Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Carter
Just about the last thing I ever expected to find myself doing at this point in my life is smuggling Jo out of my apartment, first thing in the morning, via the side door. It’s like we’re kids again. Except we’re not. And I kind of hate it.
It’s a little over a week since we agreed to try sneaking around. And, I’m not gonna lie, it’s been hot as fuck. We’ve made love every day, everywhere we could think of—in the restaurant, late at night, after everyone had gone home. In the hall powder room at Vi’s house—with me hunched over, just a little, because the ceiling is so low, and Jo perched on the vanity. In the back of my truck. In the dug out of the municipal baseball field. In a rowboat on the banks of the river. Over the arm of my couch. Pressed up against the wall. And, of course, in my bed.
Last night was the first time she spent the entire night with me. Which, in retrospect, was probably a terrible idea. It definitely sent my heart and brain the wrong message—that this was not just a momentary bit of fun. That this was very, very real and possibly forever.
Bad idea or not, it felt so incredibly good—right up until the moment when I suddenly remembered that I had my monthly breakfast meeting with my brothers scheduled for today.
“It’s just because it’s my brothers,” I tell her again, kissing her one last time, as we cuddle in the stairwell. “You know that, right? I mean, if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t…” My voice trails off.
I wouldn’t what? I wouldn’t mind that eventually (by which I mean almost immediately) the story would be spread all over Heartwood that we were back together—the very thing I’ve been trying so hard to avoid?
Because yeah, I would mind. I’d hate that too. If only because I know what that’s like; with everyone choosing sides, getting mad at her or pitying me. Neither of us deserve to go through that again.
“Carter, I know,” Jo assures me. “You told me. I get it.”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to,” I say, because I’m pretty sure that what she ‘gets’ is that I’m choosing my family over her, over us—which is exactly what she thought had happened last time.
It wasn’t true then and it certainly isn’t true now, especially since—this time around—there isn’t even an ‘us’ worth talking about. But however I look at it, it still feels wrong.
“We’ll figure it out,” she says as she eases the door open and peeks outside. She glances both ways then says, “Okay. It looks like the coast is clear. I’ll see you later.”
She flutters her fingers in a little wave and then slips away. I stare at the door as it closes behind her. I miss her already , I think to myself. Hard on the heels of that thought, comes another: I am so, so screwed. Because if I feel like this now, how the hell will I feel when I watch her drive out of town?
My brothers show up just a few minutes later, so close in time to Jo’s departure that I can’t be sure they didn’t see her go. I eye them suspiciously—which does not go unnoticed.
“What’s wrong?” Campbell asks, studying my expression in much the same way as he might study a field of corn, a cloudy sky, a pregnant ewe before determining when to schedule the combine, whether or not it will rain, or whether she’s carrying one lamb, or two. He sees too much, sometimes.
I turn away before answering, “Nothing. Why don’t y’all take a seat. I assume neither of you need menus?”
Camp shakes his head. “Nope. I know what I want.”
“Same,” Cash agrees. He’s followed directions and seated himself, but there’s a hint of something in his tone that grates on my nerves when he asks, “So? What’s new with you?”
“Why are you asking me that?” I snap, causing both of my brothers to stare at me in surprise.
“Oohkay, then,” Cash murmurs as he shakes out his napkin. “Guess I know what that means.”
Camp glances at us both then asks, “Is there something going on that I should know about?”
“Probably,” Cash tells him at the same time I answer, “No.”
“I…see,” Camp says, eyes narrowing once again.
“I’ll get us some coffee,” I say, but even as I turn to make good on my threat, one of my far-too-efficient servers appears, bearing a fresh pot, along with a basket of hot-out-of-the-oven cornbread and biscuits. After we order—Huevos Rancheros with extra beans and a side of fried potatoes for Campbell. Buttermilk pancakes with Southern Fried Apples and candied bacon for Cash. And for me…after a short, internal debate, I go with shrimp and grits.
I’m the only one of us whose order ever varies. It drives me crazy that both of my brothers will get the same thing every damn time. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy they like what I make enough to eat it again and again. But there’s so much that they’re missing, so many other things they might like as well.
