Cider House Fools, page 9
He knew who I was. I had no idea who he was. Bennett had showed me a couple of photos of the boys she grew up loving, but they were all so young, I didn’t make the connection. It wouldn’t be a stretch for him to figure out who the stranger in town is. Does Bennett know he still pines for her? My cock swells as I see myself taking them together. I reach down, flexing my hips up to adjust myself as I shake the images clear. I’m sure the last thing Bennet wants is her present mixing with her past. But what if that is exactly what she needs?
Chapter nine
November 29, Tuesday afternoon
Whittaker
My lap top sits, patiently glowing as I glower at the empty spreadsheet in front of me. I could x out that program and check my email, but I know what’s waiting for me in my inbox.
I’m going to lose the farm. My operating expenses have skyrocketed. I’ve worked my fingers to the bone to keep it, to continue the family tradition and keep my father’s dreams of a multigenerational farm alive. My father’s dream. Farming was never my dream.
“What do you want Whittaker?” Sixteen-year-old Bennett leans over me, dripping cold lake water on my hot skin. I crack my eyes open, peering up at her at the direct rays of the summer sun burning my eyelids red are cut off. Her braids dangle on the side of her head. Her eyes crinkle up at the corner as she grins. Her lips are blue, her freckles stark against her pale skin. She shivers violently, spraying another round of cold wet drops to sizzle on my skin. I shiver, loving the sensation. It’s similar to how she makes me feel every time I look at her.
“I want to lay here until just before the afternoon fades. Then I want some of that chicken salad and apple pie Gran said she was going to make. Then I want to get my chores done, so I can take you to the hayloft and make you squeal,” I answer. My hands snake up, closing around her braids. I pull her down so I can pepper her face with kisses. She allows it, before pushing herself back up to a squat. I roll my head on my folded hands, grinning at the halo around her as her head blocks the center of the sun.
“No, Whitty. What do you want to do? With the rest of your life? What do you want to accomplish?” She’s insistent, her voice no longer playful.
I curl up and twist, turning to my side, my knuckles digging into my cheek as my elbow lands in the puddle of the water she’s dripping all over me. “You know what I want. Hey,” I reach over and lay my warm hand across her cool thigh, above her knee, giving it a tug so she’ll look at me. “What’s with the serious questions Bennie?”
“We’re seniors next year. We have to decide what we’re going to do with the rest of our lives.”
“Jesus. Summer break started two seconds ago,” I mutter, flopping back and lifting my head. I bend my arms back and lock my fingers together into a pillow. The raft rocks gently on the placid lake from me shifting my weight. “Kiss me and I’ll tell you,” I offer slyly, happy to use the information she wants as a bargaining chip. I’d do anything to have an excuse to touch her.
She leans forward and slaps my chest with a cold, macerated hand. “I’m serious!”
“So am I,” I retort. She chews her thumbnail, considering her options. Her eyes glide down my chest and over my swim trunks. I let my eyes drift shut, waiting for her. I know I’ve won.
The light swirls like an oil slick on the back of my lids until she crawls over me, twisting her body into position. My stomach clenches, my sun-heated skin shuddering as she lays her chilly, wet, goose-pimpled body across mine. I loop an arm around her.
We sigh together, her in pleasure as she drops her face to my chest and my warmth soaks into her, me with the bone deep satisfaction I get any time her skin is in contact with mine. My fingers draw patterns across her back. “What do I want Bennett?” I repeat her question back to her, curious what her answer will be. Does she already know the answer? Is she seeking a different one?
“You think you want to stay here and take over the farm someday,” she answers, her mouth drawing down into a frown against me. Her fingers flex, digging into my shoulders at the end of her statement.
Her reaction triggers a jumble of mixed feelings. I choose my words carefully. I’m not as glib and smooth tongued as Balthasar. “I like farming and making my folks happy makes me happy.” I tighten my arms, rebalancing her still slippery wet skin atop mine. Dropping my lips to the top of her head, I give her a quick kiss. She sighs, her weight sinking into me. I rest a hand over her back, almost forgetting I have a question to answer. The bliss of having her stretched the length of my body completes me. I caress her back, running my fingers down the delicate dip of her lumbar spine, trying to assemble the words that will accurately convey what my heart wants her to hear. “But…I chose to be with you Bennett. I don’t care if I tread on dirt or concrete, as long as I’m walking with you. You’re my future. My family.”
A diesel chugs, breaking into my memory and drawing me back to the presence. I blink, standing up and walking to the window so I can see farther down the drive. It’s Gran’s truck. My heart spasms painful. Hope flares bright that she might be behind the wheel until the truck rolls to stop and the door opens. The person that slides out isn’t a Vanderberg.
He sits down at my table with ease, oddly graceful as he folds his large frame into one of my mother’s old chairs. He’s relaxed, comfortably perusing the kitchen as I make a fresh pot of coffee. Neither of us say a word until I drop a mug of black coffee and a bottle of whiskey in front of him.
“Half an Irish coffee. I can work with this.” He pours, then leans back and takes a healthy swallow of hot coffee. Setting it back on the table, he leans across, arm outstretched. “Franklin Patterson.”
