Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
ALISON
The wheels of the car crunch the gravel of the driveway. My heart rate picks up as I reach the end and flip the engine off.
Troy comes around the corner of the Farm and I give him a tight smile as I climb out.
“Are you okay, Ms. Baker?”
“I’m fine,” I say, nervously.
I am fine, just excited and nervous and ready to puke.
“I met Mr. Landry through his brother Ford. Have you met Ford?”
I shake my head, wondering why it matters to me how he knows Barrett.
“Ford and I were in the military together. Ford still is in the Marines, actually. Anyway, I opted out after a tour of duty overseas.” He leads me towards the front of the house, his pace decidedly slow.
“We saw some action over there, and let’s just say it messed with me for awhile when I got home.
I was pretty down and out, burned about every bridge I had ever built. And you know what?”
He stops in his tracks and looks at me, his grey eyes warm.
“Barrett was the only person that didn’t turn their back on me.
I’d only met him twice before when I came around looking for Ford -- I’d heard he was on furlough.
I was a mess,” he grins. “And Barrett pulled me aside and helped me get cleaned up. He gave me a chance in his security detail.” His jaw stiffens, his eyes narrowing.
“I know you don’t know him, and he may not like me even talking to you, and come to think of it, I’m not sure why I am other than I see a look of apprehension on your face.
But trust me when I say, he’s the best man I’ve ever known. ”
It does make me feel better, but it’s not something I didn’t already know. Barrett is a good man; I knew that from the moment he found me with Mr. Pickner. My nerves aren’t from that. They’re from just how good he might really be.
A fluffy yellow dog comes barreling towards us, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, from the other side of the house.
“Trigger, stop,” Troy commands. The dog sits without hesitation.
“Wow. He’s well trained,” I comment, following him to the steps.
“Of course he is. Ford wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Troy steps to the side as the front door sweeps open. “I’ll see you later. Enjoy.” And he’s gone.
I barely notice Troy’s departure because my eyes are glued to Barrett. He leans against the frame, one arm stretched overhead, a playful smile on his face. The edge of his white dress shirt lifts just enough to show a sliver of tanned and toned skin between it and the top of his jeans.
I should go towards him, say hello, but it takes a second to become acclimated to him—to the energy that rolls off of him in waves.
“Good afternoon,” he drawls. His voice is a mixture of sweet and simple, honeyed and complicated. It makes me go weak when I need to be strong. Taking a deep breath and gathering myself, I try to keep my hormones in check.
“Hey,” I finally reply, much to his amusement. His lips twist together in a cheeky grin as he pushes away from the door.
“Thank you for coming all the way out here.”
“Let’s be honest,” I say, the words struggling to get out as he draws near, “you weren’t going to make it easy to say no.”
His chest rumbles with a chuckle. “No, no, I wasn’t.”
He kisses my cheek. I want to turn my face and capture his decadently soft lips with my own.
“It’s beautiful out here,” I comment, feeling my cheeks heat from his touch.
“It is, isn’t it? This is my favorite place in the world.”
The wind breezes across the porch, a warm sputter of air that has just a touch of the autumn weather on its heels. The ferns rock in their hangers while Trigger walks beneath them, settling on a rocking chair in the corner of the porch.
Glancing up at Barrett, his eyes lock onto mine.
“Are you ready to go in?” he asks.
I nod and follow him inside. The soft thud of the door behind me echoing through the room.
I follow Barrett inside and through a cozy kitchen. We end up on the porch again, this time at the back of the house.
“Wow,” I breathe, spying a little lake at the far end of the lawn. “This is incredible. You’d never know this exists.”
“It’s perfect, right? It was my grandfather’s place and now it’s my father’s, technically. I probably use it more than anyone though. I stay out here a lot.”
“I would too. It’s so quiet.”
Barrett motions for me to sit at a table to our left. It’s a little round table with a white linen cloth surrounded by four wooden chairs. Two places have been set, each with a Styrofoam take-out container.
“I hope you don’t mind eating with plastic,” he grimaces. “I didn’t want to be too presumptuous and have Yolanda come out and fix something. So when you accepted my offer, I had to think quick.”
We exchange a smile, and once again, it’s effortless. Everything about him is so smooth, so easy. I keep waiting for the moment I think it’s a facade, but there are no cracks in his veneer.
“So, I’m guessing you don’t cook?” I ask, lifting the lid to my container as he does the same. Crab cakes and slaw line the inside, and the scents that rise make my mouth water.
