chapter 8

*Grace*

The kitchen’s empty when I make my way downstairs the next morning, and a knot clenches around my heart. There’s no reason to think Rob hadn’t gone into town with his friends after he’d left here and ‘got lucky’.

It wasn’t unreasonable—he’s good-looking and polite, I think. If I met him like that, I’d have given him my number at the very least. It’s easy enough to imagine more, and I have no reason to hope he hadn’t gone home with someone else.

Forcing my hand, I pull aside the dining room sheers. Though I have no claim to him, I give a sigh of relief seeing Rob’s sports car parked beside my truck. He’d just come home after I went to bed and was still sleeping.

You need to reconcile your head with these eventualities, I chastise myself. He’s not the kind who’s single long.

Then again, I think, returning to the kitchen, he’s been living here quite some time and I’ve never heard him mention a significant other. Curious now, I start coffee, my mind rolling through my conversations with Rob, searching. He’s never mentioned dating, I’m sure of it.

When the coffee finishes, I fix myself a cup, considering breakfast options. Though I know it’s likely stress, I have a craving for muffins. Rich, fruity ones loaded with sugar and topped with melting butter.

Retrieving one of Juliet’s cookbooks from the pantry, I flip through recipes as I wait for the coffee. Banana nut? No bananas in the house. I could do apple muffins. Or peach. Or blueberry with preserves from the cellar. Turning the page, a recipe for pineapple carrot muffins catches my eye. Those sound good, I think, wandering into the pantry to see if fortune favors me and there’s a can of crushed pineapple there.

As I flip on the overhead light, a cold gust of air floods into the pantry from the mudroom door as Rob enters from the veranda. Across from me, he mirrors my shiver, quickly closing the door behind him. A generous smile lights his handsome face when he sees me and I dearly wish I’d just said yes last night, damn the gossip mongers. Damn it all. Next time I’m going, I resolve.

“I thought you were still asleep. What were you doing out there already?” I ask, reaching out to help him as he shrugs out of his coat.

“Thanks.” Rob smiles, taking his coat off my hands. He’s close to me in the small mudroom and despite the awkwardness of the preceding afternoon, I like it. “I was looking at what I’d need to get the barn fixed up for you.”

“Oh,” I reply glumly. “I’m not so sure what I’m going to do about that anymore.”

As if anticipating my reaction, Rob says, “I think I can make the repairs with scrap materials. It’ll take paint to make it look pretty, but it’ll have to be warmer before I can do that anyway.” Reaching for my hand, he draws me with him into the warmer kitchen. “Didn’t you say you wanted to try to rent the stalls?”

Stunned, I stare at him, following obediently as he leads me out of the cold pantry. “I—I did. But I didn’t think it would be that easy to do.”

“It’s the northeast corner of the barn that’s in the worst shape. It looks like the irrigation system is close there and sprays the side. In the shade and without a good coat of paint, several boards have rotted,” Rob explains, releasing my hand. “That’ll take more work, but I should be able to finish the other side and have functional stalls available next weekend.”

Overjoyed to hear good news, I step close to him and lay my hands on his chest. “You’re a miracle worker.” Smiling brightly, I pull a mug from the cabinet and pour him some coffee to warm up.

*Rob*

A thrill cuts through me at the touch of her hand and her beautiful smile. Happy to see something besides resigned acceptance in her eyes for a change, my eyes follow her pajamaed figure. Definitely an improvement over her agonized sobs the night before. “I’ll need to borrow your truck, please, to pick up the scrap wood, if that’s alright. I’ll leave you my car keys in case you need anything.”

“I don’t need your keys. I have nowhere to go.”

Adding a splash of cream to the mug of hot coffee Grace hands me, I look over her shoulder as she collects ingredients for a recipe. I can’t recall ever seeing her use a cookbook—not even for the holiday meals she’d prepared. “What’re you making?” I ask, drawing closer. Grace can feel it. I know she can because she turns her head towards me for just a second.

Guiding my eyes with a finger on the recipe, Grace replies, “Muffins. Any objection to pineapple carrot? It sounded good to me.” Easing around me, she collects ingredients from the pantry, emerging a moment later to set them on the counter beside the cookbook.

