Cider House Fools, page 24
“If you touch me at any point in this conversation, I will slam you through this table by your neck,” Smith warns.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Balthasar grins. The corners of his mouth fall as he takes in the grim expression on Smith’s face. “Did someone else die? Jesus, Smith, what happened?”
John drops two beers on the table. A scrawny teen follows him, balancing a large round tray covered in plates loaded with fried chicken, mashed potatoes and a California mix covered in a creamy cheese sauce. The conversation halts as he drops the plates in front of us.
John must sense he’s interrupted something because he works quickly, muttering, “Whittaker I brought you fried chicken. I can get you something else if you like. Elnora Schuitema and her cronies are in the corner booth and Mattius James and his gang are two tables behind you.”
I nod to John. The chicken is what I would have ordered. “Noted. Thanks John.” Since Balthasar is the only one of the three of us that maintains any ability to be polite in society, he graciously thanks the barkeep for his courtesy warning to be mindful of we say. If either table he mentioned catches wind of our conversation and decides the content is worthy the whole town will know before the roosters crow.
Once John and his trainee disappear, the three of us dig in. Balthasar throws his brother multiple dirty looks, but Smith’s silence must be enough convince him no one has died. We eat in silence until Balthasar has enough. He tosses the bones of his third piece of chicken down on the plate and wipes the grease off his mouth. His normally plush lips, the ones I’ve watch wrap around my cock more times than I can count, thin. “If you don’t open your fucking mouth and tell me what the point of this friendly little lunch is, brother dearest, I’ll slit three tires on every single vehicle you own.” He uncoils and drapes himself back over his chair.
I snort, knowing he’ll follow through on his threat and manage to leave no evidence. He may embrace a lifestyle that Smith considers frippery, but Smith forgets he’s a work callused farm boy just like the rest of us. Smith isn’t the only Ryerson boy that can kick ass and take names when the mood strikes.
“We need to discuss Weston Holbrook,” Smith announces quietly. “I heard from my commercial real estate contact. He’s been quietly making enquiries about multiple development projects of mine, including the one I’m building for myself. She also said he contacted the agriculture agent and made enquiries about three specific properties.”
“How do you know who Weston Holbrook is?” Balthasar asks coolly.
“I make it my business to know these things,” Smith grates out.
“Who is Weston Holbrook?” I ask.
“He’s Bennett’s fuck stick of an ex-boyfriend.” Balthasar breaks his stare down with his brother and turns to me. “He’s also in town. He showed up at Gran’s with a pawn shop engagement ring stuffed in a used Tiffany’s box while wearing a suit that cost three times as much as the cracker jacks box bauble in his hand. He came over and let himself into Gran’s house. Franklin and I walked in and found him making himself at home.”
Smith’s fists crash onto the table, making every piece of cutlery and tableware jump. The offending clatter they make as they come back to earth is not enough to disguise his snarl. “Why the fuck did you not think it pertinent to inform me of this?”
“Because you don’t have any skin in the game!” Balthasar spreads his hands wide, his relaxed posture in direct contrast to his cruel gaze. “You’re going to run as soon as—”
“Balthasar!” I exclaim sharply, glancing around at the frozen patrons of Plowed. Smith stands, knocking his chair back to teeter on its back to legs. He pulls his wallet out and tosses a wad of bills on the table.
“Follow me,” he grunts.
Balthasar looks at me. I shrug. “I’d do it,” I mutter, getting up. He’s going to be blazing angry when he finds out I know about Smith’s project and haven’t said anything to him. Even it was only for an hour. Fucking Balthasar and his hot temper. Makes me want to shove him down to his knees and jam my cock into the back of his throat until he’s choking. Bennett would kneel next to him, like a good girl, sliding her index finger between her parted lips to worry with her teeth at the same time she parts her thighs to slides the other hand through her tight, slick little cunt. She’d rub her hot, swollen little nub by herself until…
Balthasar pushes me forward, knocking me out of my fantasy. I follow him as he storms out of the restaurant after Smith. Blinding sunlight hits my eyes the same time as the frigid air, causing my eyes to squint and water. As my vision blurs, I see another man kneel before me. He’s big and burly, as well-groomed as Balthasar and as masculine as Smith. He’s got long, thick hair, tied back with a leather thong, and a barber trimmed beard. I’m about to pull my dick out of Balthasar’s mouth and plunge it into his when—
“Oof.” I grunt, smacking into a warm, hard body. He must have walked faster than me.
