Loving the Ladies’ Man by Kristin Canary
Chapter 12
Every muscle in my body hurts.
My bones too.
I shuck off my thick work gloves and lean against the wooden handle of my shovel, unable to move from the stall I’ve just mucked for what feels like the eightieth time. In reality, it’s only been two and a half weeks since I came to my parents’ farm in Iowa—two and a half weeks since we almost lost Dad.
The cool breeze blowing into the barn dries the sweat on my face and soon I’m shivering because it’s only forty-something degrees outside. Cows low in the fields and I check the clock tacked to the barn wall. We already spent our entire morning doing so, but soon it will be time for Mom and me to milk them—again.
It’s too much work for two people. I cannot believe Mom and Dad have been doing this by themselves all this time. No wonder Dad had a heart attack.
When I saw that text at Connor’s place, I thought it was over, that my Dad was dead or would be soon. I nearly collapsed but Connor was so patient and took charge, calling my mom and getting the details, then getting online and booking me a flight. And when he drove me home to pack a bag and then to the airport, he didn’t say stupid platitudes like “it’ll be okay, I promise” and “you’re going to get through this”—because there’s no possible way he could have known that.
Instead, he told me that since I’d watched Braveheart with him, we would have to watch Pride & Prejudice (my favorite) when I return. I still laugh at the memory of his jaw dropping when I informed him that the six-hour A&E version was the only one worth watching.
No, he didn’t give me platitudes. Instead, he distracted me, because that’s what I needed in the moment.
The fact he knew that … well, I won’t forget it.
I set the shovel against the wall, bundle myself into the extra coat my mom loaned me, and look out across the rolling green prairie, where the nearest neighbor is two hundred acres away. Since it’s only dinnertime, the sun hasn’t even begun to set. But thanks to the cloud cover, it feels like it’s eight o’clock at least.
Having lived in a place that perpetually smells like sun and surf for ten years, it always takes me a while to reacclimate to the very different aroma of a dairy farm. As I trudge toward my parents’ white wood-slat house—the house where I grew up—I breathe in the long-ago familiar scents of fresh-mown grass and cow dander, somehow ignoring the stench of manure tinging the air (it’s a superpower you obtain when growing up on a farm and thank goodness I haven’t lost it).
I pull open the light green front door of my parents’ house and am greeted by a wall of warmth and notes of spicy meat wafting in the air. After leaving my work boots outside, I take a quick peek into the small kitchen that looks like it belongs in the seventies (my parents’ avocado-colored fridge has somehow survived all these years). My dad stirs meat in a skillet on the stovetop. His strong, broad shoulders have withered and shrunk in the last decade since I moved away, his hair is nearly gone, and his movements are much slower.
But I’m so, so thankful he’s alive. According to my mom, he was unconscious for several hours before I arrived. And when I got there and grabbed his hand where he lay in that stark-white hospital bed, he just decided to wake up.
He looks up from his place at the stove, and the leathery skin around his eyes crinkles. “I hope you’re hungry, Lynnie. I’m making tacos—your favorite.”
I smile at his nickname for me—a shortening of Evelyn, my given name. “Thanks, Dad. Just going to wash up really quick.”
“Let your mom know, will you? She said she was going to take a short nap, but that was an hour ago and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since.”
“Sure.” My poor mom has been laboring even harder than usual, I think, and her hands aren’t what they used to be. They sometimes swell up if she’s worked an especially long day.
These are not things my parents would ever tell me, but I would have known if I’d been here.
Once I’m up the stairs and into my old room—where there’s an embarrassingly large cardboard cut-out of Mr. Darcy from my high school days—I take a quick shower (it’s my third one today because I can’t stand to be so smelly at mealtimes). My hair fresh and smelling like strawberries, I walk down the hall and poke my head into my parents’ room, but my mom is nowhere to be found. Maybe she went downstairs already.
As I’m turning to leave, something on my mom’s dresser catches my eye. I know if she’s put something there, it’s meant to be private, but I can’t ignore the black word I see flashing against the white paper: Past Due.
My fingers grab the paper and grip it as I read something else my parents have hidden from me. They’re in danger of losing the farm.
But before I can freak out too much, there’s a bump on the wall. Suddenly, I know where my mom is.
Inhaling a shaky breath, I put the letter down and go next door—to Janelle’s old room. Mom is sitting on the edge of the twin-sized bed, hands in her lap, wearing the worn jean jacket she’s had for thirty years, and she’s got her eyes closed. Maybe she’s trying to catch a whiff of my sister’s long-gone peach body spray.
The whole place is a museum—from the ’N Sync posters on the wall to the Tiger Beat magazines on the bedside table, the paper now yellowed and curling. I step inside the doorway and run my fingertips over Janelle’s old boom box, where I know her copy of Alanis Morisette’s Jagged Little Pill album is still loaded.
Grief is a funny thing. It’s been nearly twenty years since my sister died, and yet whenever I enter the space that used to be hers, I’m taken down as if by a wave in the ocean. Like I’ve gone too deep, taken one step too many. If I’d just stayed on shore … but then I wouldn’t know the sweetness of floating, of diving, of living.
