Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Ezra
I have no food—but the Linus’s make sure I want for nothing. For the past two days, I have eaten every meal at their table.
“There’s a lot to do before the shop opens.”
“Always,” Dessie says, her Southern drawl on high.
“We’ll get there.” Don pats my wrist. “We’ve got some kids coming to help. Dessie will get them trained.”
I clear my throat. I have no desire to offend my long-time friends. But they’re getting older. They need more help than Autumn and a slew of high school kids. Kids who don’t know what they’re doing are more hindrance than help half the time—take it from someone who was one of those teens once. “I’d be happy to help out.”
“Don’t you have all that designin’ to do? We promised Autumn that next fall she’d have her bistro.”
“Yeah, well, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve got a few sketches already in the works. I started the day you called. How long have you been wanting a restaurant on-site?” Or in other words—how long ago did Autumn talk you into this? It’s a harsh thought, though. Autumn’s never been a selfish person.
Don picks up my empty plate, placing it over top of his. “ Dessie’s always wanted something more. A year-round shop or something similar to bring folks out in March or July, when they aren’t even thinking about Christmas.”
“Why not the shop, then? It’s already established.”
“It’s all Christmas decor.” Dessie shakes her head. “I wanted something for all year long. Autumn’s always wanted to cook—you know that. She brought this idea to us and it felt right.”
“Why doesn’t she just go open her own place? Why here?” There’s a sternness in my voice that I can’t quite shake. I can’t decide if I’m feeling angry with Autumn or protective of the Linus’s. Probably both.
“Don and I can’t man something alone, not anymore. So this works.”
“And—” Don begins, but Dessie cuts him off.
“And because .”
“We all need help sometimes, Ez.” Don doesn’t look at me. He rinses the plates in the sink until they’re as clean as Dessie likes them, then sets them in the dishwasher rack. “You know that better than anyone.”
My gut tightens. I do know that.
“She’s had—” Don starts, but Dessie smacks the back of his hand with the tips of her fingers, cutting him off before he can say anything helpful.
“Hush now,” Dessie says. “That’s Autumn’s business.”
Why is everyone so close-lipped about Autumn? I’m starting to think she murdered someone, buried them on the land, and plans to build a bistro over the grounds to cover up any trace of evidence.
What have I missed?
Dessie’s hushing Don with her business.
Meg won’t say a word but told me to find out .
“You’re right.” I clap my hands together. “We all need help every once in a while. And you all could use a little help on the farm. I think I remember what I’m doing. ”
“You?” Dessie giggles, wrinkles forming around her pretty smile.
“Yes, me. I can help.”
“I’ll get you back on the payroll,” Don says.
I shake my head. “No need.”
“Then room and board, at the very least.” Don nods—he won’t let me go without something. They’re already giving me a deal on the house. But I’ll take it—for the sake of Don’s pride and my bank account.
Dessie walks around to where I sit and folds an arm around my shoulders. “You were always a good one, Ezra. We’ve missed you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve missed you too.”
“Autumn’s missed you most of all,” Don says.
My insides stir. Has she really? That’s not the impression I get from that seething, teeth-grinding girl.
"Hush, Donald. That's Autumn's business." Dessie's watery blue eyes find me. She's staring as if trying to speak without words. But then, she was never very good at keeping her opinion to herself. "And we know you've missed our Autumn Pie."
“Oh, um…”
“I can see it all over your face. You two were always so good together.”
“I’m not sure Autumn would agree with you.”
“That’s not true. There’s more to it than that, Ezra. Now, hush. That’s her business.” Did she just hush herself? Because I didn’t say anything incriminating. I have no idea what business of Autumn’s everyone keeps hinting at and hushing about.
“Let me get you some work boots,” Don says, breaking the silence and shuffling off down the hallway.
Dessie sits beside me and pats my knee. “You been by to see your daddy?”
Mav Bennett has never been a daddy . I clear my throat. “No,” I say, and then, because it seems too harsh to sweet Dessie, I add, “Not yet.”
She nods. “Some wounds take more time than others to heal.”
“And some never close,” I say.
“Some wounds need a pretty girl to help close them up. Take my word on it.”
I tilt my head. “A pretty girl?”
“Autumn, of course.” Dessie smacks me on the leg as if her words are obvious. “I think your father is a wound you’ve already stitched up all on your own. But Autumn is going to have to help you heal the injury she caused.”
“I’m not—” I sit up straighter in my chair. “I’m not wounded, Dessie. I’m fine.” Though my therapist would probably disagree.
Dessie stands and pats the back of my chair. “It’s okay, sugar. We’re all wounded in one way or another. And Autumn has the exact same wound as you.”
I highly doubt that. She sent me away. Not the other way around.
But I remind myself that I don’t know anything about the last ten years. “Dessie, what happened to Mr. Green?” I ask, waiting for her to tell me it’s Autumn’s business.
She slinks back into her chair. “Cancer. It doesn’t care how good your soul is, it claims who it claims.”
“When did he get sick?”
“That’s Autumn’s tale.” And… there it is.
It’s a simple question. And not even about Autumn. Everyone around here is so determined to be silent when it comes to that girl.
“She needs to tell you.”
I lace my fingers together, resting my hands on the table and staring at the wood grain throughout the cherry tabletop. “She doesn’t seem too interested in talking to me.”
“Well,” Dessie says, standing again and slapping the cuff of my shirt, “maybe that’s because you came back here all high and mighty and a little grumpy.”
“I’m not high and mighty.” And of the two of us, she’s definitely the grumpy one.
She grins. “Not to me, you’re not.”
Is she saying that I’ve been pompous to Autumn? Would anyone blame me for not being overly friendly with that woman?
Don lumbers back into the room, a pair of black rubber boots in his hands. “I brought you my old boots. Can you fit into a ten?” His boots have seen better days, that’s for sure. But they’ll work. I’m an eleven and a half, but they’ve been stretched and worn. They’ll do.
Those boots are my ticket to work right next to Autumn.