“Watch where you’re going. Get in the truck, walk, or fuck straight off to hell. I don’t give a shit,” Balthasar snaps at me, jerking his head to the other side of the truck. Getting short because he’s pissed at Smith is nothing new. His irritation rolls right off me.
Without responding, I walk around the front of the red truck, taking the opportunity to readjust my aching cock inside of my jeans. “Don’t take it out on me just because your extra pissed at Smith. I didn’t do anything.” I hop in the truck and pull the door shut.
His hands grip the steering wheel, so tight his knuckles are white. His breath plumes in the cold as the truck chucks to life. “Don’t lie to me Whittaker. There is too much at stake.”
I laugh derisively. “Like you lied to me about Bennett’s ex-boyfriend?” He puts the truck in gear and guides it out of the parking lot. He hits the gas as soon as he turns onto the road to catch up to Smith.
“It wasn’t on purpose. A lot of stuff has been going on. And we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him again. Honestly, I thought he took the hint and left town.”
“Was that before or after you fucked Franklin?” I glance over out of the corner of my eye to catch his reaction. He doesn’t look the least bit ashamed when he answers.
“Before. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. We’ve never been monogamous. I didn’t think you’d care.”
“You didn’t think I’d care when it involves Bennett?” I ask incredulously.
A huge smile spreads across his face. “Do you care Whittaker? Remember we’ve established we aren’t lying to each other.”
I turn my head and stare out the window, “Don’t ask me questions you know the already know the answer too,” I grumble. “You know I hate that.”
“So tell me. Where is Smith taking me?” He abruptly asks, turning to me with genuine curiosity. I’m grateful for the change in subject, but I don’t want to ruin Smith’s surprise. What he’s done for Balthasar could be the key to changing everything. But I can’t leave Balthasar hanging. I have to at least toss him a crumb.
“It’s nothing you would imagine in a million years.” I say softly, pausing. Balthasar and Smith have had a shitty relationship for years, but after seeing what I saw this morning, I don’t doubt that somewhere, deep inside of his wounded, battered heart, Smith loves his half-brother. I turn back to my friend and occasional lover. “I’m not sure how you’re going to react. Promise me you’ll be an adult. Because I promise you, this was about you first.”
“What the fuck did he do Whittaker?” His eyes narrow, his mouth pinching as suspicion overtakes his curiosity.
“You’ll see,” I say cryptically, doing my best to soften my tone to soothe him as my gut twists with nerves. Balthasar is either going to love or hate what Smith has done. It’s possible that his reaction could tip the scales when Bennett decides whether she is going to keep the farm and stay or whether she is going to leave Stayman, and us, and go back to her life in Pennsylvania. The thought of her leaving and life returning to the same staid, empty version we’ve all been living is like inhaling poison gas. I shake my head, trying to clear my negative thoughts. I won’t ruin this for Balthasar or Smith. Or myself. Because I don’t know how else we are going to keep Bennett here if Balthasar says no.
Chapter twenty-two
December 5 Monday
Bennett
Dawn breaks over the tree line in muddy shades of pinkish gray. Gran’s old rooster manages a lungful loud enough to penetrate my window and my well-rested brain. I sneak out of my room and put an ear to the closed door of the guest room. There’s no light under the door. The light rumble of Franklin’s snores penetrates the solid door, telling me he’s still sound asleep. I back away and slip back into my room, pulling on leggings, a Henley, and a gray sweatshirt. I toss my hair up into a messy bun, slide my now cold feet into a pair of thick socks. I grab a pair of sweatpants and tip toe to the bathroom.
This is exactly what I need. A morning to myself. I slip out into the kitchen and decide to kill two birds with one stone. I dial my mother and start grabbing the ingredients to make a muffin batter. I prop up the phone on the counter and hit speaker as I load up the coffee pot. If I hurry, I can bake the muffins and get the animals fed and put out before Franklin gets up and insists on helping me.
