Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Audrey
“You must be Audrey,” a woman I assume is Cathy says from the front porch of Hartley’s house.
She has a red and white-checkered apron fastened around her round belly and a broom in her hand.
A pin on her shirt reads “Domestic Supervisor.” “Hartley said you’d be up this way, but I never dreamed you would’ve walked. Did you come from Gray’s?”
I nod, taking the stairs onto the porch. “Yeah. It’s a beautiful morning and it only took about twenty minutes. So, I figured, why not?”
“Whatever floats your boat.” She shrugs, smiling at me with the prettiest brown eyes. “Come on inside. I have a basket ready for you.”
A basket? Really?
Hartley sent me a text about an hour ago and asked me to swing by his house this morning.
He didn’t say what for specifically, and I didn’t ask.
He’s been so kind to me since I arrived that if he needs a favor from me, it’s all I can do to help.
But his truck isn’t here, and there was no mention of a basket. I’m not sure what’s going on.
“I’m Cathy, by the way,” she confirms, ushering me into the kitchen. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”
“Thank you, but I’m pretty much over-caffeinated at this point. That’s kind of why I walked down here. I need to burn off some of this energy.”
“That makes sense, especially if you’re going on a road trip. There are few things worse than being cooped up in a car with too much caffeine and a small bladder—which is usually my problem.”
She laughs, digging around in the refrigerator while I try to wrap my head around the fact that she knows that I’m about to take a road trip. What else does she know?
I turn away from her, taking in the kitchen and living room.
It’s almost exactly what I imagined Hartley’s house to look like with built-in cabinets surrounding a large but not gaudy television, miniature rocking chairs next to a stone fireplace, and a few deer heads mounted on the wall. It’s casual and comfortable—so Hartley.
But it has nothing on the kitchen.
Geese in bonnets with dusty blue bows dot the border just above the orangey-hued cabinetry.
Containers labeling their contents line up below the microwave.
There are blue and white-striped curtains framing a window above the sink that looks out across the back meadow and if someone showed me a picture of this room and asked me what decade I thought it was from, I’d say the nineties. It’s brilliant.
“Hartley didn’t give me much time to work with, but I did the best I could,” she says, taking a few margarine containers from the fridge.
“I had some leftover rotisserie chicken from Millers, so I whipped up a few different wraps and put them in here.” She sets the tubs down and pats one of them.
“I did a bacon ranch version, a Caesar style, and a buffalo one because I know that’s Brooks’s favorite. ”
I press my lips together as heat crawls up my neck, coloring my cheeks. She knows I’m going on a road trip with Brooks?
“This one has some fruit in it,” she says, putting the tubs into a large wicker basket. “I peeled some clementines, added some grapes, blueberries. I cut up a few strawberries, too. I called Astrid a few minutes ago and she said you didn’t have any food allergies. If that’s wrong …”
“No. That’s right. I don’t.”
I’m speechless. I literally don’t know how to respond to all of this.
She looks up and smiles, resting her arms over the basket. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“Nothing,” I stammer. “I’m just … thank you. This is so incredibly kind of you. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
“Trouble? This is what I do. I come here every morning and take care of Hartley and whoever else shows up each day. It’s how I find my joy in life, to be honest.”
Wow. I’m sure I look like a fool standing in one spot staring at her like she’s from outer space, but a woman who doesn’t know me is going out of her way to dote on me—to pack me a picnic basket—is wild. Who is she? Where am I?
My mom, God love her, would have a chef put something together or order takeout before sending me on my way.
I’m grateful for her and that she always made sure I was taken care of and had what I needed.
She’s a blessing. But having Cathy take time out of her day to create something with her own two hands is something new for me. It isn’t awkward, it’s just … special.
“There are some chips and a little candy in here, too,” she says, closing the basket lid.
She glances outside and then turns back to me.
“I’d hate for you to carry this all the way back to the cabin.
Do you want me to hop on the side-by-side and drive you back with it?
Or, you can have Brooks swing by on your way out? ”
“Maybe stopping to get it on the way out would be best.”
“I think so, too. And since I have a bit more time, I’ll toss a few more things in there for you.”
“Cathy,” I say, holding out a hand, “you’ve already done way too much.”
“Nonsense.” She opens the lid again. “This is what we do out here. We take care of each other. And I love those boys as if they’re my own kids—even Brooks, even though I want to shake the shit out of him more times than not.”
