Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
RUSTY
" N ot so hard," Patty says from next to me as I jab my fists down. "No need for a knockout here."
His words cause a spike of frustration. My mind keeps turning to Philip, Teddy, and Bill, and their swirling faces show up like a target that makes me want to vent all my anger instead of exerting control, the way I normally do. "You said I'm supposed to punch? — "
"We're talking about a delicate, living thing," Patty says. "Use a softer touch."
I comply as sweat rolls down my face from my brow. I tossed my hat to the side earlier and rolled up my sleeve, so I wipe the sweat from my face on my bicep. Patty's gets hotter than Duke's home gym in the middle of summer. Granted, we've been at this for hours, and that's longer than I ever workout at Duke's.
Also, my forearms are trembling and my hands are cramped.
"I don't know how you do this all day. "
"I'm not going in for the kill the whole time. In fact, let's try something different altogether."
My mind hears him say this, but I give one final punch, because the feeling is so satisfying. And then another. And another. It would be easy to turn my head off and keep this up indefinitely.
But Patty's hand grips my shoulder, and I realize how badly I've overdone it when I see the lifeless mass in front of me.
"Easy, Rocky," Patty says. "You're done here."
I nod and step back, wiping my brow with the back of my arm again. I'm panting like I just finished two rounds against Mike Tyson instead of two hours baking Irish Brown Bread.
My phone vibrates, and I wipe my hands on my apron before grabbing it. My heart stumbles.
ASH
Hello, lover.
Ha! I think that's going to have to be my new nickname for you. Lover. Lovah. I'm going to introduce you to everyone that way.
*GIF of Will Ferrell and Rachel Dratch in hot tub*
"Hello, have you met my lovah, Rusty?"
"Hi there, I'm Ash, and this is Rusty. He likes classic rock, long walks on the beach, and being my lovah."
Okay, that may be too much.
Hello? Is this thing on?
I make a strangled noise, and Patty gives me a look. I show him my phone.
"Whoa,” he laughs. “Whether she likes you or not, that girl has no idea the effect she has on you."
"You don't say." That's as much lightness as I can spare, because even though Pat is going back to shaping dough like it's art, I want to punch it again.
If she can't love me, I wish this torment would end. It would be so much easier if I didn't love her.
I hear the lie as soon as I think it.
After my sister, Shelby, died, I would sit at the cemetery and cry and wish the agony of missing her would stop. And one day, Tag Carville found me while he was at the cemetery. He was taking flowers to the graves of his wife, son, and daughter-in-law.
Tag stood behind me — a stoic, gentle mountain of a man — and simply stayed there while I cried. My heart had been torn to shreds, but he didn't try to hold the pieces together. He let me fall apart. After … I don't know how long, I dashed my tears away.
"I just want the pain to stop."
Tag patted my back. "I thought the same thing once."
"What do you mean 'once’? You don't want the pain to stop anymore?"
"No. Grief is a beautiful thing, son. It's a sign that you had someone in your life who mattered that much to you."
"Why can't that person matter without the pain?"
"If you take away the pain of grief, you take away the love from life. You can't have loss without love."
It took me a long time to understand what he meant. I know now, even if I hate it sometimes.
If my love for Ash disappeared, the pain would go with it, but so would the joy. It is a privilege to love that woman, close or far.
I stare at the loaves, wishing a heart could be shaped as easily as dough.
"I don't think learning to cook is helping like I wanted it to." I lean back against one of the kitchen counters .
"Sure it is. You didn't expect cooking to take away your heartache. It’s part of your quest to never be like Arlo. Right?"
Of course he's right. Patty's always right. Arlo would demand dinner at five and not show till midnight, screaming about how his food was cold. He’d vomit all over the carpet and then complain about the smell. He’d throw a plate at the wall and blame my mom when he got cut. Years ago, I promised myself if I ever got married, I would never let my expectations or temper become a curse for my family.
I give Pat a hard look. “You ain’t wrong.”
He snorts. "You don't come to me for hand-holding."
I dip my hand in the flour and flick it at his face. The white powder splats against his cheek, and he sniffs right as Sean comes in. A few members of the kitchen staff follow behind him.
Sean looks from his brother to me. "I see bread making's going well."
Pat grabs a cloth and wipes his face while I smile. "Really well. But I should get goin'."