“Sounds good. Is this your grandmother’s cookbook?” Holding her place, I skim the neat, handwritten pages before and after, pleased at how well I can read the, large, clear, almost bottom-heavy print. I start to wonder if Grace isn’t so adept as a teacher because she’s grown up seeing and understanding needs like mine from some of her family. “Chive and nettle. Beet. Cheddar bacon. I never knew there were so many kinds of muffins.”

Returning to my side with a large bowl, Grace giggles. “Yes, the cookbook is my grandmother’s. You’d have to flip through it, but many of the recipes were ones she wrote down from her mother, grandmother and mother-in-law.”

“I’d love to have roots like that.” The words are soft, poignant, even to my own ears.

Confused, Grace moves closer. “I don’t understand. You talk to your parents every day.” When I look at her, I can see she feels my emotion deeply. “That’s more than I can say for all of my family now that Juliet is gone.”

“I do,” I acknowledge, then take a deep breath.

I’m uncertain of what Grace’s reaction will be to my next words, but I need to say them anyway. This space between us—the one I want gone so I can forge an intimate relationship with her—that has to end. And to do that, I have to be open and honest with her. Entirely.

Need to, I realize all of a sudden. I need her understanding. To be seen, really seen. By her. By Grace.

“I don’t have this, Grace.” I gesture at the cookbook, around us at the farmhouse. “Any of this. I’m a first generation American. I don’t have roots like yours.”

I can see comprehension dawn on her face. Her sapphire eyes are wide with it and that disturbingly delightful space opens between her lips. “Is that why you went into the Army?”

It’s not the direction I expected her to go, and it triggers an avalanche of nasty memories. I snort, unable to keep my distaste from flashing over my face. I shake my head. “I went in the Army to get out of my so-called uncle’s house.”

Grace leans against the counter, sliding over so she’s directly in front of me. “Why did you need out?”

“He’s not my uncle. When my parents had to leave, he agreed to look after me.” I shrug. “I wasn’t his kid. I was a burden. And for two years, I was treated like it. Military was the fastest way to get out. I shipped out to boot camp the week after I graduated high school.”

“Where did your parents go? How old were you?”

I study her face, her eyes, grateful to see only curiosity and concern. “Sixteen. My parents were here on student Visas. I don’t know why they didn’t renew when those expired, but they were discovered. They requested voluntary departure and had to leave. That’s the other reason I went into the military. It gave me resources to sponsor their immigration.”

“They’ve been in Korea since you were sixteen?”

I nod. “I had to be stateside for five years. And to have money to get them out as soon as the paperwork is approved.”

Grace gasps as pieces of my puzzle fall into place. “That’s the travel you’re saving for. That’s why you took this job.” When I nod, she asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Illegal immigrants in this country aren’t exactly popular right now. Nobody but the lawyer knows I’m trying to sponsor them. Not even my friends. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know—,” I pause, getting lost in her eyes, “—how great you are.”

The space that so fascinates me opens between her lips again for a split second, before it opens further into a gorgeous smile. “How can I help you get your family back together?”

“You already have. Let me help you.” I wait, hoping she’ll confide in me, not withdraw behind the barriers she keeps around herself.

They aren’t the words I want to hear, but it would do no good to push. Her fortifications might still be intact, but I can tell, the gates are opening to me. “How long before those are ready?”

Grace skims the recipe. “Half hour to prepare. Forty-five minutes to bake.”

“I can make a couple runs in that time. May I borrow your truck?”

Nodding, Grace gestures toward the front entry. “Keys are hanging on the rack by the front door.”

*Grace*

Once Rob’s gone, the melancholy I felt the night before returns with a vengeance. Renting a few stalls in the barn won’t get the farm planted, I tell myself, stirring together ingredients while the oven warms. At least it will help with supplies so I can get as much fixed up as possible before I have to sell.

Because I know I will have to now. I can’t make this work. The best I can do is get the most out of it and try to find a buyer who won’t sell to Mueller or bulldoze the house and barn.

A new anxiety clutches at my middle. What am I going to tell Rob? His whole plan to save money goes down the drain without a free place to live. And what if his expenses go up because he took this job working for me? What will happen to his family?

