Chapter 11
It becomes evident after one shot and one shot only that Grace is not a fan of tequila.
And this fact must be all over her face, because Caia spots her grimacing and breathing hard through her nose and trying to keep her dinner from coming back up, and she has to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.
“Oh, Grace, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
Grace shakes her head, waving it off. “All good. I’m fine.”
“Really?” Caia counters flatly.
Grace hiccups and the taste flickers back into her mouth with a vengeance. Rather than risk talking, she gives Caia a thumbs-up.
Caia chuckles. “All right. Want to sit?”
They sit on a cube of hay near the bar, and Grace is finally starting to feel like she can breathe normally when Caia goes in for the kill.
“So, you like him,” she says, knocking playfully into Grace’s arm with her own.
When Grace looks up for clarification, she follows Caia’s glance until she finds Crew with his arm securely wrapped around Cooper’s neck, walking him away from a group of annoyed-looking men and waving an apologetic hand in their direction.
Stuttering, shocked, and still nauseated, Grace makes a clipped, unintelligible noise. “What? Crew? No—he’s my boss.”
“Ah, right. Of course,” Caia says. “That boss-slash-employee dynamic never turns into anything. There’s never any attraction there.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s attraction for some people, but it’s—it’s not like that.”
“It looked a lot like that to me, honey.” She shrugs. “But, hey, we don’t have to get into it. You don’t know me from Adam—of course you’re not going to confess your undying love for my stubborn-ass brother.”
Grace says nothing, grateful for the out.
She notices Caia scanning the scene, particularly spending a good amount of time watching the dance floor.
She seems to be looking for someone, something.
Grace couldn’t say. To keep the conversation healthily distanced from dissecting her feelings for Crew, she asks, “Looking for someone?”
Caia kinks a brow. “Just making sure my mother didn’t invite any unsavory types. Con artists. Musicians. Bull riders turned cologne models.” Caia sighs, biting the inside of her cheek as her search continues. “She tends to be too charitable about that kind of thing.”
Cologne models—Grace remembers that. She swings her head around to look at Caia, and, excited to have something concrete to contribute, she says, “Oh, Easton, right? The guy from the centerfold in For the Ranch?”
Caia’s search halts. She looks at Grace sharply and abruptly, and for the first time since laying eyes on her, Grace notices a twitch of something sad in her eyes. A chink in her armor. A rare sight, if Grace had to guess.
“You know him?” Caia asks, leaning back and folding her arms over her chest.
It’s a self-protective gesture, Grace knows. She learned that from a guidance counselor in middle school. “No, not at all. The guys just made a big stink about it a few nights ago. Everyone seemed to have their own opinion of it, none of them good.”
Caia nods, smiling, seemingly satisfied with that answer. “Well, there’s not a whole lot of good to say, so that makes sense.”
Grace nods, waiting for Caia to elaborate on what clearly seems to be an old wound with an old…
someone. When she doesn’t, a peaceful, unexpected quiet settles between them.
Grace glances out of the corner of her eye at Caia here and there, admiring her sharp profile, her full lips, the freckles that span her cheeks and nose.
It really should be studied, how beautiful all of the Caldwells are.
The gene pool should be at the top of science’s list on how to make people pretty, if that’s even a thing science does.
The bartenders are still hard at work as night settles in, and Bryce Carrigan steadily and enthusiastically continues to work the crowd with his crooning and his charm. Couples dance, people mingle, all the laughing and cacophonous voices morphing into roars as the alcohol continues to flow.
Around nine, the candle-covered cake is rolled into a central location amid all of the tables.
The candles are lit by a team of waiters as everyone crowds around, Clint standing nearest to the table with Renata by his side.
Caia bids Grace a quick, sweet farewell, and then the three Caldwell children are standing together, opposite their parents.
Caia extends onto her tippy-toes to whisper something in Crew’s ear that makes him cup a hand over her mouth, and Cooper ducks his head toward them, hoping to be let in on the joke.
Grace tries not to wonder what Caia said, tries not to consider the possibility that it might’ve been about her.
When the last candle is lit, Renata smiles proudly and holds up her wineglass.
Without having to say a word, she brings all of the conversations to a gentle close.
