Cider House Fools, page 6
She doesn’t answer, but I can feel her approval.
Chapter six
November 29 Tuesday
Bennett
The smell of bacon and strong coffee is the only thing that will get my ass out of bed before eight in the morning. A lot of folks might think that makes me lazy, or wonder how a girl raised on a farm can sleep so late, but I just tell them to buy a restaurant and then let me know what hours they are working. I don’t get to bed until four most nights.
But I didn’t work yesterday. Yesterday was my first whole day on this earth without Gran.
The bedroom door creaks open. “Who wants breakfast and a bloody?” Franklin pokes his face in the door. He’s showered and his beard is combed. His hair is styled in a pompadour. He looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine. I reach up and pat my head, cringing at the rats nest I’m sporting.
“I’m not hungry.” I pull myself up and sit. “Do I look like death?”
“You look like you fell into a pond full of leaches and then got hit by a baler.”
I can’t help it. I snort. “Give me that the grub and sit with me, you big dick.” Franklin sets the tray over my lap and sits at the end of the bed. The tray is so beautiful I almost don’t want to touch it. There’s a perfectly folded, fluffy omelet with melted Colby Jack cheese oozing out the sides, 3 strips of bacon, and golden brown, crispy hashbrowns. A bowl of sliced bananas and strawberries sits next to a bloody Mary, a glass of orange juice, and a steaming mug of coffee. My eyes fill, ignoring the warning I send them to act right when I bite my lip hard. Tears flood over my cheeks when I speak. “I feel guilty I’m ravenously hungry. I feel terrible you felt responsible to come here with me and leave our business unattended. I—”
“Bennett, please, eat.” He leans over and plucks the fork off the tray, holding it up until I take it. he jerks his head toward the food. “If you feel bad I’m here and not at the restaurant then at least do me the courtesy of eating this bomb ass breakfast I slaved over.”
I cut myself a huge bite and stuff it in my mouth. My eyes roll back as the flavors explode in my mouth. “Oh my God this is so good,” I mumble around the food. A satisfied grin curls across his face. He reaches over and plucks a string of melted cheese off my chin. He tilts his head back and drops it in his mouth. My fork slows on its way back to my plate. I want to tell him he’s gross, but the insult dies on my tongue when he reaches out and rubs his thumb under my lower lip. He snatches a piece of bacon off the plate, staring right back at me as he folds it into his mouth.
He swallows and smirks. “Cat got your tongue?” I’m suddenly filled with the need to scrutinize my omelet. Every omelet has one perfect bite filled with the exact ratio of egg, cheese, and filling. Usually I save it for last. Franklin knows this. He reaches for my chin, but I jerk away. My face is so hot it feels like it’s boiling. My cheeks must be redder than a fresh cooked Maine lobster.
“Don’t hide from me.” My eyes snap back up. That was an order. The words are soft and quiet, but there’s no mistaking the command behind them.
“I wasn’t hi—”
“Don’t lie to me either.” He slides off the bed, tapping me on the nose. The side of his mouth quirks up, letting me know he’s not mad. “Eat your breakfast and clean up. You had a visitor this morning. I’m sure he won’t be the last.” The bedroom door creaks as he pulls it open. “I’m here because I want to be here Bennett. The restaurant is just a building. It can burn for all I care. You, you’re my home. Where you are is where I belong. Don’t insult me by saying otherwise.”
The door shuts with a click.
An hour later, I’m fed, dressed, and my hair and face are presentable. I bring the empty tray back to the kitchen, stopping in the arched opening. I see her everywhere. Cooking something in her cast iron skillet at the stove. Washing dishes at the sink. Sitting at the table with a mug of coffee and a battered paperback in her hand. The tray rattles in my hands as my eyes find the hooks next to the stove. Four aprons. There are four aprons hanging down the wall. Most of the time there were only three. Because she was always wearing one. Franklin takes the tray out of my hands and sets it on the table before enfolding me in a hug.
“I’m sorry,” I sigh, giving in to the urge to apologize again, my voice muffled against his chest.