I laugh. “If you’re sure …”
“I’m sure. It’s kind of fun to pack for a romantic getaway. And since Hartley apparently isn’t going to give me a reason to do that, then I guess I’ll do it through Brooks.”
My brows pull together, and a hundred questions sit on the tip of my tongue. Cathy seems like the keeper of secrets for the guys and I think she’d be all too willing to share what she knows. But Hartley’s life is really none of my business—less of my business than Brooks’s life.
“Okay,” I say. “I guess I’ll go finish packing before Brooks gets back from church. Thank you, Cathy, truly. You’re amazing.”
“It’s no problem. I’m glad I can help. And I’m always here if you need anything at all. Ask Astrid. We get into some fun projects together.”
The way she says my friend’s name—with warmth and affection—makes my shoulders relax. It’s nice to know that Astrid has a village of people when she’s here to take care of her and be her people. I love this for her so much.
“Okay, you shoo,” she says, waving me off. “I have things to do. I might have a can of whipped cream in the refrigerator in the basement.” She wiggles her brows. “You know. Just in case you and Brooks need a prop.”
My face turns beet red. Oh, my stars.
“You’re adorable,” she says, laughing softly. “I see why Brooks likes you.”
Why he likes me?
Cathy nods as if she understands me in a way I don’t even understand myself. It’s a dismissal, of sorts—a go on and think about it, but I get you, girl.
“Thank you for … everything,” I say, shrugging as if that’s an appropriate substitute to actual words.
She grins. “You’re welcome.”
I return her smile and then hightail it to the door and onto the porch. What the heck just happened in there?
The gravel crunches beneath my sneakers as I make my way back to the cabin, stepping over puddles and patches of muddy slop.
A warm breeze ruffles my hair, and I pause to soak in the scent of promised spring—faintly sweet with a touch of earthiness.
Instead of freezing me to the bone, it kisses my skin like it’s apologizing for tormenting it with sleet and snow for the past couple of months.
I walk slowly, letting my brain regroup from Cathy’s hot takes on Brooks and me. The sun warms my face and coaxes my nerves to settle, but it takes a quarter mile of walking before my internal systems return to a semblance of normalcy.
But it doesn’t stop noodling on what Cathy said.
“I see why Brooks likes you.”
This sentence rolls around my head continuously, echoing through the deepest recesses of my mind.
I’m sure Brooks does like me, and I know he’s attracted to me.
But I don’t think he likes me like she implied.
In fact, he made it abundantly clear in the bar when he asked me flat-out if I had any ulterior motives or expectations, as if he would only entertain messing around with me if I understood this was a fling at best. Which—understood—I’m not out here hunting for a long-term anything.
I can only imagine what would happen if I took Brooks home to meet the family. Dad would hate his easygoing ways. Mom would perish as soon as he turned his smirk on her, then she’d deem him below our standards. And Drew … I frown. Well, Drew apparently hates him already.
How do I tell Drew that I know Brooks? Moreover, how do I convince Drew to vote for Brooks to fight again?
I nibble on my bottom lip and ponder this.
It’s not like Drew needs to know everything that’s going on in my life, and I don’t share that level of detail with him anyway.
Besides, we do have a great relationship, and it’s possible that Brooks just thinks Drew dislikes him.
Drew can have a great poker face when he’s serious, and he’s serious about work.
My phone is heavy in my palm, so I bring it to my face and find Drew’s name in my texts.
Me: You busy?
Drew: Always. Why? What’s up?
Me: Can I call you really quick?
Drew: Sure.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter, pressing the call button. It rings twice before he picks up. “Hey, Drew.”
“Hi, Aud. What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I say, kicking a rock down the road. “Just getting some sunshine. It’s been snowy and rainy here for what feels like forever.”
He hums, obviously distracted.
“What about you?” I ask. “What’s going on in your world this weekend?”
“Getting situated in my new apartment. I have people here helping me get unpacked. Hang on a sec.” The line grows fuzzy.
“That …. No. What are you doing? That goes in the back bedroom.” He pauses.
“Sorry about that. Everything is clearly labeled so you’d think they could figure out where shit goes. ”
I frown, uncertain how to take Drew’s attitude. “Maybe they got confused.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”