Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
Christine
“So pretty,” Tagger’s mom, Mary, says, taking my hands in hers as soon as we walk into the house. “You look so much like your mom.”
Being told I remind everyone of my mom usually feels like a burden since I didn’t want to carry the torch of her life alone. I wanted her to be here with me, and a part of me hasn’t reconciled she’s gone.
If I could have her braid my hair once more, to cradle my face in her hands as she tells me I’m more than she could have wished for, or even just to catch a glimpse of her watching me run my horse in that cloverleaf pattern around the barrels at the rodeo and to feel her comforting arms around me when I made a mistake that lost me the competition.
She was my loudest cheerleader and my broken heart’s confidant. No, it’s not fair she’s gone, and I’m left with features that remind everyone of not only her life but also that she’s gone too young.
“Thank you,” I reply, accepting the compliment. It might still hurt to hear, but I’m glad I have some of her features.
I always saw Mary as someone’s mom, but there’s no pretense or vibe of hierarchy standing with her now. At some point, the kids grow up, and maybe it’s because I have, but I see her as the woman she is as well.
She and Tagger share their grassier green eyes, and her smile is kind, her voice softer spoken, which makes me feel at home in her kitchen. The chill of Mary’s hands after wiping them on a dish towel is in opposition to the warm welcome that lies in her eyes and greeting. Reminds me of my mom when she’d be cooking, washing her hands, and moving to the next task before they could warm up again. “It’s so wonderful to spend time with you again, Christine.”
Her words pull my mind out of the past and into the present.
“It’s wonderful to see you again. It’s been a while. Was it the church potluck or . . .?” My memory might not be serving me well. I thought I saw Mary around sometimes, but now I’m not sure, which makes me feel bad for not checking in on them or even inquiring. We may be a small town at heart, spread out over the county, but I’m usually better at knowing these things. “Last year’s Peach Festival?”
“I think it was the farmers’ market last fall.”
“Oh, that’s right. I don’t work the Greene Farms stand often, but I covered last November when we were short-staffed.”
Spying pots on the stove that appear to need attention, I ask, “Can I help you with dinner?”
“Actually,” she starts with a grin that reminds me of Beck’s when he’s about to get into a little good trouble. “We’re going to let Tag and Justin take over from here.” She goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine. “His dad will be out in a minute, and I’m confident my son can manage it until then. As for us, I thought we could catch up out on the porch. That sunset looks to be a beauty tonight.” Looking at Tagger, she asks, “You can handle it, right?”
“Like a pro.” Not a second of hesitation came with his response.
As soon as his mom shuffles Beck out the door with the bribe of a hopscotch, Tag says, “Hey, Pris?”
His eyes haven’t left mine since he mentioned being a pro in the kitchen . . . leading my mind to wonder about the bedroom. The “Pris” doesn’t even sidetrack my wicked thoughts. But then he says, “Come here.”
My heart starts beating out of my chest from the dulcet tone of the request. I go without question, stopping just shy from the front of my leather sandal from touching his shoe. “Yes?” I reply all breathy, making it obvious that I don’t get out of the house enough these days, and I’ve forgotten how to behave around men I find irredeemably attractive.
“The glasses are in the cabinet closest to the fridge.”
Embarrassment lumps in my throat, dulling that vivid heartbeat as it drops to the pit of my stomach. “Right.”
I turn, but the brush of his fingers against mine before he catches my hand has me looking between us at the connection instead of at the cabinet where he indicated. The teasing gives me whiplash, but the electricity between us is enough to light up a stadium.
Will I never grow out of this crush?
I’m starting to think it’s futile to fight it.
I look into his eyes, which are set on mine so steadily that I shift under the intensity. And gulp, that lump finally clearing, hoping he doesn’t hear it. I move away, needing to for self-preservation, and open the pale-yellow door to find two mismatched wineglasses inside the cabinet. The moment gives me a chance to right myself back into my better sensibilities. It’s dinner with his family, not him. I need to remember that.