If it’s possible, I feel worse. It’s one thing that in less than a few months, I’ve managed to lose the farm that’s been in my family for over fifty years. Something even my grandmother, overrun and dying with cancer, had still prevented. Now my failure would impact Rob and his parents too.

Setting the batter to the side, I line the muffin tins with paper cups, then spoon in batter until the cups are three quarters full. Shoving the tins into the oven, I close the door and set a timer.

Trudging toward the stairs, I start up, lingering midway, my eyes shifting over the pictures lining the stairwell. “How did you do it?” I ask the image of my grandmother sitting beside my child self at the piano. My eyes swing to another image of Juliet standing with my grandfather beside one of their bumper year crops. “How did you find a way every year?”

Heaving a dispirited sigh, my eyes flick over the background of the photo—the boundary fences around the tall, glossy-leaved sugar beets, the barn, the farmhouse—all in perfect repair. “I can’t even manage a single year without you.”

As inspiration suddenly hits, my eyes go wide. Sugar beets!

That’s how they did it!

Stumbling down the stairs in my hurry, I open the hutch drawer where I keep my budget and planting materials. Flipping through the farm catalogs, I quickly find what I want, then tally numbers down the page.

At the bottom, the balance is positive.

My breathing and heart rates speed up. I tear the page out and tally the expenses against the bank account balance again. Still positive.

If I plant sugar beets in the larger west acreage—my pencil makes soft, scratching noises as the numbers line up alongside the ones from before—but this time, my ending balance is even better. And that’s without the secondary income from the beets.  Unlike the soybeans and corn, the sugar beets’ yield is two-fold—I’d get the beets themselves, and the greens too. An acre of sugar beets can produce up to twenty plus tons of forage. Granted, that production would be on ideal soils and growing conditions and if you know how to grow sugar beets, which I’m not certain I do.  But I figure even if I get fifty percent of the production potential, that’s a lot of forage to sell.

The long-coiled tension that’s been choking me for months releases in a half-crazed giggle, and before I know it, I’m laughing like a madwoman.

Here’s the cow path. My grandparents left a guide.

*Rob*

It takes more than one run to haul the discarded pallets at the dumping ground near the washed-out bridge, even though I examine each carefully, choosing only those in the best shape. I can always come back for the ones with more damage or warping if there’s not enough from these, I remind myself.

On my last run, I pull Grace’s truck into the gas station in town to top the gas tank, the bed loaded with tied-down pallets. I doubt I’ve used much gas, but it’s a small thing for me to do to save her a bit of stress.

Running my debit card through the automated reader at the pump, I enter the required information distractedly, my thoughts wandering to where I’m going to store the pallets until I can take them apart and stack the wood for later use in the relatively small barn already filled with a lot of bulky, space-hogging farm equipment.

Leaning against the truck as the tank fills, I glance across to the next row of pumps to find Grace’s neighbor, Mr. Mueller, eyeing me malevolently. Oh hell, I think, watching as the lanky, unpleasant man uncrosses his arms and comes striding toward me.

“Nice truck. Looks like you just stole it.”

Rolling my eyes, I finish at the pump, refusing to justify Mueller’s comment with a response. Well, Grace is right about Mueller and his ‘isms’, I think. No wonder she dislikes him.

As I wait for my receipt to print, Mueller draws himself up in the space beside me, puffing his chest and blocking the driver’s side door. “I said, looks like you just stole this truck. Maybe I’ll report it to the police.”

Right. All three of them.

Tearing the receipt from the printer, I step towards the truck door unfazed, a wry smile tugging the corners of my mouth as the cowardly man backs away. “Go ahead, Mr. Mueller.” I tug the door open abruptly and watch with some amusement as the smaller man stumbles out of the way.

Climbing inside, I warn, “Because the minute someone pulls me over, I’m filing charges against you for racial harassment.” I point to the gas station’s security camera, knowing he hadn’t considered possible electronic witnesses. “And, I promise you, I’ll pursue those charges to the fullest extent of the law.”

Pulling the door closed, I start the engine, put the truck in gear and pull onto the street, heading toward the farm without looking back. Focusing my thoughts on the glorious smile Grace gave me when I told her how I intend to make the repairs this morning, I wipe the annoyance from my face before I pull the truck up beside the barn.

