19. Nineteen
Nineteen
LENA
P roblems continue.
Damage along the back fence line by an overzealous truck driver meant a morning wrangling horses one-handed for me—not easy to do, especially with Shadow flicking his ass in my direction every time I tried.
Our first group meetings had to be rescheduled because of a misunderstanding with the film crew.
Ben was none-too-pleased to discover an entitled actor playing with the bunnies, even after we posted more signs not to enter. Ruthie’s cried herself to sleep every night over Ross.
And someone ran through my garden with a golf cart, ruining my cucumbers and my plan to pickle them.
My “vacation” from Saddletree has only made me more stressed.
“Growing pains,” Mr. Wickers says, tipping his coffee mug as we meet on the wraparound deck outside my house overlooking the pond.
I invited Trisha to talk dining room business, Alice Harvey about Ben’s van idea, Dot and Cherry for moral support, Jaye because sets were in transition (and for Dot), and Mr. Wickers because, why not?
“It’ll pass,” he adds on. “All relationships have to iron out the wrinkles.”
“The studio is extremely apologetic about the snafus,” Jaye says as Ruthie hands her a teacup and splashes lemonade into it.
“Jack and I could do without the spotlights shining into our bedroom at all hours,” Alice says, tidying her skirt around her knees, “but we’re not ones to complain.”
Ben has. With our bedroom at the back of the house, closest to the outer trail, we’ve dealt with the lights, too. And the noise. Between that and Ben’s nightmares, it’s a wonder we sleep at all.
“Don’t everyone get your panties in a bunch.
Dr. Jim Hunter is saving humanity from crazy-ass witches out there,” Dot says as if it’s real.
“They’re filming the most elaborate scenes in the woods first while the weather cooperates.
Soon, they’ll move to the house for the tamer stuff—out of sight, out of mind. ”
I doubt it, I think, but don’t say.
“Am I right, Jaye?” Dot turns toward her, though they’re close, like first daters in a movie theater. A magical spark fires when their eyes meet—lips upturned, eyes narrowed, cheeks blushing—as if Cupid has sprinkled love dust over their heads. Or banged their heads together.
“Absolutely right. We have some on-location days coming up. That’ll give everyone a break, too,” she adds with gentle enthusiasm.
“That’ll be nice,” I sigh. “Ben’s been…” I don’t know how to finish my sentence.
Irritated. Quieter than usual. Livid. He blames his frustrations on me—all bitter fruit from the same poisoned tree I let take over our home.
I broke out Avery’s “surefire seduction lingerie” for Ben the other night—it misfired, and I’m still stinging from his rejection.
For the first time in our marriage, he told me he was tired— tired .
With his working interview taking place as we speak, I’m hyped up on high anxiety.
Even so, I report my progress. We discuss the new software I’ve purchased with Ben’s help, and make plans with Trisha and Mr. Wickers to learn it. Cherry agrees to design a logo, and Dot volunteers to take Alice and me van shopping.
Then, we agree to Friday afternoon meetings for future updates on our progress, which I promptly add to the family calendar.
When the meeting’s over, Ruthie and I walk the group downstairs, saying goodbye at the barn’s entrance. Mr. Wickers and Trisha leave together, and so do Dot and Jaye. My heart flutters, hoping that my sweet friends find love like me.
But my shoulders slump. Ben and I aren’t exactly ideal models for happily-ever-after right now.
“Mom, ready to feed the animals?” Ruthie tugs my hand.
“First the animals, then us. Deal?”
“Deal. I’m starving.”
“Hmm, what’re you fixing for dinner?” I ask with a playful smile before glancing down the empty driveway and feeling disappointed that Ben’s not home yet.
Ruthie taps her chin. “Waffles? No, wait… French toast?”
“Dinner, not breakfast—”
“Hi.”
My shoulders jerk in surprise before twisting around and laughing at the man standing there.
It’s Matt Kirby. The Matt Kirby. I’m taken back in time to Mom and me in the shag-carpeted, wood-paneled living room where we’d binge-watch TV shows, his especially, to take her mind off how terrible she felt.
Matt Kirby made cameos in my restless dreams back then, a calming presence amid the chaos.
Few things made Mom giddy, but this would have.
“Hi,” I repeat dumbly, taking in his boyishly handsome features. He looks exactly the same as on TV, from his thick, neatly styled hair to the light expanse of stubble along his strong jawline.
His hand magnetizes to mine, and he cradles it there softly. “I’m Matt. You must be Lena.”
“Um, yes. I’m Lena.” His blue eyes are mesmerizing. I drop his hand, fearing that I’ve held it too long. “This is Ruthie.” She gives him a light wave, unimpressed. “I’m a big fan.”