Anyway, I’ve known him my whole life. And in the short time he’s been back, I’ve already gathered that Tagger Grange didn’t come home for a good time. It seems he came home to reckon with his past. His son gave him a reason to reconsider a place that he hightailed away from as if being from here was marred in shame instead of his glory days.
Just another reason that attracts me to him. He left his all-star football days behind him and moved on with his life. He wasn’t stuck in the past like so many guys around here still are, hanging onto their teen years like that was the best time of their lives. It probably was.
Not for Tagger or Baylor, though, not even for my older brother Griffin. They all went on to bigger and brighter futures while I landed back here to take care of things. Maybe I’m not any better than those guys from high school that I see hanging out at Whiskey’s when Lauralee and I go out. Perhaps instead of fighting my fate, it’s time to accept it. It might make meeting someone a lot easier if the standard isn’t Tagger Grange anymore. The comparison will always fail to the real thing. Maybe I need to learn to make lemonade from the slim pickins’ in The Pass. I never see myself settling for less. I’d rather be alone.
Although he’s moved to lift the lids of the pots on the stove, Tag glances at me. “I didn’t mean to make this awkward.”
“It’s not.” I smile, but I can’t hold it, not even for the sake of politeness.
With a little nudge of his elbow, he asks, “You sure about that?”
“No.” This time, the corners of my mouth lift naturally. “It’s awkward.”
He laughs. “Honesty is always the best policy. Tell me how to turn this around.”
“Wine will help.”
“Speaking of . . .” He glances down at the glasses in my hands. “My mom’s going to be drinking from the bottle if you don’t get her that glass soon.”
The reminder strikes, making me move toward the door, though the rest of me wasn’t quite ready. I reach for the knob, about to pull the door open, when he adds, “It may not have felt like it, but I want you to know that I wasn’t only Baylor’s friend, Pris.”
I don’t look back, but I do nod, taking in the words and the implications of what he’s said. It’s a feeling more than words that rattle me awake to how our relationship is already evolving from kids to whatever stage this is. I open the door but feel compelled to look back just to see if the truth is embedded in his expression. I’m not disappointed.
Green eyes with softened lines at the sides and a smile that stays close to restraint but can’t seem to hide an intention has me thinking of crossing some lines I shouldn’t with my brother’s best friend. Call me wild, but the flat-front pants and white button-up shirt he’s wearing like that’s all he owns isn’t a deterrent. Images of him in faded jeans and T-shirts that got too tight around his biceps are still emblazoned into my memories. That he looks good in everything, even dressed like he’s about to audit me, is quite annoying. I take a big breath and exhale slowly, knowing I need to walk out of here before my thoughts get away from me. Again. “Glad to hear it, but it would have been nice to know it, too.”
He cuts the fire from the gas stove, but his eyes are quick to find mine. “You were four years younger?—”
“And wanted to play with the big kids so badly.”
“You ran around in dresses and boots?—”
“Like yesterday,” I volley.
A few long seconds tick by before he chuckles and rubs his hand along his jaw. “Yes, like yesterday.”
“Yet, even dressed like a girl, I could climb a tree faster than most boys.”
“I bet you could.” He takes a deep breath, his chest noticeably filling before he exhales. “I can’t turn back time, Pris, so how can I make it up to you?”
“See me as a whole person instead of only as Baylor’s little sister.”
His eyes dip down but are fast in their retreat to the floor as if he caught himself looking when he knew better. “I see you,” he replies, his gaze finding mine again. But as if he can’t help himself, it caresses my face and travels lower. Again. “I see who you are. I see you’re not that little kid anymore.” Maybe he shouldn’t, but I can’t lie that it’s nice to have someone look at me like the woman I’ve become. He checks the roast in the oven before searching for oven mitts. “I appreciate you spending time with Beck today. He loved it.”
I know it’s best we don’t delve deeper, but I’m still disappointed we’ve abandoned the topic so quickly. I ask, “And you?”