So grief becomes a part of you, even when it’s buried.
Right now though, tears fill my eyes as I watch my mom. For her, it must be even worse, living here where we got the news. Where we held the funeral. Where there’s always a reminder of something—someone—missing.
I lower myself beside Mom and the bed squeaks. As if she knew I was there all along, Mom smiles, her eyes still closed, and slips her arm around my shoulders. Her soft gray-blonde hair presses against my forehead as she holds me.
And we cry, both of us, together.
Over Janelle. What we lost.
Over Dad. What we almost did.
And maybe she’s crying over me too, what a disappointment I’ve been. How I left them to fend for themselves all these years.
Because if being back here has reminded me of anything, it’s that they need me.
“Mom.” My voice croaks as I straighten and turn slightly to face her, my right leg hitched up on the bed.
I don’t want to admit I saw the notice, but we have to talk about it, don’t we?
She opens her eyes and takes me in, smiling softly as she pats my knee. “You need to go home soon, sweetie.”
What? Where did that come from? “I have weeks of vacation saved up that I haven’t used, and Lisa said I could have as much time off as I need.” Besides, does Mom really think I’m going to leave them in the lurch?
“But surely that boyfriend of yours misses you. I can see that you miss him.”
I avert my eyes and run my hands over the purple comforter, which used to be dark but now is more of a lavender. “He’s not my boyfriend.” But we have Facetimed every single night since I’ve gotten here. He should have been using the time to work on his manuscript, but when I tell him that, he just tells me he’d rather be talking to me.
And who am I to argue with that?
“But you’d like him to be.”
That elicits a smile. “Maybe.” And by that I mean YES! Because at this point, seeing what care he’s taken with me, remembering the look of awe on his face after we kissed, I know he’s not who I thought he was.
There’s a tiny part of me that’s still worried he’s saying what I want to hear, but Connor has never seemed the type to play the long game just to get a woman to sleep with him. And spending every night talking definitely seems like a long game to me.
That gives me hope.
So I can’t deny I’m anxious to get home. Still, how can I leave? I tug at a loose thread on the coverlet. “You say I need to go home, but you can’t possibly manage without me.”
“Actually, I just found out this afternoon that your dad’s disability insurance has kicked in, so we’ll be getting some payments until he’s fully recovered. Doc said about six months and he’ll be right as rain—so long as I get him on a healthier diet and we can lower his stress.”
Which will be really hard to do if he’s working dawn to dusk like usual. But I can’t deny that I’m relieved about the insurance. “That’s really great, Mom.”
“And it means you can go home and we can hire on a temporary worker—although it’s been wonderful having you here.”
“I’ve loved being here with you.” Even though I’ve missed my job, housemates, California—and yes, Connor—the extra time with my parents has been oh so special. “But you should save that money to pay your mortgage, Mom.”
She stiffens and I realize my error. But I can’t take it back. “I wasn’t trying to snoop, I promise. I just happened to see the notice in your room.” I squint at her. “Why didn’t you tell me, Mom?”
“It’s fine. We’re handling it.” Mom shifts her gaze out the window, which gives a fantastic view of the lush green landscape for miles and miles. “We still have several options before we have to consider selling.”
“Selling?” I practically shout the word. “You can’t sell. This farm has been in our family for over a hundred years.”
“True, but we’re getting older. It’s getting more difficult to manage.”
And you’re not here to ease the burden.
I know my mom would never say the words—probably doesn’t even think them—but her voice reverberates in my head regardless.
“Just …” I take a steadying breath. “Don’t sell yet, okay?”
“Evie, don’t worry.” She squeezes my knee. “I’m going to meet with the bank to discuss another loan soon. We’ll figure it out.”
“That’s great. And I didn’t want to tell you this—didn’t want to get your hopes up—but I’ve got a promotion coming.” I hope. “It pays a lot more.”
“That’s wonderful, Evie. I’m so proud of you.” She tucks a piece of damp hair behind my ear. “I know California living is expensive.”
“No, that’s not … I mean, it is. But …”
Her wiry gray eyebrows lift. “You don’t intend to give us the extra money, do you?” When I just squirm under her gaze, she shakes her head. “Oh, honey, we’d never ask that of you.”
“You don’t have to ask. I want to help. I’m part of this family too.”
“Yes, but this is not your concern. You’re borrowing trouble, love.” My mother gathers me to her again, and she smells like peppermint—another scent of my childhood. “We’ll just take it one day at a time. It will all work out like it should. We’ll get a loan or find some other way to survive. But don’t waste your time worrying about us. Me and your dad, we’re going to be fine. Have a little faith.”
And in that moment—held by the woman I admire most in the world—somehow I do.
Somehow, despite being surrounded by my sister’s things and the relics of the past, a peace like nothing I’ve ever felt winds its way through me.
Somehow, I believe that it will all work out.
Somehow.