted surface of the snow. I follow Balthasar’s gaze and notice a set of tracks leading from the ostentatious car to the front door.
“Does Bennett’s grandmother know anyone who would let themselves in?” I wonder out loud, trying to find an acceptable reason for an empty car and one set of tracks leading to the house.
“No,” Balthasar answers, his voice low and brimming with something dangerous as he starts for the back door. He drops the groceries on the cement steps and swings the door open. I spring after him.
“Bennett!” he calls, sweeping through the empty kitchen. I drop my load of groceries on the table and follow him through the short hall to the living room.
“Who the fuck are you?” He asks. Anger coats my vision as my eyes land on the perpetrator. I immediately recognize the asshole in the expertly tailored three-piece suit currently perched on the edge of Gran’s sofa.
I fill Balthasar in. “Let me introduce you to Bennett’s ex-boyfriend Weston. No need to remember the name, he’s leaving.” My shoulders tense, my spine stiffening as do my best to maintain a calm facade. I’m already twisted up about what Balthasar dropped in the truck. I don’t have any bandwidth left to devote to manners.
Bennett’s unwelcome visitor takes his time setting his disposable coffee cup down on Gran’s coffee table and stands, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from his jacket before extending his hand. “Weston Holbrook. I am Bennett’s boyfriend, and a major stakeholder in her restaurant. You are?”
“Escorting you out or calling the cops. Your choice,” Balthasar says evenly. There is no mistaking the threat in his voice or his posture as he points to the door.
Weston drops back down to the couch. “Neither of those things are going to happen.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a robin’s egg blue box. He pops it open and sets it on the coffee table, turning it so the light through the front window catches on the large diamond. A prism of color sprays across the ceiling. “I’m here to claim what belongs to me.”
A cold sweat breaks out across my back. Unease skitters up my spine and I shift my weight before I can stop myself. I want to laugh, to deny Bennett would ever consider such an insincere offer, but doubt sticks my tongue to the roof of my mouth. “Did you purchase that after you checked the market value of this property?”
Weston’s eyes narrow slightly, his well moisturized skin barely creasing at the corners of his eyes as his mouth stretches into a reptilian smile. “I can’t possibly be detecting jealousy from the gay bestie now, can I?” he clucks his tongue, leaning back against the couch. “What’s your boyfriend’s name? Troy?” he chuckles. “Does Troy the boy toy know about him? Or do you two practice that zip code rule thing?”
Balthasar picks up the ring box. He turns it, tilting it at different angles before bursting out laughing. He tosses it carelessly back on the table. Weston jumps up and snatches the box off the table, snapping it shut and stuffing it back inside his jacket.
“You better keep good track of that. I wouldn’t want you to be out all that cash.” Balthasar howls, before pursing his lips and exhaling hard as he wipes under his eyes. “I bet your still cringing from the twenty minutes you spent waiting in a mall parking lot to pick up that box. Tell me did it cost more than the ring? Because we have a place a little southwest of us that has a gemstone factory. You probably could have picked up something a lot classier there.”
“I beg your pardon.” He jabs at his jacket. “That ring is over two carats. It’s plenty big enough for Bennett. She’ll love it.”
“She won’t. That isn’t remotely what she wants.” Balthasar picks up the coffee cup and tosses it to Weston. Weston quickly steps back, twisting his body, his hands reflexively swinging out in front of him in a defensive gesture. The empty cup bounces off his fingertips and hits the hardwood floor.
Weston face twists into an ugly expression as he brushes his hands down the front of his jacket. “And how would you know what she wants? She doesn’t even know what she wants. I’m here to tell her what she needs. God knows someone should.”
Another frisson of fear snakes across my skin as my stomach turns. I’ve never understood Bennett’s fondness for this slimy jerk. And now he’s here. I guarantee it’s not to support her through her grief or to help her make the right decisions for her. No, he’s here to put an ugly ring on her finger and bleed her dry of her inheritance. She’s in an emotionally fragile state, far weaker than she normally is. There’s a possibility she could fall for his bullshit.
“I’ll repeat myself one time in case you didn’t hear me. See yourself out. Obliged to help if you can’t.” Balthasar’s grin doesn’t reach his eyes as he steps aside and gives Weston just enough berth to scurry past him. Balthasar saunters after him, into the kitchen. I follow, my mind churning while trying to process the fact that Weston is here to make a claim on Bennett.
“Make no mistake. I’ll be back for what’s mine.” Weston’s promise hangs in the air, a thick slime that doesn’t belong in the cozy home of Bennett’s loving grandmother. Balthasar and I watch him in silence as he folds into the car and drives away.
“Did she really date that homophobic douche canoe?” Balthasar asks, his tone light as he steps out of the door Weston left hanging open in his haste to leave.
“She did,” I answer, forcing myself to move. I grab a few of the bags Balthasar dropped on the steps.
