Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
BECK
The growl of thunder wakes me Sunday morning, and my first thought is I’m so fucking grateful Mother Nature has my back today. And then I grin into the gray, rain-streaked light.
Hattie.
I stayed up way too late talking to her on the phone last night. Like a teenager.
Laughing. Learning.
And when I finally fell asleep, I did it burying my face into the memory of her kiss.
I roll onto my back and rub a hand over my chest, soothing the spot that both tingles and aches.
It takes some digging through the covers to find my phone, and when I do, panic strikes like a water moccasin.
It’s fucking 8:12.
I leap out of bed, knowing I’m more than an hour late to fix Pop’s breakfast. It’s only after I’ve yanked on a pair of jeans and opened my bedroom door that the aroma of coffee and the smell of something baking finally hit me.
Griffin. Oh, thank Christ.
Voices reach me when I descend the stairs, and I hit the kitchen as Grif is dragging a cast iron skillet out of the oven.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he teases. When he sets down the pan on a waiting dishcloth in the middle of the kitchen table, it holds corn bread. Mom’s recipe.
Oh man. My mouth waters.
“Morning,” I croak. “Smells good. Mornin’ Pop.”
My dad sits at the head of the table, gripping his spill-proof insulated mug, eyes on the newspaper spread out in front of him. He grunts in greeting.
Since he doesn’t bust my balls for sleeping in, I’m guessing he’s in a decent mood. Probably thanks to the pan of cornbread my brother is currently slathering with butter.
Thunder rattles the windows as I fill a coffee mug.
“It’s like the earth knows our boy needed to sleep in.” Griffin smirks wickedly as he drags a slab of melting butter over the cornbread.
I pull out a chair and sit, glaring at him over my coffee. Ignoring me, Griffin scores the cornbread into thick wedges.
“Staying up on the phone all night isn’t as easy as it used to be, huh, Beck?” He’s enjoying this, the bastard.
Griffin digs the knife into the cornbread and hefts a steaming wedge onto a plate. Then he sets it down in front of Pop, puffing his chest out like it’s a big game kill.
“That looks damn good,” Pop mutters, almost smiling. Almost. “We got any Steen’s?”
I stand before Griffin can. “I’ll get it.” This is as close as Pop comes to asking for help.
I come back with the tin of cane syrup and do the honors so he doesn’t have to.
“Say when.”
“Just a little,” he grunts as I pour. “Don’t drown it.”
Griffin has served us too, and I’m pouring my own syrup, almost smug that Pop hasn’t reacted to my brother’s outing, when the bomb drops.
“Haven’t heard you laughing like that in a good while,” Pop mutters before forking a bite of cornbread into his mouth.
Shit.
“Sorry. I hope I didn’t keep y’all up.”
“Don’t sleep much anyway. Legs don’t let me.” Pop grumbles. And then, “What’s her name?”
I choke on cane syrup while Griffin smothers a laugh behind his napkin.
“Um… Hattie.”
Pop scowls. “You had to think about it, boy?”
I scowl back. “No. Her name is Hattie.” I don’t tell him why I hesitated. I’m not even sure I know. But I think it came from an urge to guard this.
To guard Hattie.
And this tingling ache in my chest.
“She’s somethin’, Pop,” Griffin—that traitor—says.
Pop’s brows bunch. “You’ve met her?”
“Yesterday,” my brother gloats with another smirk.
“You like her?”
“Yes,” Griffin and I answer at the same time. I shoot my twin a glare.
Pop glances between us and then focuses on his newspaper again. “‘Bout time you did something besides hang around here.”
It might not sound like much, but coming from Pop, it’s a glowing endorsement.
“Glad you approve,” I mutter dryly, but it’s the truth.
He grunts. “Well, I know you wouldn’t have stayed up all night if storms weren’t in the forecast, no matter how much you like her.”
I take a bite of cornbread and chew instead of responding because I’m pretty sure he’s wrong.
I would’ve spent all day with Hattie yesterday if I could have.
And all night.
She was the one at two a.m. who said she needed to hang up and get to sleep. I was the one who couldn’t get enough.
Her birthday is March 14th, so she likes to have pie instead of cake. Her favorite is blackberry. Anyone who tries to sing “Happy Birthday” to her is asking to be shanked.
She’s impressed that I have a distillery even though she doesn’t like alcohol.
She tried gummies once with Margaret and her sister’s friends and spent the night flat on her back, gripping her sister’s mattress, worried she’d fall into space. So, to quote her, “Never doing that shit again.”
She’s a Swiftie but hates the term. She liked watching The Eras Tour on Disney Plus but says she doesn’t think she’d survive the overstimulation of an actual concert, even with headphones.
She said kissing me felt better than masturbation, and yes, I almost came in my shorts at the thought of kissing her while she touched herself.
