8. Pen
8
PEN
T he air is cold but the sun is shining as I step out of the truck I borrowed with Wren’s help, my feet crunching on the thin layer of snow as I make my way up the driveway to the porch of the modest cabin I’d called home.
Oma opens the door before I’ve even climbed the steps, her smile wide and her arms stretched out for me.
“Oh, my sweet girl, how are you?”
I can’t hold back my sob, instead falling into her arms as she leads me back inside. The woodstove crackles as we sit on the couch, the room warm and smelling like cinnamon, and I feel like it’s been years since I felt this at home.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” I whisper. Her face is sympathetic but her grip on my hand is firm, like she’s anchoring me to her, her strength seeping into me as I continue. “I thought I could marry him. I thought I wanted to marry him, but I just…I couldn’t and I haven’t even talked to Carter.”
“I never liked him,” she says simply.
Unapologetically.
And I gape at her. “What?”
“That boy has always had a stick shoved so far up his ass it’s amazing he can even sit down.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You can guide your children, Pen, but you’re not supposed to dictate their lives. You were happy and then you weren’t but you didn’t see that. Wouldn’t have made a difference if I said something or not.” She shrugs. “You thought it was what you wanted.”
I swallow hard. “It was but then it didn’t feel like me but”—I pause—“there were more opportunities and I just wanted to make sure you’d always be taken care of.”
“I’m old, but I’m not dying, Penelope.”
“I know, but what if something had happened? I was away for so long and?—”
“And nothing,” she huffs, waving me off. “Your granddaddy left me with plenty, and hand to God if you stayed with Carter because you thought I needed looking after, Penelope Stewart…”
“I need coffee,” I blurt out, rubbing the spot between my eyebrows, the beginning of a headache coming on.
“I’ll make you coffee, but I think I’ll stick with bourbon for this conversation.”
My lips twitch as I follow her into the kitchen, a plate of cookies cooling on the rack.
Thumbprint with raspberry jam.
Lake’s favorite.
“You made cookies.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, turning on the coffee pot before pulling down a mug and a glass. “Lake won’t take any money so I try and feed him instead.” When I don’t say anything, she snorts. “He brings in the firewood for me and makes sure there’s enough on the back porch when we have a storm if he can’t get here. Plows the driveway and picks up my groceries when I’m not up to going into town.”
The man I was going to marry had used my grandmother like a bargaining chip, tugging at my heartstrings and draining the fight from my system every time. On the other hand, the man I’d only ever considered a friend has been stacking her firewood and bringing her groceries.
The realization isn’t as surprising as it should be.
Lake and Carter are nothing alike and they never have been. I’d been their only common denominator, and they hadn’t been shy about their dislike for the other. I just thought it was a jealousy thing, not a fucked-up moral compass thing.
Oma sets the mug down in front of me, and I don’t argue when she pours a healthy shot of bourbon into in before pouring some into her own glass.
“Your grandaddy made sure I’d always be taken care of, so don’t you worry about that.”
“I need more, Oma. I need to know you’re all right.”
Carter’s comments had been well placed—subtle—so they were always in the periphery of my mind. I’d never worried about Oma and a part of me had been so thankful that he was so willing, so invested in our relationship that he would want to take care of her too.
I’m such an idiot.
“You should have come to me sooner,” she huffs and I dip my head because she’s right. But Carter had seemed so sincere, and I trusted him. I had no reason to think he’d do anything to hurt me or mislead me.
“I know.”
“There was a rancher that had been after our land for years, but your grandaddy always told him no, because we did just fine and this land had been in his family for generations.” Her eyes soften as she looks at me. “There was a settlement when your parents passed that we tucked away for you, but it’d also been a wake-up call.”
We didn’t talk about my parents’ accident often. I’d been young and all I’d known is that they left for a long weekend and never came home. The fact that they’d died skiing in Banff didn’t change anything.
“So, what happened?” I ask, wincing as I take a sip, the bourbon burning more than the coffee.
“When the rancher came back, your grandaddy told him to make an offer.” She laughs. “He didn’t try to lowball us but he did end up paying well over asking price.” Her smile is fond, wistful. “He knew we were selling to make sure we could raise you here, and back then it was a gentleman’s game.”
“I’m sorry you had to sell,” I say, taking another gulp, this time relishing the feel of it.
She tsks and shakes her head. “It was the right thing to do, and he made out just as well.” The chair creaks as she shifts. “The point is that I am just fine here, and when I’m gone it’ll be yours.”
“No,” I say, covering my face with my hands. “I cannot handle anything else today.”
Chuckling, she pulls one hand from my face and holds it. “I’m fine, Pen. Now let’s figure out how to make you fine too.”