"You up for a delivery on your way?" Sean asks. "It's in Sugar Maple."
"My pleasure."
"You may have spoken too soon … "
Fifteen minutes later, I'm walking into the community center with two large trays of Patty's scones on top of a box of assorted jams, jellies, and butters from Sugar Maple Farms. The building has a handful of classrooms, a gymnasium, and a larger rec room, where I'm headed now.
The sound of buzzing meets me as I walk into the hall outside the rec room. It swells into a frenzied hive when I approach the double doors. A mix of apprehension and eagerness meets me as I walk in.
I hope no one slaps my butt this time.
The Sugar Maple Canasta Club can be a dangerous place.
What looks like every senior in town sits around one of a dozen card tables, with four people to a table and playing cards in front of them. I weave through the room, getting stopped a handful of times by some of the less competitive senior citizens at the beginner's tables.
"Thank you for cleanin' out my gutters," Nana Parkinson — Chick Parkinson's wife — says. "Chick swore up and down he'd get to 'em, but I just knew he'd fall off that ladder the moment he tried."
"I wouldn't have fallen," Chick grumbles. "You asked Rusty before I had the chance because you're sweet on him."
I laugh, and the rest of the table laughs with me.
"Chick, we both know I'm not half the man you are."
Nana P. swaps looks at one of her friends, and I try to ignore their suggestive glances.
"Well, that's true," Chick says.
"And I know you can clean your own gutters, but you have more important things to worry about with the Lion's Club and the historical society. If I can help take some of the busy work out of your life so you can focus on what matters, I'm happy to."
Chick eyes me before nodding. "You're a fine young man," he says. "In spite of your upbringing."
My throat goes dry. It's nothing I haven’t heard a thousand times. I should be numb to it by now.
"Thank you, sir. Now, if y'all will excuse me, I should set all this down."
I make my way to the far end of the room where the tables are set up and put down the box and trays. I open them and arrange them more decoratively, making sure there are knives for each of the spreads. When I'm done, I spot Mrs. Beaty and Lola Nina at the advanced table with another pair I can't make out behind the dividers on the table. Mrs. Beaty gives Lola Nina the stink eye, but she brightens when she sees me.
I brighten, too.
I walk over, feeling lighter until I spot who else is at the advanced table.
Anger makes my hands go numb.
What is he doing here?
Mrs. Beaty waves at me over Philip Freaking Dumfries's coiffed hair. Philip follows her gaze, turning to look at me.
His eye glints, and I feel sick thinking of these mother figures being taken in by his charm. I wish one of the Janes was here. Especially Lou. She has dibs, after all, and something tells me she'd be only too happy to chop this guy's toes off and feed them to Tripp's pigs.
That may be a direct quote, come to think of it.
When I reach the table, I hug the Hens, a name I only ever use in my head. The Chicks may think they run the town, but everyone knows it's actually these three matriarchs: Mrs. Beaty, Lola Nina, and Granny Belle, the pastor's ninety-year-old mother. Granny Belle gives me a big kiss, depositing enough lipstick on my cheek to put Marilyn Monroe to shame.
I nod to Philip as graciously as I can muster.
"Uh oh," I say, standing next to Lola Nina, who's opposite Philip. I make a show of peeking at everyone's cards. "Y'all didn't tell me you were locked in a deathmatch. Is it safe for me to be here?" I say.
"You know how we roll," Mrs. Beaty says as if she's been turned loose on Urban Dictionary. "We've just been gettin' to know Mr. Dumfries."
"Good seeing you again, Rusty." Philip says my name like he's describing a nail.
Man, I hate this guy.
"I thought you'd be on the first plane back home," I say .
"I decided to wait to see what happens with the vote in a couple of weeks, and what better use of my time than getting to know this fine town and its most esteemed — and beautiful — citizens?"
Mrs. Beaty swats at him. "Oh, you."
"Where're you staying?" I ask.
"There's a rather lovely B&B at the farm, as you must know."
He's staying at the farm? The nerves in my hands switch from ice to fire. He's baiting me.
"Sure do. I've spent most of my life there."
"And you run … the fruit stands? That must be fun."
I grin like I'm too stupid to catch his tone. "It really is. You should come work with us for a day. If you're not too afraid to dirty up your manicure." I laugh like I'm joking.
But his fingernails are definitely buffed.