I meet him across the table and shake his hand, but I stay silent. He obviously knows who I am, or he wouldn’t be here. I look around the room, seeing it with a stranger’s eye. My mother’s kitchen, the source of so many core childhood memories, is dingy in the dim winter light. The room is the literal representation of the previous inhabitants, a ghost of what it once was.
Am I the same as this kitchen? Am I rooted in the past while the world spins lazily on without me?
“You must be Whitaker. The other two are the brothers.” He pulls me out of my melancholy musings.
I incline my head, letting him know he’s correct. “What can I do for you?”
He opens his mouth to speak. His cell phone rings. He pulls it out of the inside of his jacket. His eyebrows lift. He holds a finger to his lips, then lays it on the table, pressing the speaker button before he answers. My eyebrows knit in confusion. What is he doing?
“Weston. To what do I owe the pleasure this fine morning?” His mouth is stretched into grin that most would consider pleasant. But his eyes are hard, the skin at his temples stretched tight. He slings an arm around the back of the chair, his left leg sliding forward from underneath the chair. The effect of his posture is one of cool indifference, but tension coils out of him.
“Franklin. Bennett has turned her phone off. Put her on please.” I lift an eyebrow at my guest. He shakes his head once, nostrils flaring, his lips pressed together tightly. His arm comes off the back of the chair as he sits up, folding his hands together on the table. He moves silently, like a big cat, the old wooden chair not emitting a single groan as he shifts his weight over it.
“I would be my pleasure to relay a message for you.” I lift an eyebrow myself. His tone drips with disgust, indicating he would love nothing more than to run the caller through a baler.
“I’m sure. I can always fly out to lend her my support in person in her time of need.” The voice emanating from the phone drips malintent. My mouth drops open. Who is this asshole?
Franklins laugh is more like a growl. “This is definitely not your scene, but hey, I’m sure the local motel has plenty of rooms available.”
The phone call ends. I stare at my guest expectantly.
“That was Weston Holbrook,” he announces.
The name means nothing to me. I shake my head slowly.
“Of Holbrook Capital,” he says slowly, looking at me expectantly.
I shrug helplessly. The name means nothing.
“He owns thirty percent of the stock in Bennett’s and my restaurant. He’s also pretended to give a fuck about her for the last couple of years.”
I’m stunned. “That guy is her boyfriend?”
“She says they are done, but I guarantee he’ll come crawling back around. He’s a roach. He invested his funds into our restaurant just before he blew a multimillion-dollar deal for his daddy and got cut off. He wants to sell. He needs the money.”
“The farm…” I trail off, knowing the man at my table has reached the same conclusion I did. “She can’t sell the farm. She’ll regret it the rest of her life.” I blurt, clenching my fists on my thighs under the table. I know Bennett. She won’t be ready to let go of her childhood. There are too many core memories there. That property is the last place she saw her dad. The house contains the last room she hugged Gran in.
He rubs his neck, squinching his eyes shut and stretches the skin of his forehead tight before exhaling. The guy looks like he has a massive headache coming on. He tucks his phone back in his pocket. “You seem confident about what she should do. That’s odd, considering you haven’t spoken to her in years.”
“Can I do something for you Franklin?” Irritation simmers under my skin. Who does he think he is walking into my home and speaking to me as if we have an established relationship? It’s obvious he’s here to suss me out. I wonder if Bennett knows that he’s here. My money is on a big fat no.
“You can.” He swipes his knit hat off his head, running a hand through the thick head of hair that appears to be unaffected by the cap. “We saw the lawyer this morning.”
I wait for him to expound, surprised that this stranger was the person to accompany Bennett to the reading of Gran’s will. Why wasn’t Melanie with her? Who exactly is Franklin Patterson to Bennett besides being her business partner?
“Bennett has to make a decision that’s going to change the course of her life.” He tilts his head, waiting for me to have an opinion. I’m not big on conjecture or giving folks what they expect. I don’t owe this stranger a reaction, but talking about the farm makes me think of Gran. She’d swat me with a kitchen towel if she saw me be rude to a guest.
“Gram gave her the option to keep or sell, guilt free,” I guess, a small smile ghosting across my face as I think of the woman who loved me like I was her own.
“She did. She must have been an incredible woman. I know how much Bennett adored her. A lot of folks would care more about the family legacy than the happiness of the person they are saddling with that obligation. I’m sorry I never met her,” he says, regret lacing his tone. He picks up the mug and takes another swallow of his coffee.
I nod in agreement. “You come from a farm?” I ask. I have no idea why. His comment makes me think he’s familiar with the way of life. I shouldn’t care, but I’m suddenly itching to know more about the man Bennett brought home with her. He’s big, broad across the shoulders, oozing a quiet confidence absent of artifice or swagger. He doesn’t present with the cloud of stasis the three of us wear like a cape. He must have be a breath of fresh air to Bennett.
“I did. Dairy. My dad’s family. But I was the black sheep of the family. I preferred Angus to Jersey.” White teeth flash as he smiles.
“You’re her chef?” I’m sure if I meant that as a question or a statement.