Should I be pushing him to the point of uncomfortable? No.
But do I like to watch him squirm? Yes.
With the roast pan in his hands, he sets it down and faces me. “I liked spending time with you today, too.” There’s a hint of rebellion in his tone, but his smile is genuine. Good to know I wasn’t alone in feeling that way. “And if it matters, it never bothered me when you hung around when we were kids.”
“If that’s the case, maybe we can be friends starting now. Equal footing as adults. What do you say?”
I tempt a lopsided grin right out of him. “I’d say that’s fair. Forget about all the other stuff. Friends?” He holds out his hand. Just as I take it, we’re startled by heavy footsteps.
“Christine Greene,” his father says, coming from the hall near the stairs. “What brings you by?” Walking straight to the roast, he lowers to get a good whiff. “Man, I’m starving.”
I reply, “I?—”
“I’m glad you’re here for dinner. I want to hear about your dad and how he’s doing.”
“Of course. Thank you for having me.” I think that’s my cue to leave. “I’m going to join Mrs. Grange on the porch.”
He looks up and says, “Let Mary know dinner won’t be long.”
“I will.” I walk outside, closing the door behind me. I bring the glasses to the table between a rocking chair where Mary sits holding Beck on her lap and the white wicker loveseat that’s seen better days. The sun does a lot of damage to things left unattended too long. “Mr. Grange said dinner is almost ready. Is it okay if I open it?”
“Yes, please.” After a kiss to Beck’s head, she tells him, “Go and have fun.” He takes off running as if freedom tastes too good to waste sitting around with the ladies on a porch.
Leaning forward toward me, she whispers, “Now let’s gossip. Tell me everything.”
I start to laugh. Twisting off the cap, I say, “I’m not sure there’s much to tell these days. You know how it goes in Peachtree.” I generously fill both glasses.
“I do, but there must be something the young people here are up to or the latest church news. Who’s been caught cheating or who was seen out at the bars when they shouldn’t have been.” She sips her wine. “This piece of paradise is a part of who I am, but the nights are a lot quieter these days.” She looks at me as I settle onto the loveseat. The gentle tip at the corners of her lips can’t conceal the sincerity in her expression. It’s all laid bare for me. “I miss the bustling of the boys and the busyness of running the stables and seeing people, talking to others.”
“I know that feeling. I mean, not the kids’ part but the quiet part.” Directing my gaze toward the sunset, I say, “I don’t know that I’d trade these views for anything, but it would be nice to share them with someone.”
She nods. “I met Justin in high school. He was a year older. We just clicked. Do you go on dates?” It’s odd to be asked questions that the men in my life never do. Lauralee and I commiserate, but it feels good to have a different perspective, and it’s comforting, like how it might have been with my mom.
“Truth be told,” I start with a laugh, “the selection isn’t great.”
“I imagine it’s not. And it’s not like Prince Charming is going to show up on the ranch out of nowhere.”
I grin. “Exactly.” She gets it. “Lauralee and I go to the bar every so often, but it’s no better there.”
“And Dover County? Do they have any worthy prospects?”
“Define worthy.” This time, we both laugh.
Although she’s sitting back, her gaze volleying between watching Beck handle a stick like a wizard and me sharing how pathetic my dating life is, she reaches over and squeezes my hand. Looking only at me this time, she says, “It can’t be easy running a ranch out here as a woman. You need a partner who respects your position and deserves all the love you have inside you. Don’t settle, okay, Christine?”
My feelings wrap around my heart, giving it a little squeeze as tears form in the corners of my eyes. She’s setting her glass down and moving next to me in seconds. With her arm around my back, she rubs and whispers, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
I dip my head and swipe under my eyes, hoping I won’t look like a raccoon from my mascara running. It feels good to be embraced in her arms like I’m one of her own.