“So, what’s going on, Carter?” Camp asks, once he’s fixed his coffee to his liking. “And don’t say nothing. Because it’s obvious that something is up. Does this have anything to do with your big dinner? How’s that going, by the way?”
Cash and I exchange a look. I’m surprised he hasn’t ratted me out yet, and I can only imagine how he’ll choose to explain the situation with Jo if I give him the chance, so I don’t. “Jo’s back in town,” I tell my brother. “She’s been working for a big event planner in LA for the past few years and she’s agreed to help us out with the dinner.”
“Is that a good idea?” Campbell asks.
Cash shakes his head. “Doesn’t look like it, does it?” he says. But I ignore him.
“Yes,” I tell Camp. “It absolutely is. I’ve seen her portfolio. We’re damned lucky to get someone with her experience—and she’s doing it as a favor to her aunt, so it’s not even costing us anything.
“You mean it’s not costing us anything,” Camp corrects, gesturing to himself and Cash. “I’m sure it’s costing you plenty.”
“Speak for yourself,” Cash mutters. “ You haven’t had to be civil to her yet.”
“Civil?” I eye my younger brother incredulously. “I hope you’re not talking about last week? Because neither have you.”
“What happened last week?” Camp turns to Cash and asks. “Have you seen her? Where was this? How long has she been in town?”
“She was here,” Cash answers. Then he pauses to make air quotes, “meeting with Carter.”
“Ah.” Camp looks at me expectantly. “So, are you two…?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m not discussing this. Have a biscuit. And be sure to try the preserves. The spiced cranberry-apple butter is a new recipe.”
Camp picks out a piece of cornbread and—no surprise there—pairs it with the pepper-peach jelly. Cash takes a biscuit, skips the preserves, and slathers it with butter and honey.
Same old same old. So. Predictable. Honestly, I don’t even know why I bother.
For a moment, I’m lulled into thinking we’ve moved on. But then, “So, what brought Jo back to town?” Camp asks, a short while later as he goes back for a second piece of cornbread. “Her aunt, I presume?”
I nod. “Yeah. I guess she heard about the concussion—although I’m not sure how.” I pause a moment to consider this. How did she find out? I know I didn’t call her and I doubt she talked to Vi.
Campbell frowns. “Wait. Just the concussion? What about, you know, the other issue?”
I shake my head, split a biscuit in half, smear apple butter over one of the halves and stuff it in my mouth.
Cash’s mouth has dropped open. He closes it, nods once and says, “Well, that explains some things.”
“Such as?” Camp asks, arching an eyebrow in his direction.
“Jo told me it was Ms. Vi’s idea that she give Carter a hand with the dinner,” Cash explains. Then he looks at me and adds, “Right? Isn’t that what she said?”
I nod, still eating.
“The way she said it… It was like she thought that would make the idea sound more reasonable.”
Camp is scowling as he turns to me and says, “So, lemme get this straight. You’re not gonna tell her? Don’t you think she’ll figure it out?”
“I have no idea,” I reply. “But I figure it’s not my place to intervene, and it’s not yours either, so butt out.”
“Not your place?” Cash scowls. “That’s rich. Is that what Jo told you?”
“Obviously not,” I snap. “Didn’t we just get through discussing the fact that she doesn’t know what’s going on? In what scenario would you expect her to have an opinion about a situation that she doesn’t know exists?”
“Knowing Jo? Any scenario at all.”
“Well, if you want my opinion,” Camp says. “I would say it’s one hundred percent your place. Not to mention the fact that you already have intervened.”
“Look,” I tell them. “I’m not asking for advice. I’m gonna continue to do what I think is best, and that’s the end of it. I don’t know how long Jo’s going to be in town. And it’s not like there’s anything she can do about the situation, anyway. So, I don’t see the point in burdening her with information she doesn’t need, or to force her to deal with something she doesn’t have to.”
“I don’t think that—” Camp says, but I override him.
“However, if you really want to help me out, I’d appreciate it if you both could just give her a break. I know you’re mad at her on my behalf, but seriously, you need to let that shit go. What’s done is done. And, besides, everything that happened between us was at least as much my fault as it was hers.”