“That’s all you have to say? She did? What did she see in that prick? He’s heinous.” We carry the bags in. Balthasar begins putting things away. His familiarity and the comfortable ease with which he moves about Bennett’s childhood home are not lost on me. “Let me guess. Three piece off the rack suit boy lives on and regularly loses daddy’s money, wants a woman that looks powerful to present to daddy’s country club but secretly despises any female who is more successful than him. He’s a classic narcissist. He can only get a boner when he’s emotionally manipulating someone he considers less than him. How on earth did he bag Bennett to begin with? And what the fuck is wrong with you that you let that asshole anywhere near her?”
Gran’s roaster is in plain sight on the top shelf of the lower cabinet containing her pots and pans, but I take my time banging around in the cupboard, squatting in front of it as if I could unload my shame into the pile of lids in the back. Balthasar is right. A montage of all the times I wanted to say something and kept my mouth shut as I watched him lay his filthy fingers on her creamy skin flashes through my brain. I stand up, slamming the cupboard shut. “Fuck!” I pick up the roaster and bang it on the counter three times.
He walks over and wraps his arms around my waist, laying his head against my back. “I sincerely hope you don’t have this problem all the time,” he says, his breath seeping through my shirt and warming my skin.
“What problem? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I snap, trying not to be irritable with him. Balthasar isn’t the person I’m angry at.
“You’re banging the wrong thing again.” He squeezes me tight, then releases me, chuckling. “That poor roaster didn’t do anything to you or Bennett. But that asshole? He’s going down. That ring is used, and that Tiffany’s box is dusty with a smudge on the side. He probably bought it online and got the ring at a pawn shop.”
I turn, snorting. “Are you serious? You can tell that?”
“Absolutely. I don’t dick around when it comes jewelry.” He pats my ass and steps back. To my surprise I feel level-headed and calm, my frustration dissipating under the tender affection Balthasar offered so freely. “Bennett will hate that ring.”
“Bennett hates rings period,” we say at the same time. I exhale in relief as we grin at each other. I know that from countless hours in the kitchen with her. I want to ask him how he knows. Belonging steals over me, but this time it isn’t only about Bennett.
I want to get to know Balthasar. Intimately, if I’m honest.
“What can I do to help?” Balthasar wanders over to the table and pokes around in the few remaining bags. “How about I make a desert and handle the beverages?”
“I think Bennett would love that.” And I’d like you to do it here, I want to add.
He pulls out his phone and taps it. Ella Fitzgerald’s rich, throaty voice fills the kitchen. He looks at his watch. “I’m going to run home and grab a few things, but I’m coming back.” He lays his phone on the table.
“Don’t you need that?” I glance at his phone. I don’t want him to leave. I turn back to the whole chicken I’ve put in the sink to clean. Something is missing. I look around the sink.
“Looking for this?” Balthasar hands me a knife.
A grateful smile spreads across my face. “How do you do that?”
“Do what? Anticipate needs? You know exactly how it’s done.” He smirks as I wave the knife at the door, indicating he can leave. I turn back to the plastic encased chicken. I prefer them fresh in butcher paper, but this is all the small grocery store had. He heads back to the door. “Don’t think too hard working things out while you’re using that knife. We don’t need any more wounds to stitch up. We can’t be showing up to Gran’s funeral looking like we all got in a bar fight.”
“Working what things out?” I grump. If he says what I think he’s going to say I’m going stab this chicken like I had to chase it.
“How you can want me so damn bad and still be in love with Bennett.” The door clicks shut. Muffled laughter reaches my ears through the glass. Sounds like clucking to me.
The chicken is on the stove stuffed, and the roulade is rolled and ready to be roasted when the door swings open. My mood sours when Balthasar’s older, much rougher looking sibling lets himself in. I go back to the vegetables I’m prepping, ignoring him as he hangs up his coat and hat. He drops a six pack of beer on the table in front of me and grunts.
“I have no idea where the bottle opener is.” My hands work automatically. As much as I prefer working with meat, I’ve never minded side prep. I enjoy the headspace I can find when I sink into the rhythmic pattern of knife work.
Smith grunts again and twists off the top of a bottle. He sets it down hard. The aroma of coffee and hops isn’t unpleasant as the head foams over. I toss the knife down and grab a beer out of the cardboard six pack carton. “What can I do for you?” I ask.
“Not a God damn thing. Balthasar told me to come here after work. I’m done working.” He runs a hand over dirty blonde, hat flattened hair and works his jaw, the stubble rippling in the unforgiving light of Gran’s kitchen. It must be exhausting to be so grumpy and full of tension all the time. The light accentuates the gray hair sprinkled throughout his facial hair.
“Fair enough.” I pick up the knife and resume cutting up the pear on the cutting board.
He takes a long swig of his beer. “Balthasar said one of Bennett’s ex-boyfriends came sniffing around today.”
“He did more than sniff around. He let himself in and got comfortable.” I drop that info calmly, like I’m telling him I let the dog out. This time I’m prepared when the bottle slams against the table. I step back neatly, the splatter of foam falling short of my shirt.