His arms wrap around me, pulling tight. His body heat soaks into me, his smokey, homey familiar scent grounding me. I’m being ridiculous. I need to get my head on straight and stop have inappropriate thoughts about my best friend. I know how he feels about women. Using my grief as an excuse to allow myself to manufacture fantasies and turn his caring gestures into signals of a different kind is no way to return the love and kindness he’s giving me so freely.
Franklin loves me. I may have harbored a crush on my bestie for years but I have fully accepted that he’s never wished for anything more than the deep, albeit platonic, love he has for me. He breaks the hug and grasps my shoulders, gently pushing me away for an inspection. “I’m impressed. You look like a successful businessperson. Your clothes are too loose, and your eyes are breaking my heart, but to anyone who doesn’t know you, you are well put together.”
I manage a small smile as a shiver trails up my spine. What if I run into someone who used to know me as well as Franklin does? Did the last ten years erase a lifetime of familiarity? He stares intently, watching my thoughts slide across my face. I’m not ready to have that conversation, so I change the subject. “Have you heard from my mom?” I ask, breaking his hold on me to get another cup of coffee.
“Your mom? Yes. Your mother called and said we have to meet her at Sylvie’s.” I freeze, the coffee pot still in my hand. I can feel him behind me, studying my reaction. I take a deep breath in and exhale, forcing my shoulder to relax. I tip the pot over my mug and watch the dark liquid fill my cup. The familiar clatter of the old glass carafe back into the plastic coffee maker calms me enough to turn and answer him.
“Did she say why?” I lift the mug to my face and inhale the aroma of my childhood.
“She said, and I quote, don’t worry they won’t be there.” He tilts his head and rolls his lips in as he watches me fail miserably at containing my relief. Then he decides to test the water. “Bennie, it’s been ten years. You had a boyfriend until two days ago.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out as I shake my head and shrug helplessly. It’s one thing to lie about making a face over breakfast. Quite another to lie about the state of my heart. He stiffens as I struggle to find the words. “I see. There are still feelings.”
He isn’t referring to Weston. I turn around, hunching over my coffee as my eyes fill. “That…that’s not fair,” I whisper, gasping for enough air to counteract the weight on my chest. His judgement plows into me, like a Mack truck through a wall of cheap motel, decimating the teetering equilibrium I’m struggling to maintain. I set the coffee down and lean on the countertop. In. Out.
“That’s my girl. No matter how shattered your heart is, time will rudely march on. It won’t allow you to go back, but it will let you move forward, away from the things that hurt. Time doesn’t encourage stasis. You can’t go back, but you won’t hurt this much forever. I promise.” The scent of roses and bread fresh out of the oven fills my nose. I clench the countertop. She’s there, behind me, with me. Maybe if I don’t turn around she’ll stay.
My phone rings. Gran’s presence is gone, just like that.
Franklin is quiet on the drive to Sylvie’s law office. He doesn’t even ask me for directions, just steers the truck into town and down main street, pulling into one of the diagonal parking slots in front of the Northern Paradise Properties and Ingram Law Offices sign. Sylvie and her husband Henning share an office. She practices law, and he’s a realtor. the newspaper is gone, the bricks where the sigh used to be a darker color. The Café has a new name. So does the hair salon. But the thrift shop, the shoe store, and the bakery look exactly the same.
Everything has changed, yet it looks exactly the same. Driving down the main drag of my hometown is surreal.
Sylvie greets me at the door. “Bennett. I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m sure you’re not surprised your grandmother had everything ready to go.” She smiles sympathetically, sweeping her arm out towards an open door behind the small reception area. “Can I get you something to drink before we sit down?”
“No, I’m good,” I answer faintly. Franklin’s hand is warm on my back as he directs me into Sylvie’s office. It’s done in a warm brunette paint. The furniture is a cream microsuede, and plants hang in each corner of the office. The air smells tropical, like coconuts and suntan lotion. Sylvie’s office is as warm and welcoming as the woman who works inside of it.