Cash snorts derisively.
Camp says, “I think that’s debatable.”
I roll my eyes at them both and say, “Just take my word for it, all right?” And then, shortly thereafter, our food arrives, and the subject gets dropped.
The thing is, I don’t really blame my brothers for their attitudes towards Jo—I blame myself. Because everything that happened really was my fault…
I must have had rocks in my head to have ever imagined that Jo and I could somehow keep the news of our fake marriage from getting back to my folks. It was only a matter of time before people they barely knew were stopping them on the street to congratulate them. And then the cat was well and truly out of the bag.
And of course, once they found out, they immediately called Ms. Vi to inform her as well. Then the three of them sat us down in my parents’ living room and demanded to know what we were thinking and what our plans were for the future.
“I don’t understand,” my mother kept saying. “Is there a baby on the way? Is that why?”
“What? No!” I stared at her in alarm. Jo blushed and glanced away. She and I weren’t even sleeping together at that point.
“But then, if you’re not even planning on living together until Jo’s finished with school; so why wouldn’t you wait until then to marry? What if one of you changes your mind between now and then? Or what if you do get pregnant in the meantime? How are you ever going to support a family if neither of you has a degree?”
“That is not gonna happen,” I insisted, possibly a little too vehemently. Jo’s blush deepened. She looked close to tears. My anger with my parents grew more intense. It was easier to hate them for putting her through this than it was to admit that I was to blame. If I hadn’t come up with the idea or talked her into it, none of this would have been happening.
But speaking of degrees, it was damn lucky that I’d already decided not to return to school to get one, because my dad was adamant in his refusal to pay for me to continue my education; insisting that if I thought I was old enough to start a family, I was certainly old enough to start earning a living. Never mind that the “family” in question was just me and Jo, or that Ms. Vi was equally adamant that she would continue to support Jo for as long as she was in school—or even longer, if needed.
I’d always suspected that part of the reason Jo’s aunt was so unflustered was because she saw through the lies, knew exactly what was going on, and wasn’t overly worried about things that were unlikely to happen. It felt good; like we had at least one ally. But maybe I was wrong.
Maybe she just knew Jo better than I did. Maybe she could tell that her niece wasn’t actually in love with me; and she figured it was only a matter of time before we split. Which is ironic, considering that now she thinks we’re married for real.
Jo felt bad about causing strife between me and my parents, even though I tried to tell her that was not the case. All this had done was expose the cracks that were already there. She offered to tell them the truth, even suggested that she should take the blame and say it had all been her idea, but I wasn’t having it. I was pretty sure that would have just made things worse.
For one thing, I thought the only explanation my parents would have hated more than, “we’re in love and we didn’t want to wait for another four years,” was “we’re committing fraud, lying to the entire town, and making a mockery of marriage just so that Jo and I can get drunk together.”
For another, I was angry . This was my life—not theirs. And if this was how they were going to act? Then I did not feel inclined to ease their minds.
They could have been more supportive, if they’d wanted to. It’s not like I was asking them for help, or advice, or money—or anything, really. Hell, I was even paying part of my wages to rent the trailer. Which, given that it wasn’t costing them anything for me to stay there, was pretty bogus as well.
Even if they doubted my ability to make good choices, I thought they should at least have respected the fact that, as an adult, I had a right to make whatever decision I wanted to, even the ones they didn’t agree with…
But, that’s all water under the bridge. It’s old news. And, like I told my brothers, what’s done is done. There’s no point now in wishing I’d done things differently. Thankfully, the rest of breakfast passes uneventfully. We move on to discussing other business—what crops Camp expects to be planting this years, what new suppliers, and vendors he’s trying out. What Cash’s summer schedule is looking like, and whether or not he should trade in his old truck now, before things get busy in the spring.
But, even though we’re no longer talking about me and Jo, I still feel antsy with residual stress. Before breakfast is even over, I’m conscious of an urgent need to touch base with Jo. And by the time my brothers are walking out the door, I’m already reaching for my phone, and sending a text:
When can I see you again?