“Oh,” he says, as if he never hears that. “Well, the Hunter series is—”
“No, not of Hunter . I mean, it’s fine and all, but horror isn’t my thing. I meant of Nightshift. ”
His ridiculously handsome face lights up. “Wow, you humble me. That was my first real gig. I was… bad.”
“No, you were awesome. Detective Mike Storm, the insomniac policeman hunting for bad guys while the world sleeps. Ah, Mom and I adored that show—it was one of the few we agreed on. Who needs sleep? ”
I do a mock Mike Storm voice, and he laughs, his cheeks reddening. “You just dropped one of my catchphrases on me… nice.”
“That wasn’t even my favorite. I liked it when you were the voice of reason to your anxious partner. We got this.”
“Storm wasn’t exactly a genius at one-liners.” He looks surprisingly sheepish but amused.
“No, but there was something comforting about him. Mom and I would say that to each other every time we had a doctor’s appointment… which was pretty often.”
“Doctors’ appointments?” The soft way his brow furrows makes me think he really cares… or speaks well to his acting ability.
“She was sick for a long time. I cared for her. Here. She passed away. That’s how I came to own Saddletree.”
My words are choppy and awkward. It feels unnatural to talk about Mom with a stranger, especially a familiar stranger.
He nods, shoving his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. “I’m sorry for your loss.” His blue eyes linger on mine like they’re stuck. “My mom’s gone, too. The world hasn’t felt the same since, like I’ve lost my best protection.”
“I’m sorry, too. I get it. I call it losing your umbrella, the shield that keeps you safe and warm against the elements.”
“Huh, that’s exactly how it feels. That’s so insightful.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but thank you.” Wow. Am I having a moment with Matt Kirby? “And sorry for rambling. I didn’t expect to find Matt Kirby in my barn. Um, what are you doing here?”
“Right, yes, sorry about that. I needed a walk and wanted to get a feel for where we’ll be shooting.” His eyes roll over the high ceiling of the barn. “Saddletree is amazing, so peaceful and beautiful. It’s by far the best film set I’ve ever been on.”
“Ah, I bet you say that to all the property owners.”
“Yes, but this time I mean it,” he grins, and a warm tickle stirs in my abdomen. “Truly, I’m a fan of everything you’ve done here. We’re lucky to have found you.”
I nibble my bottom lip to keep from gawking. Is Matt Kirby putting on the smolder? For me?
“Mom, the horses aren’t going to feed themselves.” Ruthie tugs my arm again.
“Right, we should go.”
“ Night is coming, and the storm is almost here ,” he says in his Storm-voice.
Suddenly, a giddy twelve-year-old, I bust out laughing, leaning toward him. “Oh, my gosh, Mom would’ve loved having you around.”
A good-natured laugh rumbles from him. “I get that a lot from the older ladies.”
“Ha, younger ones, too, I bet.”
“Lena.” Ben’s voice splits like an arrow, curt and sudden, his annoyance clear. His green eyes laser in on Matt as he approaches.
“Hey, I’m Matt.”
The two meet with extended hands. Matt smiles warmly. Ben doesn’t.
“Ben Wright.”
“Good to meet you. Beautiful place here—I was just telling Lena.”
Ben nods, emotionless. “Filming is supposed to be in the woods today.”
A beat passes in an intense stare-down. I’m fucking mortified. I try to bridge the awkward gap. “Mom and I were big fans of Matt. He played a cop in Nightshift .”
Ben says, “I play a cop in real life.”
My mortification upticks as I gape at my husband. What is this? His unfriendly vibe has leveled up to actual rudeness.
“Filming is supposed to be in the woods,” Ben says again after a stinging pause.
Matt steps away, hands sliding into his pockets again. “I better get over there before they notice I’m gone. Nice to meet you.”
He backsteps carefully like the barn is suddenly riddled with landmines.
Once he’s gone, I give Ben a pained look, signing as I demand, “What was that? You were harsh.”
“He shouldn’t be in here.”
Bored with us, Ruthie jumps into the driver’s seat of the ATV and pretends to drive it.
“That’s Matt Kirby. Mom and I used to love his show—”
“I don’t care who he is. He shouldn’t be in here.”
“ You shouldn’t be so rude. I’d never be like that to someone you admire.
” My entire body prickles with anger at his deadpan, uncaring expression.
A bad mood is one thing, but dismissing a memory of Mom feels like stabbing me in the heart.
“Thanks for ruining a good Mom memory with your shit attitude, Ben.”
I curve around him for the ATV and move Ruthie to the passenger seat. “Time to feed.”
“Is Daddy coming?”
“Nope, he’s had a long day.”
“Go slow, Mom. For Ross,” she advises as I start the engine.
Ben cuts me a cold glance—Ross is my fault, too.