My dad is a great go-get’em-tiger kind of man with a pat on the back. He’s mastered the side hug and the occasional kiss to the head, but his upbringing taught him showing emotions is a sign of weakness. My mother was the opposite. She made him softer in the ways that a little girl needs. Once she was gone, he forgot how to feel anything.
Lifting my head from her shoulder, I laugh as embarrassment takes hold of me. “I’m sure I’m a mess now.”
Using the soft side of her finger, she gently wipes under my eyes. “Beautiful as ever. I used to be so jealous of your mom. She was cheerful and optimistic, effortlessly beautiful, like you, and the kindest soul. I miss her visits. I miss hanging out on her porch drinking mimosas . . .” She eyes me like they were up to no good. “Because we thought that was fancy and catching up on the week while the boys played.”
“I just miss her.”
With a little rub of my knee, she nods and sits back again.
I don’t know why I feel lighter. I would have thought humiliation for breaking down would be weighing on me, but it’s the opposite. I exhale, letting a smile return to my face, and then sip my wine. Sitting with Mary is nice, so I say, “Mr. Gregors is sleeping with Iris Barker over in Dover.”
Popping to the edge of her seat, she leans over. “Really?”
“Yep. She was widowed last year, but rumor has it this affair has been going on long before he died.”
Her mouth hangs open. “How do you know this?”
“Lauralee gets all the juicy gossip up at Peaches.”
When she’s sitting back again, she laughs, holding out her glass to me. “It’s good to have some girl time again.”
“It is.”
Opening the door, Tag pops his head outside. “Dinner is ready.”
Mary stands, giving my wrist a little squeeze. “Perfect timing.” She mouths to me, “Thank you.” With a new glow about her, she takes the bottle of wine inside with her.
I stand with my glass as Tagger calls Beck inside. Turning to me, he says, “What did you two talk about?”
Facing him, I lean against the house, not a foot dividing us, and smirk. “Not you if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Disappointing.” His smirk quirks into place. “Whoa,” he says, jumping back to let Beckett fly past him. “Wash your hands, buddy.” Tag is quick to return to his spot, smiling at me like there was no interruption. “Where were we?”
“You were expressing disappointment because your mom and I didn’t make you the center of our conversation.”
“Ah. Yes.” His eyes look past me, and he takes in a breath. Standing this close to him has me taking in the finer details of his face—three lines from the corners of his eyes, the green is sager when reflecting the colors of the sunset, and the scruff covering the snow drift of his jaw has my mind wondering how it feels—against my fingertips and much lower. “Well, there’s always tomorrow.”
I don’t know why that keeps my smile in place, but it does. “There’s always tomorrow.” I’m not sure I should be hoping he comes out to the ranch again, but I wouldn’t be upset one bit if he did.
Back in my bedroom, I had convinced myself that my new little buddy had twisted Tagger’s arm to invite me over. Now, standing here with him hanging out like we have nowhere to be or a dinner to eat, I’m rethinking that stance. Recent events would prove the case . . .
Large hands that covered my hips at the store.
The electrifying brush of our skin in the kitchen.
Even him offering to drive me was surprising.
I look down between us, giddiness threatening to zip up my spine. I shouldn’t allow myself to feel things that might be one-sided, much less with a man I know will be gone in a few days. But when I look back up at him, I can’t deny the signs of possibility coming from him as well.
Get a hold of yourself, Chris.
He’s Baylor’s best friend.
In some kind of situation with a woman back in New York City.
And has a son to focus on.
Tagger Grange was always nice when I remember the times we spent together. He’s just being a gentleman, so don’t read too much into this. It will only lead to my own disappointment. And when he leaves, like he already plans to do, I don’t need to be healing another broken heart he’s left behind.
Returning to what this really is—a friend having a friend over for dinner—I glimpse his family seated at the table, and ask, “Are you ready for me?”
His body still blocks my entry, and his eyes fix on mine. “I’m not sure, but I might be willing to take the risk.”
And just like that, my heart is thrown into turmoil again.