Jocelyn
My thoughts are a chaotic mess as I leave Carter’s place and head up Main Street. The decision to jump back into bed with him again was clearly a mistake—or possibly one of the best ideas I’ve ever had. Or maybe both.
I don’t love being his dirty little secret, but is being in a relationship (and pretending that we’re not) really all that different from pretending to be married while still remaining friends? My body doesn’t seem to think so. And, as for my heart, I’m not sure it can even tell the difference.
Apparently, they both want what they want, and unfortunately for me, all they really want is Carter.
What qualifies it a mistake is the fact that I can no longer lie to myself about how I’m feeling. I can’t pretend anymore that what we had didn’t matter, that he didn’t matter. That I’ve moved on, that I’m over him.
I’m not sure that I’ll ever be over him. Which is not to say that I can’t live without him—I can, I have, I’m sure I will again. But he was a big part of my life for so freaking long. There’s a piece of my heart that will always belong to him. And that’s just how things are.
The good idea part is the way he makes me feel—maybe not in the moment that he’s hustling me out the back, shoving me out the door when no one’s looking; that part legit sucks.
But, in general, he makes me feel comforted and cared for in a way that no one else ever has. And I need that now. Confronted with the wreckage of my life, concerned with my aunt’s condition—yes, it’s only been a couple of weeks, but there’s been no noticeable improvement—I need to feel like there’s someone in my corner. A teammate. A friend. A partner in crime. And Carter fills that role so naturally, so generously, so perfectly. Just like he always did.
And yes, the sex is really, really good, as well. As good as I remembered it. Better than it’s ever been with anyone else, either before or since. Call it chemistry, call it history, call it fate, or call it sheer, dumb luck—whatever the reason, the two of us just fit. We click. We vibe with one another. I don’t believe in soul mates, but if I did, I couldn’t imagine anyone other than Carter filling that role for me either.
I’m really gonna miss him when I go .
I lose my footing when the thought hits—so hard that it steals my breath, as well. I almost trip and fall and have to grab the nearest lamppost to stay erect. And yes, that might be partly due to the cracks in the ancient sidewalk, but mostly it’s because it’s true. It’s so true. I am going to miss him. And I will have to leave—probably not as soon as I’d originally thought I would, but eventually. And it sucks. Because…because I’m no longer the same person I was at twenty-two, eager to get out and see the world, to make her mark upon it.
Eager, or maybe desperate? I’m not sure how I’d categorize it now. I’m not sure it matters. Because I’ve reached the point where that’s no longer the case. I’m looking for different things now. It’s possible that I could even be happy here, if things were different; if I hadn’t gone and fucked things up.
Playing house with Carter feels comfortable, familiar. Doubtless because it is. And I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that it’s saved my sanity in the short run. But I know it’s not fair to either of us long term. He deserves better than that. We both do.
Which doesn’t change the truth of what I said the other night; I don’t deserve a second chance, and I will not ask for one. But, oh, I do wish I could have one, all the same.
As I’m standing here, still clinging to my lamppost, emotionally flattened by this series of revelations, the door to the shop I’m standing directly in front of opens. A familiar figure pokes her face out. A a querulous voice inquires, “What on earth are you doing? Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I reply immediately. “Yes, I’m fine.” But as soon as I release the post and put my weight back on both feet, I realize that’s not quite accurate. “Ouch. On second thought, I may have sprained my ankle.”
“Nonsense,” Ms. Bev, because of course it’s her, says in quelling tones. “You probably just twisted it.” She glances both ways along the deserted sidewalk then waves me toward her. “Well. I suppose, you’d better come in and sit down.”
I follow her meekly into her shop, limping slightly as I do—and not missing the irony that apparently no one wants to be seen with me today. I’m really regretting the fact that I’d left my car at home last night. I’d been concerned that it would become too conspicuous if I kept parking it behind Carter’s restaurant. When I decided to spend the night, I’d been pleased with myself for my unexpected foresight. Now, of course, it all looks quite a bit different.
“Have a seat,” Bev says gesturing vaguely.
