The Way Back

Chapter 27 Matt

The leaves had turned while I wasn't paying attention.

One day they were green, the next they were rust and gold, falling across the road in drifts that collected against fence posts.

October in Millbrook looked the same as it had when I was seventeen, driving this same stretch to pick up Elena after her shift at the diner.

I pushed the thought away and focused on the road.

The call had come in twenty minutes ago: wellness check at the Patterson farm. Neighbor reported not seeing activity for a few days, wanted someone to make sure she was all right. Dispatch said it with the kind of tone that meant we both know this is probably nothing, but protocol is protocol.

I'd met Joan Patterson a handful of times since moving back. She'd been at the house once, bringing Mom a casserole with a note that said from one stubborn woman to another. Mom hadn't recognized her. Joan had patted her hand anyway and told Dad to call if he needed anything.

The driveway was long, gravel crunching under my tires. The farmhouse sat at the end of it, white paint peeling in places but solid. Barn out back, pasture stretching east. Joan’s truck was parked by the porch, rust spots blooming on the wheel wells.

I pulled up and cut the engine.

Joan was on the porch before I'd even gotten out, seventy-something and weathered, arms crossed, a cigarette dangling from her mouth.

"Matthew Reeves," she called. "If you're here because Diane Morris called in another one of her concerned citizen reports, you can tell her I'm fine and she can mind her own damn business."

I climbed the steps. "Morning, Mrs. Patterson."

"It's Joan." She took a drag, exhaled. "And I'm not dead, as you can clearly see. Been mucking out stalls all morning. Guess that doesn't count as activity to Diane."

"She probably just wanted to make sure."

"She wanted to be nosy." Joan stubbed out the cigarette in a coffee can by the door. "But since you're here, you want coffee? Least I can do for dragging you out."

"I'm good, thanks."

"Suit yourself." She sat down in one of the rocking chairs, gestured for me to take the other. "How's your mom?"

"Some days are better than others."

Joan nodded slowly. "Carol's tougher than anyone gives her credit for. She'll fight this thing as long as she can."

"Yeah."

"And your dad?"

"Hanging in there."

"Bill's a good man. Always has been." She pulled out another cigarette, lit it. "You doing okay? Can't be easy, coming back to all this."

"I'm managing."

She studied me through the smoke. "You look like Bill did at your age. Never said shit about what bothered him either. Drove your mother crazy."

I shifted in the chair.

"You used to come out here with that girl. What was it, haying season? You'd work your ass off all afternoon, then sit on the tailgate sharing a Coke like you'd invented romance." She snorted. "Figured you'd end up married with six kids by now."

"Mrs. Patterson—"

"It's Joan, won’t tell you again. And I'm not trying to make you feel like shit, I'm just saying. You were good kids. Both of you." She tapped ash into the can. "Still are, probably. Just made a mess of it."

"That was a long time ago."

"Three years isn't that long when you get to be my age." She rocked slowly. "She's coming by today, actually. Foal's doing better but she wants to check that front leg one more time."

Heat crept up my neck.

Joan caught it, of course she did.

"Don't worry, I won't tell her you're here pining on my porch." She took another drag. "Though she'll probably show up in about ten minutes." She rocked slowly, watching me.

I should leave, I knew that. And yet…

"Your mother asks about Elena sometimes. On the good days."

I didn't say anything.

"Last time Carol remembered who I was, she asked if that nice girl you married still came around. I told her yeah, she checks on the horses." She looked back at the pasture. "Didn't have the heart to tell her the rest."

"Joan—"

She waved a hand. "I'm seventy-four. I can say what I want." She looked back at the pasture. "Your mother loved that girl. Still does, probably, on the days she remembers."

A truck turned onto the driveway. White, with Millbrook Veterinary Care on the side.

My hands went still on the chair.

Joan glanced at the truck, then at me. Something that might've been amusement flickered across her face. "Right on time."

Elena's truck pulled up beside my patrol car. She cut the engine, grabbed her bag from the passenger seat, then looked up and saw me sitting there on the porch.

She froze for just a second.

"Matt," she said, climbing the steps. "Hi."