“What a pleasant surprise this morning! Hi honey. I’m so glad to hear from you. I was going to call on my lunch break.” My mother’s voice echoes slightly. I bet she’s in her bathroom putting on her face.
“I don’t have anything important to say, I guess. I thought I’d call and say, I don’t know, good morning?” My cheeks heat as I realize how stupid I sound. I don’t know why I called.
“You don’t have to have anything important to say to call. Makes me happy to know you were thinking of me. What are your plans today?” Her words are slightly muffled and I smile. I can see her leaning into the mirror, her mouth bunched up and stretched to the side as she blends in her foundation.
“Well,” I say, stretching up on my tiptoes and reaching for Gran’s stack of earthenware mixing bowls. “Gran’s visitations start in five days. I’d like to put on a nice luncheon. I want to do her proud mom. I’d like to serve some of the dishes that are on the Smoke and Mirror’s menu. I know it will be expensive, so I wanted your input on that. If you think it’s doable, I was going to ask Franklin if he would help me plan and make the meal.”
“Oh honey, money isn’t an issue. Your stepfather and I would be happy to foot the bill but, are you sure you want to take on so much work? The whole town is going to show up. You’re grieving. I think we should get it catered or talk to the VFW. Ouch! Damn it, hang on, I have to put you on speaker. I just scraped my mascara wand across my eyeball.” Rustling noises float out of my phone speakers.
“Careful you don’t get pink eye,” I mutter and giggle. It feels good to laugh, to have the urge to giggle at something stupid. I pour myself a cup of coffee and grab Gran’s stack of measuring cups out of a drawer. I almost bump it shut with my hip until I remember at the last second I’m trying to keep quiet so Franklin can sleep.
“Okay honey I’m back. I’m blinded, but you have my full attention.”
“I want to have a huge Christmas tree and give gifts to the kids,” I drop my next request firmly, trying to adopt her and Gran’s brook no argument tone.
She surprises me with the tack she takes. “Bennett, it’s a funeral luncheon. How many children do you think will be there?”
I stab a measuring cup into a bag of flour and flop a cup into my dry bowl before I answer. “Let me get you some numbers. Tell me what you think Gran would say if I had all the toys in the world and we knew kids were coming. Farm kids with families that are always poor this time of year,” I add.
“She’d love it,” my mom declares with missing a beat. “You’re right. What can I do to help?”
“Nothing yet. I’ll keep you updated. I’m going to stay home and make calls today. I’ve spent the last two days decorating for Christmas instead of getting shit done or running the business I own.” I don’t mean to sound shrewish but thinking about leaving Smoke and Mirrors in the hands of our sous chefs, no matter how capable they are, leaves a trickle of cold sweat running down my back. I should send Franklin home, I argue with myself. But I know I won’t. I want him here. I want him to stick that thick ass horse cock inside of me and—
“Are you still there, honey? You have plenty of time. I know Gran asked you stay on farm through New Year’s,” she says softly.
I wonder over to the fridge, my cheeks hot as I scold myself for thinking about dick…about dicks…while I’m on the phone with my mother. No oranges, no lemons, no blueberries. But there’s a half gallon of buttermilk. What the fuck? I bite my lip, wondering if Franklin has plans for it. I find sour cream and a pound of butter. Shit. The butter is cold. I glance at the toaster. Bingo. I can see a couple of whole sticks sitting in Gran’s translucent glass butter dish. Two hazards of chefs living together are never having enough room temperature butter and fights over who used whose ingredients. “Bennett?” my mother calls through the phone.
“Sorry mom. I’m in the kitchen trying to get some ingredients together to make some muffins,” I raise my voice, grabbing the jug of buttermilk and the tub of sour cream before hurrying back to the countertop near the phone. I take the phone with me to grab the butter and rifle through Gran’s pantry to find her old handheld mixer.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d decided to decorate the house? I’m happy you are feeling festive, but if you decide to sell you have to pack up Gran’s belongings. Isn’t that making more work for yourself when your…anxious to get back to the restaurant?”