I glance around. On the surface, Bev’s store, Timeless Treasures, is virtually indistinguishable from my aunt’s store. There’s the same eclectic mix of all things antique, vintage, and retro. Racks of clothing; piles of dishes, bedding, and housewares; shelves crammed full of books, collectibles, old board games, toys—you name it. And furniture, too, of course. Lots of furniture. Dressers, trunks, tables, sideboards, armoires, bed frames (along with the aforementioned shelves) chairs and sofas, ottomans, footstools, and so much more.
The only thing I don’t see, however, is an obvious place on which to sit—aside from the merchandise, that is.
Not wanting to assume, I cast my gaze around again, then shoot an inquiring look at Bev—who rolls her eyes. “Wherever you like,” she snaps. “That’s what they’re for, isn’t it?”
I suppose she has a point. Suppressing a sigh, I seat myself in the closest chair. It appears to be a Stickley, Mission Style rocker, although, without looking for a mark, I can’t be sure.
Bev studies me for a moment then says, “I just made a pot of coffee. Would you like a cup as well?”
“Yes, please,” I respond—possibly a little too enthusiastically, given the speed at which Bev’s eyebrows scale her forehead. Shaking her head, she bustles away towards the back of the shop, muttering something beneath her breath. I can’t make out the words, but given the tone in which they’re delivered, I don’t think they’re complimentary.
Bev reappears, a couple of minutes later, carrying a tray that she sets down on a nearby trunk. Along with the two thick, white, diner style mugs—one of which she hands to me—there’s also a plate of home-made, pecan shortbread cookies, something I haven’t had in years. “Mm. Thank you.” The sweet, buttery flavor transports me back to childhood and I sigh in contentment. I’d been feeling hungry and severely undercaffeinated up until now, so this is a very welcome respite.
I had not really thought through what the lack of a functional kitchen in Carter’s apartment might mean for his clandestine house guests. Apparently, he hadn’t either; which leads me to conclude that he’s not in the habit of bringing women home with him.
That shouldn’t make me as giddily happy as it does.
On the other hand, I had also not expected him to kick me to the curb quite so early in the day either. He did offer me a bottle of cold brew to take with me, but that was (excuse the pun) cold comfort, and I turned it down. It’s February, for fucks sake! The sky is overcast, the air is noticeably chilly and the last thing I was in the mood for was anything straight out of the fridge.
“So, you finally decided to turn up,” Bev observes, which strikes me as somewhat unfair. “It’s about damn time.”
“I’ve been in town for nearly two weeks already,” I protest. Had she been expecting me to drop by? That was absolutely not the impression she’d given me when we spoke on the phone.
“I know how long it’s been,” Bev replies. “Did you think your arrival went unnoticed? It didn’t.”
No, it certainly had not, I think sourly. I can’t quite suppress a sigh of disappointment. I wasn’t exactly expecting a ‘welcome home’ party, but…a little more warmth would have been nice.
“I’ve meant to stop by, before now,” I tell her. “To talk to you. But I’ve been so busy, between taking care of my aunt, and other things, that I just…lost track of time.” Carter has also been keeping me occupied—he and his dinner. Our plans for that are going well, too. I think he’ll be pleased by how it all turns out. But there are still a lot of things that I have yet to do. Including, now that I think about it, purchasing glassware from Bev for the centerpieces. “Which reminds me—” I start to say, stopping when Bev asks suddenly, “And how is your aunt?”
Bev is eyeing me over the rim of her mug. I take a sip of coffee as well, as I consider my answer. “I guess she’s doing as well as can be expected. However, I think the concussion was more severe than her doctors initially thought.”
Bev frowns. “Why do you think that? Are you a doctor now?”
“No, but…” I shrug. “She’s more confused than I was expecting—even now. She forgets things, sometimes; or loses track of her thoughts; and then she gets frustrated with herself. You know; little things like that.”
“Yes? And?”
Now I’m frowning too. I’m really not sure what she’s getting at. “I spoke to her doctor about it. She said it was still too early to tell if she’s suffering from post-concussion syndrome. But I’m pretty sure that’s what it is. And that has me worried because, apparently, it can take weeks, or even months for something like that to resolve itself.”