"Hey."

"Deputy Reeves is here on official business," Joan said, standing. "Diane Morris thinks I'm dead."

Elena's mouth twitched. "Are you?"

"Not yet." Joan headed toward the barn. "Come on, I'll show you the foal. Poor thing is doing better, but I want you to check that leg again."

She headed toward the barn. Elena hesitated, glancing at me.

"Wellness check," I said with a shrug. "False alarm."

"Right." She shifted her bag. "How've you been?"

"Good. You?"

"Busy. Clinic's booked solid through the end of the year."

"That's great."

"Yeah."

We stood there. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, exactly. It was just… guarded.

"How's your mom doing?" Elena asked quietly.

"Okay. Some good days, some hard ones."

"I'm glad she has you here."

I didn't know what to say to that.

"I should go," she said, nodding toward the barn. "Don't want to keep Joan waiting."

"Yeah. Of course."

She started down the steps, then stopped and turned back.

"Take care of yourself, Matt."

"You too," I said.

I watched her go, the way she moved, purposeful and sure. Like she knew exactly where she was supposed to be. Joan appeared in the barn doorway, looked back at me, didn't say anything.

Just shook her head slightly and disappeared inside.

Three weeks later, Diane Morris called in another wellness check on Joan.

Second time in a month. Diane had probably seen Joan's lights off at eight PM and assumed the worst, never mind that Joan went to bed early because she got up at four-thirty to feed the horses.

I could've just called Diane back, if I were to be honest. Told her Joan was fine, saved myself the drive. But it was a slow Tuesday, and I told myself I should check in person.

The leaves were mostly gone now, bare branches reaching up against a gray November sky. Joan was already on the porch when I pulled up. Arms crossed, cigarette already lit.

"Let me guess," she called out. "Diane thinks I'm dead again."

I climbed the steps. "She's concerned."

"She's bored, that’s what it is." Joan took a drag. "That woman needs a hobby that isn't monitoring my porch light schedule."

"I'll let her know you're alive."

"You could've called."

"Wanted to make sure."

She studied me for a moment, then gestured at the other rocking chair. "Sit down, then. Long as you're here."

I sat. She rocked slowly, smoking, looking out at the pasture where the mare and foal were grazing.

"Diane needs a man," Joan said.

"She means well."

"She means to be a pain in my ass." She looked at me and squinted. "Hoping to run into Elena again?"

I opened my mouth, closed it again.

Joan's smirked. "She was here yesterday. Foal's doing great, case you're wondering."

"That's good."

"Mm." She took a drag, still watching me. "You're many things, boy, but you’re not subtle."

Joan let the silence sit, rocking. Out in the pasture, the foal was running circles around the mare, all legs and energy.

"That bother you?" Joan asked. "Missing her by a day?"

I cleared my throat. "No."

"Liar." She stubbed out her cigarette, immediately reached for another. "You got a tell, you know. Same one your father has. Jaw gets tight."

I looked out at the pasture.

"She's with Caleb now," Joan said, matter-of-fact. "But you knew that already, didn’t you?"

"I did."

"You sure?" She studied me. "Because you're sitting on my porch looking like a kicked dog, and I'm trying to figure out if you came here hoping she'd be in my barn or if you just like my company that much."

I didn't say anything, but that didn’t bother Joan. She was more than okay with talking for the both of us.

"Is it true?" Joan asked. "What everyone says?"

"What?"

"That you cheated on her." She said it casual, like she was commenting on the weather. "That true?"

My hands tightened on the arms of the chair. "Yeah, that’s… yes, it’s true."

"Mm." She nodded slowly. "Well, if I'd been Elena, I would've gutted you like a fish. Probably would've used the good knife too. The one I save for the Christmas ham."

I looked at her, and she was completely serious.

"But I'm not Elena," she said. "And you're still here." She tapped ash. "Frank was still here too, after I pulled my bullshit."

I glanced over, confused. "What?"

"You think you're the only person who ever fucked up?

" She rocked slowly, not a care in the world.

"I was seventeen. Met my Frank at a church social.

Quiet boy, but steady. He had a good job at the feed store.