“Cooking is one of the very few things I don’t do and have no interest in ever doing,” he laughs. “My mom and sisters did the cooking, and we had a housekeeper to pick up the slack. Now I have Yolanda.”
“You have people. That’s what you’re saying.”
He raises his fork with a piece of crab cake to his mouth. “More or less.”
“I’m taking it you don’t do dishes or laundry either,” I laugh.
“You’d be correct.”
“I’m kind of jealous of you and kind of sad for you.”
Laughing, he takes another bite. “I’d be sad about a few things in my life, but not having to do chores wouldn’t be one of them.”
“They’re a pain for sure. But as much as I hate the drudgery of daily life, I wonder how different my life would be if I didn't do them. In a way, all of the chores of life mean you have someone to cook for, someone to love that needs laundry. If there were no bowls in the sink or little dirty shirts to be washed, that would mean I didn’t have Huxley.
They’re just little reminders of a full life, you know?
” I pause before continuing. “But I’m not saying I’d turn down maid service. ”
"Maybe I'll wash a bowl tomorrow after breakfast and see if it changes my perspective," he teases. "It might be a life-altering experience. Who knows?"
"Report back. Make sure you get a soap that will keep your hands nice and soft."
“Noted.”
We sit quietly, eating our food and trading smiles with each other. I don’t feel awkward or compelled to speak at all, which surprises me. It feels absolutely normal to just sit and enjoy each other’s company like this is a routine afternoon.
I’m in my head, thinking about how comfortable I feel, when I look up and into his eyes. He’s leaned back in his chair just watching me.
I flush. “What?”
“Just watching you.”
“Obviously,” I laugh nervously. “Why?”
He lifts his shoulders in a half-hearted attempt at shrugging. A smile curls the side of his face. “You’re crazy beautiful.”
“I ...” I sit my fork down and place my hands on my lap. Forcing a swallow, I will myself to look back up at him. “Thank you.”
“You don’t take compliments well.”
“They’re always just unexpected. That’s all.”
His head cocks to the side, like he’s working a puzzle. “Men don’t tell you that all the time? I find that hard to believe.”
“Sometimes, yes, I suppose,” I say, searching for words. “I never really go out of my way to date or anything. So it’s not like I’m in situations where someone is going to blurt it out there.”
“You don’t date? At all?”
Shaking my head, I smile sadly. “No. Occasionally, I guess. But they’re few and far between. Intentionally,” I toss in at the last minute, not wanting to seem like I’m bad goods.
“Trust me when I say I fully understand why someone wouldn’t want to date at certain periods in their lives. I’m kind of there now.” He touches his finger to his lip, trying to hide a smirk. “I’m supposed to be there now,” he corrects himself.
I giggle, closing my container and sitting it off to the side. My appetite is now long gone, and I have a propensity to fiddle when I’m nervous. I don’t want to be jacking with the slaw like a little kid, and I will be if I don’t get it out of my face.
“I’m sure you are,” I agree.
“I’m in this election and I have to lock down my image, as stupid as that sounds.”
“Remember when I told you I don’t know a lot about you?” I wink. “I do know enough to know you’re portrayed as a playboy. So you ‘locking down your image’ seems like a good idea.”
He rolls his eyes and it’s obviously a point of contention with him. “Who I’m dating doesn’t affect how I do my job.”
“I can see both sides of the argument.”
“A discussion for another day,” he says, obviously not wanting to delve into it. “My question is this: why are you not dating?”
His hands form a steeple that his chin rests on. The dimple in his left cheek sinks in just a bit and I want to touch his skin, feel the smoothness under my own.
“Alison?”
“Lots of reasons,” I say simply, knowing that’s not going to be enough to get around the topic.
A part of me wants him to know so that maybe it’ll make whatever happens next easier. Whether that’s him never calling me again or us meeting for lunch or dinner, it’ll be easier if he knows my hesitations to all of this.
“I told you I have a son. His father is out of the picture completely and I really need to make sure I’m focused on him. He deserves that from me and I’m the only parent he has.”
“Can I ask where his father is?”
I force a swallow. “He’s in prison.”
Barrett’s eyes fly open and he sits back in his seat again.
“He was a judge in Albuquerque,” I continue, figuring I may as well get it out there and over with.
“Got caught up in some big scandals and was eventually disbarred, convicted of tampering with evidence, bribery, solicitation of bribery, solicitation of prostitution, and possession of drugs. Among other things. That’s the quick list.”
“Nice guy,” Barrett says, whistling through his teeth.