Chapter 27
LENNON
S unbeams creep across the hardwood floor slowly, turning shadows into honey-colored wood. Normally, this is when I’d roll over to slip back into the haze of sleep until my alarm goes off.
Instead, I keep watching the light expand, illuminating the clothes strewn across my bedroom floor.
I toss one leg to the side, wincing when it hits the plaster wall. This bed is too small for me. Has been for years. But now that there’s a larger one available, I can’t bring myself to use it.
I hoped turning the house upside down would help me move forward, but all it has accomplished is ensuring I have to spend an extra ten minutes looking for anything.
I slide out of bed, not bothering to change out of the oversized T-shirt I’m wearing. It’s either Caleb’s or Gramps’s. I discovered after Caleb left that half the clothes he brought over made it into cardboard boxes along with Gramps’s.
The morning light has reached the edge of the bed, revealing the white cotton I’m wearing is free of any stains or rips. Caleb’s, then. It’s probably designer.
I yank on a pair of jean shorts and stumble into the hallway, almost tripping over the stack of books I told myself I’d move last night. Tonight . Maybe. I amble down to the kitchen, picking my way through the rest of the scattered belongings I now own.
The sun that woke me hasn’t fully risen.
Mist hovers over the grassy fields that surround the farmhouse.
I look out the window above the sink, at the peaceful scene.
I know it’s impossible, but I can almost define the sloped shape of an equine form out in the field.
All the horses are still in their stalls, though, unless I’ve really lost it and left one out last night.
The quiet gurgle of the coffee maker is the only sound in the silent house. I should get a dog. Or a cat. Or just start sleeping in the barn. The total absence of sound is peaceful.
It’s also really lonely.
I eye the plastic bag sitting on the counter.
It’s almost empty. Each morning since the service, I’ve spread some of Gramps’s ashes on my trip out to the barn.
It makes me feel like he’s here with me, slamming pans or about to hobble down the driveway to fetch the paper like he did most mornings.
But even that sliver of solace is nearly gone, disappearing as fast as the mist evaporating off the grass.
The few days that have passed since the memorial service have been hard. I’m not someone who struggles with isolation. I don’t mind being alone with my thoughts most of the time. The sting of loss has started to ease.
I miss Gramps—I’ll always miss Gramps—but I don’t have regrets.
I didn’t leave freshman year and miss the past three years with him.
I’m not sure if I believe in any cosmic power, but my last conversation with him was exactly what I wanted him to know.
I’m grateful he knew I got into Clarkson. Glad he knew I’d have Caleb.
Now, I just need to decide where I go from here. The simplest—easiest—path would be to change nothing. To continue living in this farmhouse, attending RCC, and taking care of what remains of my family’s racing legacy.
I’m not under any illusions about my financial situation.
I’ve been snooping around bank statements for years now.
When a lawyer came over yesterday to hand me the deed to Matthews Farm, the little else I’ve inherited didn’t surprise me.
Money is tight. But it’s manageable. I could make staying here work with the paltry savings, my income from the paper, and the stallions’ stud fees.
I just…don’t know if I should.
The coffee maker shuts off, returning the kitchen to total silence. I fill a mug with a healthy helping of caffeine, grab the bag of gray dust, and head out onto the front porch.
I’m tempted to take a seat in one of the rocking chairs, but as much as I want to prolong this, I also want to get it over with. Like the memorial service, I know this is something I need to get through. And hope like hell it looks better on the other side.
Hot coffee scorches my tongue as I walk the familiar path from the farmhouse to the main barn. There’s no hint of the heat I know will blanket the farm later today. The cooler weather makes me dread the sun’s full rise. I’d rather it stays like this, just on the precipice.
Another searing sip of coffee burns my throat as I watch the final physical remains of Earl Matthews drift away toward the towering oak that shades the barn.
I’m left holding an empty plastic bag. The woman working at the funeral home was definitely judging my refusal to purchase an urn, but I didn’t know what I would do with it after spreading Gramps’s ashes. Now, I’m left to ponder what I do with this bag.
Keep it?
Toss it?
It’s the type of ridiculous, morbid predicament Gramps would have been in stitches about. The memory of his booming laugh prompts a smile to tug at the corners of my mouth for the first time in over a week.