Asked me to dinner three times before I said yes.

" A hint of a smile played on her lips. "Then Danny Carver came through town. "

She paused, looking out at the horses.

"He worked construction and rode a motorcycle. Looked like James Dean if James Dean was an asshole. I went on two dates with him while I was still seeing Frank."

I didn't know what to say.

"Frank found out because Danny's dumb ass bragged about it at the bar. Frank showed up at my house, told me he loved me, but if I wanted Danny I should go ahead and take him." She looked at me. "Said he wouldn't wait around to be second choice."

"What'd you do?"

"Cried like an idiot. Then I told Danny to get lost and begged Frank to forgive me." She rocked slowly. "He did. We got married six months later. Had forty-three years before the cancer took him."

The wind picked up, colder now.

"Point is," Joan said, "we all fuck up. Some of us just do it louder than others."

"I don't think Elena would see it that way."

"Probably not. She's got every right to be done with you." Joan looked at me directly. But quit acting like you're damned for eternity. You made a mistake. A bad one. That's it."

I thought about the last three years. The extra shifts, the therapy sessions, running until my lungs burned. Every punishment I could think of, every attempt at redemption.

"Maybe," I finally said.

"Maybe?" Joan snorted. "Jesus Christ, boy. That right there is your problem. Maybe this, maybe that, I don't know, it's complicated." She looked at me hard. "Quit hedging. Because the real question here is what you're gonna do about it."

I stared out at the pasture. The mare was nosing the foal, gentle, protective.

"I don't know," I said.

"Course you don't. Because you're too busy playing the martyr.

You came back here, gave up being some hotshot detective.

No making waves, not making Elena's life hell.

Hell, you even got the manners to respect she's with another man now.

" She exhaled smoke. "What are you, trying out for sainthood? Expecting a medal?"

I took a deep breath, having no idea what to say. Somehow this was harder than therapy. Dr. Schafer at least pretended to be gentle about it.

"Walking around here looking like somebody shot your dog." She shook her head. "Yeah, yeah. You messed up. You paid for it. You crawled through broken glass or whatever the hell. We all got the memo, Matthew. Now what?"

"It's not that easy."

"Ain't easy because you don't wanna move on, you jackass." She pointed her cigarette at me. "Don't try and bullshit me. I'm too old for it. I saw your face when her truck showed up three weeks ago. Looked like Christmas morning and a funeral at the same time."

I felt exposed, like she'd opened me up on that porch.

"You love that woman," Joan said flatly. "Bet you'd cut off your own arm just to hear her laugh again. Am I wrong?"

"It’s just that…" The words were coming out before I could stop them. This was stupid. I shouldn’t even be considering it, saying it out loud, but at the same time… "Elena wouldn't… she's not going to—"

"Take you back?" Joan snorted. "If she's got half a brain? Hell no. Girl's got Caleb Wright bringing her coffee and splitting firewood for her. That boy knows how to use his hands. Why the hell would she want you back?"

I would have preferred if Joan had punched me.

"But that ain't the point." She leaned forward. "Point is, quit lying to yourself. You want her, so want her. Don't walk around here pretending you're fine, pretending you've moved on, showing up at my farm hoping she'll be in the barn. Grow a spine."

"What's the point if—"

"The point is you're lying to yourself and I don't like liars." She stopped rocking. "Cheaters lie to other people, and that's bad enough. But lying to yourself? That's just pathetic."

I looked at her.

"So I'll ask you plain," Joan said. "You still got feelings for her or not?"

I'd been holding that question at arm's length for weeks.

I thought about the purple hair tie still wrapped around my bedside lamp, then looked out at the pasture, at the mare and foal, at anything but Joan's face.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I do."

"Well, there you have it." Joan let out a sharp exhale. "That’s inconvenient as hell, but you're allowed to feel what you feel. Doesn't make you a monster. It just makes you human, and humans are mostly idiots. Trust me, I know."

She looked at me for a moment, then stood up, her joints creaking.

"Great," she said. "This is all very wonderful. Now, since I have you here, get your ass up and help me move feed bags. You can pine for your girl while you work."