“I’d like to say a few words about Clint on his sixtieth birthday,” she begins. Her cheeks are wine flushed, but she looks radiant. “You’ve all probably heard this before, but you’re gonna listen anyway.”
A light chuckle ripples through the crowd.
“Clint and I met when we were just kids. He was my high school sweetheart.”
Grace’s brows hike; she had no idea their story spanned so many years.
They look at each other like they’re still in the throes of passionate, all-consuming love—she never would’ve guessed they’ve known and loved each other for most of their lives.
She didn’t think that kind of love actually existed—let alone thrived—in real life.
“We grew up together. He’s always been my best friend.
” She looks at her husband, tilting her head affectionately.
“But I didn’t know he like-liked me until we were in tenth grade, when he bribed the janitor into opening my locker on Valentine’s Day so he could leave me a necklace and a letter that confessed his feelings.
” With her free hand, she fishes something out of the pocket of her sleek black slacks.
A folded-up piece of notebook paper, faded and discolored from years of being touched and treasured.
“I still have it. You don’t get to know what he said—but what you should know is that the necklace was from Kmart.
It turned my neck green, but I still wore it every single day.
I still have that, too, but it’s become a bit more fragile over the years.
Clint spent his lawn mowing earnings on it, and the reason I always tell this story when I’m talking about my husband is because it’s so quintessentially him.
Even at fourteen, he was willing to work tirelessly for the people he loved.
Sweat, blood, tears—hours of hard labor to pull together twenty dollars so he could spoil me in the only way he knew how.
” Clint’s cheeks have gone red, and he’s shifting back and forth on the heels of his boots—the man looks about two seconds away from breaking into a full sob.
“We’ve been through a lot since then,” Renata continues.
“Colleges on the opposite side of the country—long distance was awful. But then we came back to Texas, made a home for ourselves on my family’s ranch.
He knew that was my dream and he made it come true.
He gave me three beautiful children.” She nods in the direction of the three of them, all suddenly looking uncharacteristically sheepish.
Renata dismisses their shyness with a tiny, endearing wave of her hand.
“Clint—every single day, you make me happier than the one before. Thank you for being the heart and soul of this family, the unshakable port in my perpetual storm. You are more loved than you will ever know.” She raises her glass, and the sea of people surrounding her follows suit.
“Happy birthday, honey.” The crowd echoes her, and then everyone drinks to a teary-eyed Clint, who has pulled Renata into his embrace to kiss her temple, the two looking very much like two kids in puppy love.
The band returns to their instruments to accompany the “Happy Birthday” song, and Clint’s smile grows wider as he approaches the cake, beckoning everyone closer.
“Are y’all trying to burn down the ranch?
Get over here and help me with these,” he shouts.
With the help of his family and friends, the candles are extinguished, followed by roaring applause.
As beautiful as the moment is, Grace can’t help the darkness that settles into her thoughts as she watches the Caldwells share a long, tight group hug.
Clint’s smile is blinding, not a shred of melancholy in his eyes.
The look of a man surrounded by love so genuine it’s almost palpable.
Grace has never seen anything like this—doesn’t quite know what to make of it once the joy begins to soften.
It’s like real life comes crashing back, reminding her that this is how a family should be.
Telling her none too kindly that she doesn’t belong in this picture—doesn’t fit in with all these shiny, happy people.
Thankfully, the onslaught of self-doubt and hate is throttled by a hand grasping and squeezing her wrist, demanding her attention. She turns to find June at her right, eyes sparkling and glued to the stage. “You ready?” June asks.
Grace follows her stare and sees Bryce on the verge of starting another song. “For what?”
June grins but says nothing.
“All right folks,” Bryce says into the mic. “I’ve been told y’all have a little tradition for Senor Clint’s birthday.”
A variety of hollering erupts from the crowd, and suddenly, everyone is pouring in, racing past Grace and June and onto the dance floor.
“That’s right,” Bryce says, nodding. “If you aren’t already, come on and get down to the dance floor. Because we…” He strums the guitar, taps a boot against the stage, and looks to his band for confirmation that they’re ready. Satisfied, he smirks and says, “Are about to boot scoot.”