The flicker of amusement is what causes me to flick the radio in the barn on for the first time in weeks when I walk inside. I even sing along to an old Billy Joel song as I mix the grain and supplements that make up the horses’ diets.
There’s a dusty piece of paper affixed to the bulletin board above the bins of grain, covered with Caleb’s scrawl. It’s hard to recall the time when I thought Caleb Winters was selfish and entitled as I study the notes he made about each horse’s diet so he could help me feed them.
Resentment mixes with gratefulness. He’s making this choice a hard one. Accepted or not, I know I wouldn’t be even considering Clarkson if not for Caleb.
I distribute the pails of grain throughout the mares’ stalls, then set about mucking out the manure while they eat.
The mares get turned out in the east pasture, then I repeat the process in the stallions’ barn.
Summer days are long enough I’ve switched to riding at night, during the sweet spot where the sun is retreating but the bugs haven’t come out yet.
After showering and changing, I hop into the truck and head down the driveway, smiling when Stormy trots along the fence line to keep pace with me. It’s not until I turn on to the main road that she spins and canters back to join the rest of the mares.
I’m halfway to town before I realize I never ate any breakfast. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately, and I know it’s not only attributable to grief.
I’m also stressed. The heavy, omnipresent sort of anxiety that sits in your stomach no matter what you do, like a dark cloud.
The kind of worry that accompanies a big decision with no perfect outcome.
Since I’m ahead of schedule, I stop at the local coffee shop where Cassie and I used to spend Sunday mornings.
There’s no line at this hour. Most of the summer tourists are likely sleeping in. Most of the locals probably have espresso machines in their state-of-the-art kitchens.
The sleepy teenager at the counter surprises me by greeting me by name.
“Hi…” I squint at the nametag affixed to his apron. “Charlie.”
The boy beams at me. He can’t be older than sixteen. “What can I get for you?”
“Iced latte, please. Extra shot of espresso,” I reply. “And…a blueberry muffin,” I tack on reluctantly.
I’m still not hungry, but the bowl of cornflakes I ate last night weren’t much of a dinner.
Charlie nods, then grabs a pair of tongs and sets to work, fishing a muffin out of the pastry case.
“How is Caleb liking camp?” he asks, giving me an expression that’s akin to an overeager puppy.
“Uh, I think it’s fine,” I respond.
“This is going to be his best season yet,” Charlie predicts, as he tosses a muffin dotted with blue spots into a bag and hands it me. “Seriously. That’s what the guys on TV last night were saying.”
Caleb’s ability to throw a baseball being discussed on television is news to me, but I don’t say that. I never know what to say when people bring up Caleb and baseball.
I have nothing to do with that part of his life. His athletic accomplishments are his and his alone. I’ve never even seen him pitch in an actual game.
But that’s not what people want to hear. They want the inside scoop. The team drama. The professional prospects.
“That’s great.”
Charlie nods. “Coffee will come out at the end of the counter. And…uh, I’m sorry, Lennon. About your grandfather.”
“Thanks,” I reply, pairing it with a smile. It’s not the kid’s fault he just went two for two on topics I don’t want to discuss.
My latte appears in minutes. I sip on the cold coffee slowly once I’m back in the truck. The amount of caffeine I’ve already consumed today is probably burning a hole in my stomach. Until I start sleeping, there’s no other option.
It’s a short drive to the brick building that houses the Landry Gazette from downtown.
The newspaper offices are perched above a real estate office, just one block from the racetrack.
I whistle under my breath as I pass the listings posted in the window.
Land in Landry isn’t depreciating. The least expensive property is listed for just under seven figures.
Cold air smacks me in the face as I open the glass door that reads “Landry Gazette.” Wooden stairs creak as I climb them to the second floor. The stairwell muffles sound, so it’s a shock to step into the hustle and bustle of the newsroom.
“Lennon. A word,” my supervisor, Alex, tells me as he breezes by and heads for his office.
I trail after him immediately. I’m well aware he sees his role in coming up with and overseeing my assignments as a massive waste of time.
Most of the paper’s permanent staff members are in their mid-thirties and live outside of Landry. My impression is they’ve ended up here because their spouses wanted to live outside the big cities where most reputable papers are located.