Sylvie sits down across from us and taps her fingers on the file laying on the desk in front of her. “Everything is in this file. I can read her will to you. But she also left a recording. I’ve closed the office Bennett. If you want to watch the video, there’s no one in the office right now. Henning is out showing houses. It’s just us.”
“That is incredibly kind of you Sylvie.” Franklin takes my hand, rubbing the back of it in a silent show of support. “I’d like to watch the video please,” I ask, swallowing hard. I don’t want to watch it in her office, in a public setting, but I’m pretty sure Sylvie has to be present. She’s graciously offered me as much privacy as she can. She opens her laptop, waiting a moment for it fire up and taps a few buttons on the keyboard.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I answer. She turns the laptop around and hits play.
Gran is sitting in her chair at home. She has a pink housecoat on, and pink turban on her head. Her long white braid is gone. She’s thin, her cheeks gaunt and hallow, but her eyes, her eyes shine, full of the love and fire she was known for. “I suppose I just start talking?”
“Take your time Bea. Say whatever you want.” Sylvie’s voice floats from behind the recording device as I gasp and tremble. Franklin pulls my chair closer and slides an arm around my shoulders.
“Bennett, honey, I know this will all be a surprise for you.” She pauses, chuckling softly. “I can see you right now, sitting in Sylvie’s office. I bet you feel like a hot mess kiddo. You’re heartbroken, absolutely torn up on the inside with grief and guilt. You’ve had to put your business aside and come home, so along with all of that overwhelming grief, you’re scared shitless.”
Franklin chuckles. “Bingo,” he murmurs.
“Put the guilt away honey. Do I miss you? Of course I do. Am I upset you haven’t made it home? Sure. But you’re working sixteen-hour days building your dream. I’m so damn proud of you Bennett. You’re out in the world, working your fingers to the bone and making life happen, just like your grandfather and I did. You’re doing work you love. Life is a series of sacrifices, my darling, and I raised you to be strong enough to make them. You can’t build a business from the ground up and take a vacation whenever the mood strikes you.” She reaches for a glass on the table beside her. The tea in the glass ripples from the tremors in her hand.
“I know you love the farm Bennett. Just like you love your restaurant. I’ve thought long and hard about what to do with that. There’s nothing I’d love more than to see the next generation of Vanderberg children, regardless of what their surname is, running the place. It got me to thinking, is it fair for me put my dreams on my granddaughter? Should I sell the farm and leave her to run her restaurant?” She takes another sip of tea and sets the glass back down.
“If it were my inheritance, I’d want the choice. So here’s what we are going to do. I’m going to make a request. It’s a last wish really, but Bennett, if you can’t do it, you can’t do it. Do not jeopardize your restaurant, you hear me?” She points a trembling finger at the camera and smiles. “Remember, as you make your choice, in the end the farm is only a piece of acreage. My true legacy is you and the boys.”
That smile wavers as my eyes fill. How many times did I stare down the barrel of that finger only to find her stern face curling into a smile? Gran could never stay mad at me.
“This is the last will and testament of Beatrice Louise Redmond Vanderberg. I ask that my granddaughter Bennett remain at the farm through the new year. At that time, if she doesn’t wish to stay and run the farm, it will be offered to Whittaker Schultz and Balthasar Ryerson, at which time Sylvie will discuss the details of the sale with Whittaker and Balthasar. Eighty percent of the proceeds of the sale will go to you Bennett. If you decide to keep the farm, it’s yours, along with all of the animals, equipment, and headaches that come with it.
Use this time wisely Bennett. You and your father were my greatest accomplishments in life. I love you isn’t enough to express what you mean to me, my darling girl. It was my privilege to be your Gran.” She looks away, waving her hand at the camera. The recording cuts off.
I’m shivering, even with two layers on and my arms wrapped around my midsection. Franklin’s body heat radiates next to me but doesn’t penetrate the cold inside of me. Sylvie gets up from the desk and leaves the room, quietly closing the door behind her. I blink at the blank screen of the laptop. Snow falls gently in large flakes outside of the window, filling my peripheral vision with a soft peace that only serves to highlight the contrast between it and the frozen nothingness inside of me. “Why can’t I cry? Am I all cried out already?” My voice sounds small and far away, not at all like me.