Smith yanks another beer out of the carton. “Not only did he let himself in,” I continue conversationally, “he whipped out a ring. He intends to propose.”
I feel sorry for the beer cap. Smith viciously twists it off, tossing it on the table. He takes a drink of beer and wipes his hand across his mouth. I turn back to the cutting board on Gran’s countertop, set my beer down, and resume cutting. I don’t need to see him to know he’s wrestling with how to respond. His urge to find Weston and rip him to shreds permeates the kitchen, dispersed from within a cloud of testosterone. Along with his rage, his absolute revulsion at displaying any emotion he deems a weakness seeps out of his skin, oily and bitter, the perfect accoutrement to his glaring unresolved issues regarding Bennett. “I don’t give a fuck.” He wanders over to the stove. “What is this shit?”
He’s the worst liar.
Is he always this pleasant? I put the knife down and pick up my beer, sipping while I study his hulking back. He’s thick, his musculature so prominent that I almost find it distasteful, but they aren’t the kind that come from spending your life in the gym. His ape-like traps rise up out the neck of his shirt while his biceps strain the seams of his sleeves. He looks back and catches me staring. “Like what you see?”
“Not particularly. You’re not my type. To be honest I’m wondering if you’ve always looked like that.” His unapproachable expression isn’t helping. His entire posture screams back the fuck off. “Because you’re not her type either.”
To my surprise, a rusty chuckles rumbles out of his chest. “I was prettier before I went to Afghanistan.”
I nod. My father served in Desert Storm. If Smith wants to talk about his service, I’d be happy to lend him an ear. But we both know that isn’t what is on his mind right now. “It’s a stuffed chicken and a beef roulade.”
“No rouladen then? Too bad. I like mustard.” My eyebrows fly up in surprise.
“It’s herb based with gruyere cheese. Bennett isn’t fond of—”
“Mustard,” he cuts me off. “I guess she wouldn’t like the German version then,” he mutters. He turns back to me. “Is that guy dangerous?”
I pick the knife down again as the urge to drive it through Weston’s right eyeball fills me like a sickness. My dick is half hard, stimulate by my lust for violence, when I answer Smith. “Physically? Not for any of us. But he’s bad for Bennett in multiple ways. He’s an emotionally, morally, and financially bankrupt cunt and he’s here to gaslight her out of her inheritance and our restaurant.”
“I see.” His lips purse to the side, pulling his slightly crooked nose almost straight. He crosses his arms over his chest. His forearms striate, separating into chords of muscle. I catch myself flexing my wrist, my fingers curling in, wondering exactly how much physical labor it takes to develop a forearm like that. Not to mention the bulging pecs sitting above.
“So how ex is he? If he’s here…” Smith picks up his beer and wanders over to the table. He pulls out a chair and flips it around. He straddles it and leans over the top. He doesn’t ask to help with dinner, which I appreciate.
“She broke up with him right before we left Pennsylvania. He didn’t give two fucks that her grandmother died.” I scrape the cutting board into the large bowl I chose for the simple tossed salad.
“I see,” he muses. “And you let her date this guy?”
I open a drawer and rustle around through the utensils. “I don’t let Bennett do anything. She’s a grown woman.” Disgust colors my face as my slowly improving opinion of him plummets. “Should I assume you don’t mean to indicate that Bennett isn’t capable of making her own choices or—”
He holds up a hand. “Let me stop you right there. You’re right. That wasn’t how I meant that to come out. Cut me some slack man. This is the longest conversation I’ve had that doesn’t involve building in…years?” He holds his hands wide, the beer in his half empty bottle sloshing against the sides. His face relaxes, his lips parting slightly. There’s a faint white line through the plumper left side of his lower lip. It must have been split wide open at one point.
I find a peeler and grab a potato, attacking it. Rustic mash it is. “Cut me some slack. Of course, I told her I thought the guy was a sleazy prick. Bennett’s never dated anyone for any length of time since I’ve known her. You know how it is. You own your own business, right? We went from college, to making our names as chefs, to opening a restaurant. There just wasn’t time.”
He takes another sip while he considers what I’ve said. No one could accuse Smith of being a bad listener. He doesn’t ask the question I’m expecting next. “Tell me about you and Bennett. What you’re willing to share,” he adds.
I toss the potato in a bowl of cold water and grab another. “We met in college. First day.” I attack the potato with a peeler, paying close attention to hide the soft smile I get whenever I remember how we met. “We’ve been together ever since.”
His eyebrow jacks up so fast the skin of his forehead creases like an accordion. “We’re best friends. Nothing more. We were two small town foodies who stuck out like sore thumbs at our snobby college in Vermont. Two kindred spirits who shunned corporate coffee and couldn’t afford professional knives. It was only natural we’d gravitate towards each other.”
“So it was just food?” he runs a finger around the mouth of his beer bottle. What kind of neanderthal boils a friendship that’s spanned the entirety of the participants adulthood down to one element?