And I’ll be stuck here. Falling for Carter all over again.
Bev fidgets with her mug for a moment, and then asks, “And what does my cousin have to say about all of this?”
“Your cousin?” I repeat blankly. “I’m not sure who…?’
“I’m talking about Carter, of course. I’m assuming you’ve spoken about this with him?”
“You and Carter are cousins?” I wrack my brains but, I’m pretty sure I never knew that.
“Second cousins once removed, on his mother’s side, but yes.”
“Oh, Well, uh…he’s been really helpful,” I say, trying for a casual tone. I’m not sure how much Carter would want me to say. “Did you know that he’s been bringing her meals while she’s been laid up, so she wouldn’t have to cook? Vi and I both appreciate the help. But, other than that, he and I really haven’t talked all that much—except about the big dinner he’s planning for Valentine’s Day. Which is something I need to talk to you about, as well.”
“What dinner?” Bev asks crossly. “What on earth are you talking about now? And what’s any of it got to do with me?”
I sneak another cookie and briefly explain the situation, ending with, “Actually, this is all Vi’s fault. It was her idea that I help out, so…”
Bev snorts and rolls her eyes. “Oh, I’m sure it was. That sounds just like her, the meddlesome old fool.”
“So, anyway,” I say. “About the centerpieces…”
Bev brushes my inquiry aside. “I don’t want to hear any more about these dishes—or whatever it is you need. Take whatever you want. That’s not why I called you and told you to come home. It’s not what you’re supposed to be here for. And it’s certainly not what you should be focusing on right now.”
“I’m not sure what I—” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“Then get sure,” she snaps. “Stop letting Carter turn your head and distract you with nonsense. He’s always been shockingly good at that. But you’re Vi’s next of kin, aren’t you? You need to stop gallivanting around and act like it!”
“How?” I ask, feeling confused and alarmed. “I mean, what do you?—”
“Go and talk to her doctors again,” Bev insists. “That’s what I would do, if I were in your place. And this time, demand some answers! Your aunt is counting on you!”
I’m pretty sure my aunt is not counting on me for anything of the sort. But I know better than to argue with stubborn septuagenarians. I had enough of that earlier in the week when Vi unexpectedly insisted that Carter accompany us to her doctor’s appointment.
“It’s not a problem,” Carter had assured me, after Vi virtually ordered me to call him—so obstinately that even her nurse had urged me to give into her demands. “She probably just doesn’t trust your driving.”
“Well, I don’t know what that says about you,” I told him. “Since you’re the one who taught me.”
“You know what they say, the poor workman blames his tools. Although I guess, in this case, it’s more like the poor student blames her teacher.”
I gasped in surprise. “Oh, you did not just say that?”
He laughed in response, amused by my outrage. “You know I’m just teasing you, right?”
“Jerk,” I replied in sulky tones. But I was smiling as I said it. It had been too long since we’d interacted like this—relaxed and friendly, teasing each other, giving each other shit. I’d missed it.
“Anyway, relax. We got this. I’ll be there in a few.”
“You’d better.”
Luckily, Bev’s assessment of my injury proves correct. My ankle feels much better after a short rest. I sooth Bev’s ruffled feathers with assurances that I’ll involve myself even more than I already have in my aunt’s care, and promises to return in a few days—with my car—to pick up the glasses that I’m not able to carry home today. Then I walk the rest of the way home.
The day has grown warmer, the fog has burned away, my thoughts keep drifting back to last night, to Carter to how good it feels to be with him. I’m smiling as I let myself into the house.
Vi is taking another nap. I check in with her nurse, then head for the kitchen, to make myself an early lunch. On the way, my phone buzzes with an incoming text.
When can I see you again?
The smile that breaks across my face, the fluttering in my chest, the out-of-control giddiness that makes me want to break out in song, or start dancing around the foyer are all signs that I’m in big, big trouble. If I had any sense at all, I’d be pumping the brakes right now. Instead, I’m all: moth, meet flame.
And I don’t waste any time at all in texting back:
How about tonight?