“I am her business partner and her best friend.” He rubs his hands on his thighs under the table. “I am here to make sure this transition goes as smoothly as possible for her. To make sure she has the support she needs to make the right decision.” He speaks mildly, his tone carefully construed to be nonthreatening but still warning. He exudes inevitability. His control is impressive. Smith would be still be raging and doing a piss poor job of trying to hide it after the phone call from her weaselly sounding boyfriend.
This is why he’s here. They must be very good friends if she told him about the three of us. He’s politely letting me know that he won’t tolerate any interference while Bennett makes her decision.
I nod. “And you think because we were childhood friends I’m going to somehow make adult Bennett’s choice difficult? I haven’t seen her in years. I don’t know anything about her or her life.” I fixate on the label of his jacket, unable to meet his eyes as my heartrate increases. Lies. I’m lying.
He grins, this time with a touch of malice. “Sure.” He stands, draining his mug and sliding his cap back over his head. “Thank you for the hospitality.” He hesitates. I wait, unable to stop myself from being curious about what he has to say. “All these years…I didn’t realize how tied she was to this place, how much she needs—” he stops abruptly, searching my face. “Part of why I came today was to satisfy my own curiosity. I wanted to meet the men who had her in the palms of their hands and threw her away.”
I want to bite back, to kick this impertinent asshole out of my house, yet not a single muscle twitches. I remain propped up against the cabinets, my arms folded across my chest, my face stoically impassive. I don’t know how much history Bennett has disclosed. I don’t know how close the two of them are. Knowing wouldn’t change the fact that I don’t owe him my side of the story. I could refute his statement. I could vehemently protest. I’ve never loved another woman like I loved Bennett Vanderberg. He’s got the facts twisted. She left me. She packed up her life and disappeared with a word.
He gets up to leave, opening the door to let himself out, but then stops in the door frame. “Bennett is everything to me. She’s strong and resilient. She loves with out reserve and gives wholeheartedly. She’s so amazing, I can’t help but wonder what she was like before the three of you broke her.” He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. “I used to think all she needed was time. But watching her fall apart here…some things can’t be repaired without the original parts.” He scans my face, his eyes filling with disappointment when I am found lacking. “If you ever loved her, cared for her at all, leave her to mourn in peace.”
I don’t move until the door shuts behind him. He gets in the truck, staring straight ahead as the diesel warms back up. I watch as he backs down the drive and then turn, sagging against the door. He’s got what happened wrong, but going after him to tell him the truth serves no purpose now. I consider swinging the door open and chasing him down. Then I could shout my truth. I could tell him what. I refuse to admit to anyone. That I still love her and I didn’t break her. Smith did. Smith is the one that broke her into pieces sharp enough to excise everyone she loved when she left.
But I stay in the entry way, pressed against the door until the familiar rumble disappears and the cold seeps through my shirt into my skin. Telling Franklin Patterson my version of the truth serves no one. Disbelief and maybe, a shred of pity would be the only possible response to such a confession, and I need neither. Good for Bennett she found someone willing to be so loyal. He’ll figure out the truth soon enough. Right after she runs and abandons him the same way she did me.
Chapter ten
November 29, Tuesday Evening
Bennett
A miserably small stream of hot water sluices down my back. Gran’s shower head is old and most of the holes are caked shut with hardened mineral deposits from the well water. The weak trickle isn’t enough roll over my shoulders, or to keep the front of my body warm.
The lights were off when I got home. The house is quiet in a way I can’t recall ever experiencing. I’m ashamed of the relief I felt when I realized he wasn’t here. I should be worried about where he is, but Franklin can take care of himself. I owe him a huge apology, but I don’t think I have the emotional bandwidth to be as sincere as he deserves. I rub the bar of soap between my hands until it produces a few weak bubbles of lather. I am loathe to drag my hands over my body and wash Smith off my skin. There isn’t an inch of me he didn’t touch. Not one curve, one hollow, one wrinkle that he didn’t run his rough palms over.
I thought I was letting him say goodbye.
I was wrong.
Every press of his fingers into my flesh was a brand. Every warm breath that caressed my neck and face reached inside of me, curling around the hopes I keep hidden. When he entered my body, he unlocked and unleashed everything I’ve worked so hard to bury.
My hands slide up and over my stomach, my breasts, my fingertips coming to rest in my suprasternal notch, rubbing over the freckle there. The freckle he remembered. The freckle he licked and kissed. I run my hands over my shoulders, feeling the rough, puckered skin of the burns on his. His shoulders are bigger, his body thicker and more muscular, his skin marked and scarred, yet my fingertips recognized every inch of him.
I scrunch my face tight, wishing tears would come. My life has been upended. My relationship has failed. My business is one or two bad nights away from being in the red. My grandmother is dead. I’ve treated the only person I can one hundred percent rely on like shit. I’m aching for the release a good cry would bring.
I should have went home immediately after my blow up at Franklin and indulged in a good, cleansing cry. That would have been the healthy thing to do. The right thing to do. But what did I do? Why not fuck the guy that shattered my heart and blew up my life?
My eyes open, rapidly blinking. There are no tears. They burn, dry like the desert, unwilling to give me the release I crave.