Jesus Christ, what an image.
And it’s an image that gets shot to hell when there’s a rap on the front door, followed immediately by the sound of it opening. “Morning!”
It’s Uncle Paul.
Shit.
Griffin and I exchange a look before the man strides into the kitchen, a slightly younger, but a stronger and steadier version of Pop.
“Mornin’, Paul,” Pop grumbles, though I don’t think he’s any more excited to see his brother than we are.
“Smells good in here,” Uncle Paul booms.
“Griffin made Gracie’s cornbread,” Pop says, and I think I hear a lilt of pride in his voice. “Go on and grab a plate.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Uncle Paul helps himself to a plate and a mug and then a seat at the table. “Griffin, so good to see you. The Big Easy treating you alright? How’s… how’s Kennedy?”
Uncle Paul is Griffin’s godfather. He did not go to my brother’s wedding. Every time Griffin and Kennedy kiss or touch in his presence, he pointedly looks away.
I wonder what he’d say about Kennedy’s theory that he’s a latent homosexual.
“Think about it,” my brother-in-law said one night after he and Grif got back from their honeymoon.
We’d gone to Adopted Dog Brewery for a few beers.
“The man is a confirmed bachelor. Never married, never even engaged. He contributed a thousand dollars to our honeymoon fund, but he doesn’t come to the wedding?
It’s because he knew he’d jizz his shorts at the sight of us kissing. ”
That was the moment Doberman Dark Lager shot out of my nose.
Now, I can’t look at my brother when he answers. “Kennedy’s great. Thanks for asking.”
Uncle Paul nods, satisfied. “It’s been a while since we all sat down together like this. I’m thinking this is a good time to talk about a few things.”
Well, fuck. Here we go.
Grif and I exchange another look, but Pop just turns back to his newspaper. “We’re not selling, Paul,” he grumbles.
Uncle Paul flashes a grin that looks about as innocent as a jackal’s. “Hold on, now. You haven’t even heard what I have to say.”
“Don’t need to.”
“I have a buyer.”
The declaration lands on the table like a dead fish. “He’s made a serious offer.”
My gut clenches. A buyer?
Uncle Paul has brought up the topic of selling too many times over the last two years. This is the first time he’s mentioned anything as concrete as a buyer.
And I know it’s not because someone knocked on his door out of the blue. He went looking.
Even after we’ve told him a dozen times we aren’t interested in selling.
Pop scratches his chin, but I can see the irritated set of his jaw. “Paul—”
“Cas, we have to at least have the conversation. You’d keep the house. Steadman Farms is willing to pay top dollar for the acreage, the outbuildings, and the equipment and—”
“My son is farming this land,” Pop growls. “Just like I did. Just like Dad did. Just like Grandpa Jake did.”
The jackal grin is back. “Well, that’s the beauty of it—” Paul gestures a hand to me. “Steadman is willing to keep Beckett on as foreman with a guaranteed contract for five y—”
“You are wasting your breath, little brother,” Pop says, a warning in his tone.
“You know as well as I do,” Uncle Paul’s voice is low, not with threat or warning, but with a gentleness that sounds eerily more threatening, “that soon, things will have to change.”
At first, I’m confused because if Paul is referring to Pop’s deterioration, then he knows something I don’t. Pop’s doctors have been purposefully vague about timelines for the progression of his Parkinson’s, saying only that it’s aggressive but every case is different. That stress makes it worse.
I look from Paul to Pop, and I’m alarmed to see the color has drained from my father’s face.
“You wouldn’t.” The two words are low and, to my shock, afraid.
Uncle Paul scoffs, but his expression is almost sad. “What makes you think I have a choice?”
“What’s this about?” I ask, looking from Paul to the Pop.
But Pop doesn't answer me. He doesn’t even look at me. He’s too busy glaring at his brother.
“Castor, you’re sixty-seven. I’m sixty-four. You weren’t ready to retire, but I am,” my uncle says.
Pop scowls. “So, retire. You have an IRA. Beckett sends you a dividend check every quarter.” Pop waves a trembling hand at me. “What do you want for? Collect social security and use it as your play money.”
It’s like Griffin and I have disappeared and all Pop and Paul can see is each other. Uncle Paul narrows his eyes. “Do you know that with a sibling with Parkinson’s, my risk of developing it increases?”
Jesus Christ, what?
When Pop was diagnosed, his neurologist mentioned the disease could run in families, but Pop couldn’t recall a relative ever being diagnosed. As soon as his doctor told us about exposure to pesticides being a risk factor—especially in farmers—we stopped asking why?
That was also when we became an organic farm. No small undertaking, but fucking worth it.
Pop bats a shaking hand. “You know this was the Paraquat.” He spits out the name of the broad-spectrum pesticide like the venom it is.