"Rusty is the hardest working young man I've ever seen," Mrs. Beaty says. "In all my years teaching, I never met a student more determined to learn."
I grab the back of my neck, hoping she won't mention my dyslexia. I'm not ashamed of it, but I don't want this Wall Street Wannabe weaponizing it, either.
Philip gives an exaggerated grimace. "I'll have to pass. I'm a 'work smarter, not harder' kind of guy."
Because us dummies have to rely on hard work to get by. I grit my teeth but smile, determined to be the bigger person.
Granny Belle isn't so determined.
"Too bad your momma didn't teach you to do both."
She folds her arms over her expansive bosom and gives him a look that screams she doesn't suffer fools gladly, as the Good Book would say.
Philip chuckles and bows his head. "Good point, ma'am. It sounds like Rusty's the real deal. I suppose I'm letting my jealousy rear its ugly head. "
Jealousy? Has he been telling these women some sob story about coming back to win Ash?
Granny Belle looks at him suspiciously, but Mrs. Beaty and Lola Nina are a bit more polite. But then they're younger and have more … poops to give.
"I meant no offense," Philip says to me, holding his hand out to shake mine.
"And if you did, I'd be too dumb to notice, right?" I say, gripping his hand and not squeezing.
Philip holds my eye, and for a minute I wonder if he's challenging me to a staring contest. His eyes are a green even more intense than Ash's friend Millie's, but this little stare-off lets me see the outline of green-tinted color contacts around his irises.
The way I wanna knead this guy's face like dough …
An alarm sounds in my head at the thought.
Don't , I warn myself. You can't go down that road .
Not again.
Lola Nina tuts, and I break eye contact with Ash's ex. Manners matter more than machismo. "Rusty, why are we finding out from this young man that you two are both vying over the same girl?"
"Vying?" I splash incredulity all over the word. "There's no vying."
"Mr. Dumfries told us about you and a certain someone," Mrs. Beaty says.
"Don't act like you and Ash don't plan your salon visits together," I tease, but my brain is scrambling like I'm trying to read an old-fashioned newspaper. Ash and I never planned to take our fake dating public. It was for Philip's sake, and the fact that he's still here and bringing his drama into my town has me seeing red.
"That Lunch & Learn she did for the Canasta Club on social media was very … inspiring." Lola Nina titters.
The other two women giggle with her .
"Let me guess: she used the Tummy Waffles page as inspiration?"
"We were inspired, all right," Granny Belle says.
"And didn't she pick out the pink for your hair a couple of months ago?" I say to Mrs. Beaty.
"Oh, I did like that pink, though it's nice to have my hair back to its natural color," Mrs. Beaty says, fussing with hair redder than a fire engine.
"That color's about as natural as my teeth," Granny Belle says. "You should let yourself age gracefully? — "
"Tell that to your brow lift," Mrs. Beaty says.
Granny Belle puts her warm brown hand to her forehead and gasps. "I had glaucoma surgery, and you know it."
"Of course, dear," Mrs. Beaty says.
"Well, I can't believe that anything a bottle or doctor would offer could improve on the three of you," Philip says, inserting himself where he doesn't belong.
Granny Belle's suspicion drops faster than an Acme anvil. "Aren't you charming, Mr. Dumfries?"
"Enough of this nonsense," Lola Nina says. "I want to hear about Rusty and his girlfriend. Didn't you tell us you were only friends?"
Philip makes a terrible play that can only be designed to garner favor from the town matriarchs.
That scheming scumbag.
I hate lying to people I love. But as much as I adore these women, I care about protecting Ash more. Whenever our ruse ends, the town will be fine. If I end it prematurely, though, Ash won't be. I can't let her get hurt by this chump again. "We didn't want to go public until we knew it was the real thing."
The lie stings worse than poison oak.
"Of course it's the real thing!" Lola Nina says. "Anyone who's seen you two together for more than a second knows you're meant to be. "
Philip feigns a dagger to the chest. "That hurts. I was hoping I could call on you three to help me win Ashley back."
Granny Belle laughs, but Mrs. Beaty and Lola Nina don't.
"Some trophies can only be won once," Mrs. Beaty says. "That girl's heart is one of them."
Philip adds a joker to his meld with more force than is necessary.
Mrs. Beaty laughs and completes her canasta, winning the round. She pats his hand. "Next time you try to hustle a hillbilly, work smarter, not harder."