“Mom,” I warn, not wanting to have an argument with her as she veers dangerously close to telling me things I already know. Her comment feels like she’s insinuating I should be packing up Gran’s house and getting back to my business. And she’s right, which is even more irritating.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry honey, but do you realize you called both places home,” she says.
“I did not,” I say firmly. My gut immediately twists from the lie. I throw open the pantry door and dig around I find a bag of brown sugar. Bingo! It’s a little hard but I can work with that. I slop the wet ingredients into another bowl, eyeballing the measurements, as I decide to spill information I know will take my mother’s mind off where I’m calling home. “I didn’t do the decorating myself, so I’m sure I’ll have help taking it down. Besides, I wouldn’t get rid of the family ornaments mom.” I chuckle. “Maybe you need to clean out Doc’s attic and make some room for me.” Since I can’t afford to keep the farm or a rent a storage unit. My hands still. Did I really just think that? I can’t keep the farm. Can I?
“Baby, if you want to keep the farm, I’ll do everything in my power to make that happen for you. You can decide to keep it and sell later. You don’t have to make any decisions now.” Her voice is soft and measured, like she’s gentling a wild filly.
“I have to go mom. I’ll let you know what I find out for the service, Okay? Love you, bye.” I hang up the call and lean on the countertop, pursing my lips to slow my breathing. I can’t keep the farm. I can’t keep the farm. Over and over, I repeat the mantra in my head. I coach myself as I layer the batter with crumble, and then slide the two jumbo muffin tins in the oven.
As soon as I pull the pans out of the oven, I step into my sweatpants, my old boots that Gran has keep by door all these years, and my old chore jacket that still smells faintly of barn and slip out into frozen morning to feed and pasture the animals. The impatient knickers and demanding baas of Gran’s horses and goats is a welcome familiarity as I slip into my old routine of doing morning chores. I find a curry brush in my old tack bucket and decide to give Rosie a brush before letting her out. I’m so busy talking to her that I don’t notice anyone else is in the barn until I hear his voice. How did I never hear the oozing slime that comes out when he opens his mouth?
“This is disgusting Bennett. Do you cook after tromping around in a building full of shit?” Rosie pins her ears back and bares her teeth. I ignore him and lean into the mare, resuming the cyclical brush strokes I’m using to loosen and brush away the thick spots of mud from the old mare’s winter coat.
“What are you doing here Weston?” I do my best to keep my voice neutral, but my gut is tied in knots. Alarm bells are ringing in my head. I’ve never brought Weston home. I never gave him Gran’s address.
“I’m here to support you in your time of need of babe. My bags are in the car. I’ll just take them in.” I stop brushing Rosie and run my palm down her now soft winter coat, smoothing the latest round of dead hair off her.
“I’m not your ‘babe’. You wasted your airfare and time. We broke up. We are never getting back together. Go home Weston.” I school my features, trying to maintain a flat expression.
He throws his back and laughs. It’s sharp and loud, a single burst of derision. Rosie startles, her coat shuddering. Weston doesn’t notice her laid back ears as he drapes his arms over the Dutch door. “So one small argument and we are done? After all I’ve done to support you and the restaurant? What makes you think I’m not in this for the long-haul babe?”
“I’d say specifically it was you being an unsympathetic asshole while I was sobbing and crying about my dead grandmother.” I keep my eyes drilled onto his as I calmly deliver my rationale for the break-up. My spidey senses are spewing warning cobwebs everywhere. Weston’s eyes are a paradox, dead, yet containing a maniac, unhinged glint that scares the shit out of me.
He lifts his arms from the door and unlatches the gate, carefully observing the stall floor before stepping in. His Alexander Galet oxfords look so out of place in the barn a snort bursts out of me. I know he’s a city boy born and raised, but who goes to the country in the midst of winter without a pair of boots? He steps into me, forcing me to look up as he leers and herds me into the stall wall. I swallow hard, my mouth dry. His overbearing, acrid cologne is strong, coating my tongue, making my eyes water and my stomach churn. What did I ever see in him?