Franklin rubs my back. The motion rocks me in the chair, pushing and pulling me in a small circle. “Are you surprised?” he asks.
“No.” I know he wants me to elaborate, but I can’t. My mind is numb. “I can’t stay here.” My neck feels like a brittle stick as I crane my heavy head towards the window. I want to stretch myself out in the downy snow and close my eyes.
“I asked you not to lie to me Bennett,” he says quietly, knowing I am not talking about Sylvie’s office. “I know you aren’t doing it intentionally, but you’re lying. You can stay here. You owe it to her, and to yourself. I know there are things here you don’t want to face, but I’m guessing that’s the whole point of her making such a big ask.”
The simple truth of his words needle and prick my brain like sleet. His hand is still rubbing my back tirelessly, in slow, warm circles, as if he were content to sit here for as long as it would take to warm me. The comfort his touch brings dissipates as he speaks, the motion becoming nauseating as his words worm into the slush inside of my head. He isn’t consoling me, he’s lulling me into complacency; hypnotizing me, so I would blindly agree to stay here. A klaxon blares through the fog and mist in my mind, as my thoughts coalesce. The realization so chilling, so foreign, it penetrates my grief.
I whip back around to face him. He’s so beautiful. I’ve always loved basking in the calm kindness that emanates from his tall, masculine frame. But the vibe radiating from him now isn’t anything I’m familiar with. I can’t believe he had the fucking audacity to lecture me about lying twice in one morning.
My hand darts out, smacking the arm that rubbing my back away. “Don’t touch me,” I hiss. “Is this why you’re here? Did you know? Did you know she was dying and planning this?” A low laugh grates out of me as I shake my head. “Unbelievable. Even if you didn’t know. You actually want me to stay and get sucked into their bullshit and get hurt all over again.”
“Bennett stop.” He stands, lacing his fingers together in front of him as if he’s about to beg. “Don’t say things like that. I know you’re hurting, and you want to lash out but don’t say it, Bennie. Please.”
Grief is an insidious, infectious virus. Gran’s video was a loading dose. My skin is tight as I lean forward, barely containing the waspish anger that bubbles up inside of me listening to Franklin parrot back Gran’s request. My heart has split into pieces. The first is tiny and fluttering, like a baby bird blown out of her nest, caught in the infinite terror of falling. A second piece is nothing more than a necrotic mass of weeping tissue and torn heartstrings. The last piece is pure, pulsating rage.
There is a small voice somewhere, buried under the destruction, warning me not to speak. But I don’t listen. I’m too far gone, too deep into the feverish throes of my emotional sickness. The wounded animal inside of me unhinges my jaw. “You want me to stay because you want to take the restaurant from me. That’s why you came here, why you’re sitting here like the cat who got the cream, isn’t it? You think you can leave me here and take what’s mine.”
I utter one word, one name when Sylvie opens the door. I have nothing left, nothing left to hide. So I ask for the person I want to rescue me. He comes quickly, sliding his big hand into the small of my back as if it hadn’t been years since the last time it had been there. He guides me out of the door and out into the snowfall, lifting me over the hill of snow between the sidewalk and his truck. He opens the door and waits for me to crawl in. He slides into the driver’s seat and back up the truck without a word.
Neither one of us speaks. We sit in silence, Smith driving, me struggling to find balance as two parallel universes collide inside of me. In one of them I’m sitting next to a stranger. In the other I’m sitting with the only person I know who should understand my need to escape. The only person I know, besides myself, who was capable of leaving everything, and everyone they loved behind.
Smith. He fills up the truck, like an oak tree in the midst of new pine. I keep my face and body pointed forward, surreptitiously studying him from the corner of my eye. His blond hair is buried under his beanie. There are weathered lines around his eyes, and random silver glints among the blond stubble. The hands that grip the wheel are callused; the nails chewed short. He’s wearing a worn work jacket and jeans, with the hood of a sweatshirt hanging behind him.