Unloading the last of the pallets, I sweep the bed before pulling the truck back into its place near the farmhouse and hurry inside.

I inhale deeply as I close the mudroom door, exhaling in an appreciative sigh. “Ohhhhh.” The kitchen’s deliciously fragrant with the smell of muffins, cooling in their tins on the stove. Grace has the oven door cracked to vent the remaining heat into the house, and my face begins to tingle with the warmth.

Grace is showered and dressed now and emerges from the dining room. Though I heard the drawer close, the one where she keeps her journal with the budget that troubled her to the point of tears last night, she’s humming to herself and smiles at me when she helps me out of my coat. “Hungry?”

“Starved, and it smells incredible.” I wash as Grace collects plates and utensils and sets them out on the kitchen bar, then help carry the rest of what she’s prepared after.

*Grace*

Rob seems tentative and confused when he gets home, and I get the feeling it’s because of me.

I suppose he has a right. The unpredictable surges of attraction are off-balancing for me too. I wouldn’t trade even that unsteady draw between us for something less though. It feels good to want something. To want someone. Someone as good as him. And to be wanted in return.

And now that I know why Rob took this job—what he’s working so hard to do— how could I possibly let him get any further involved with me without ensuring I have what he deserves?

I’m not sure it’s enough that I know how to make ends meet and get the farm planted now. A lot can happen between the time a crop goes in and when it’s harvested. But I feel safer, more secure about being able to get by.

And since I realized that, all I can think about is how it felt yesterday when he was in my room. The strength of his arms as he pulled me closer. The warmth of his hands and body where he touched me. The heat in his eyes.

He’s finishing his coffee when I reach out and put my hand on his arm. “When you asked me to go for a drive and to dinner, I wanted to go. I let—stupid things get in my head.”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I get it. It’s okay.” His tone doesn’t sound entirely convincing, but he doesn’t pull away from my touch.

“Why did you ask me to go?”

Rob turns to face me and the charge that died upstairs in my bedroom yesterday surges into the circuitry between us. I feel like I’m vibrating with it. It’s the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m important. To him.

“Sometimes, you’re so quiet. Like you’re—fading. Disappearing. You look sad, or maybe lonely then.” Rob shrugs. “I needed to get out of the house for a while. I thought you might like to go.”

He seems to be done talking, and I’m debating an answer when, very deliberately, he adds, “With me.”

We stare at each other for a moment in silence. I can feel the ghostly chemical tendrils between us, reaching towards each other. Somehow, it isn’t awkward this time. In fact, it’s pretty great.

Slowly, I let my hand fall away.

Rob responds with a heavy sigh, staring at my hand where it rests in my lap.

“Rob?” My voice draws him back. I love the sound of it, the sound of his name.

“Yeah?” His honey-colored eyes are gentle, accepting, the faintest hint of lines around them as he tries to summon a smile.

“Next time you’re going for a drive, I’d like to go. With you.” I offer this with a shy smile, afraid of what his reaction will be.

I can see him processing what I’ve said, his eyes plumbing the depths of mine seeking—well, I guess I don’t know what he wants to confirm.

But it must be there, whatever he was looking for, because a few seconds later, Rob’s face beams with that spectacular smile of his, so wide it looks like it meets at the back of his head, his dimples cutting deep into his cheeks.

“Okay.”

*Rob*

You always hear about cloud nine, but there’s no real picture in your head until you get there. I’ve had some pretty low lows—like watching my parents have to leave—and some pretty high highs—like being stationed at Tripler Medical Center Army base for two years to renovate a medical wing.

But nothing like hearing Grace tell me she wants to go somewhere, anywhere random turns happen to take us, with me.

It’s not warm enough to make the inside of the barn comfortable as I disassemble the pallets, but I couldn’t care less. There isn’t any place I’d rather be. Inside this door that Grace has opened, a brightly painted world unfolds before my eyes, and I can’t wait to dive in. It’s like stepping out of a shadow and into the golden warmth of the sun. In this yawning unknown, I’ve come alive.

I’ve reached a point that there’s no where else to work, and I have to find someplace to stack the boards. There’s little room on this side of the barn, with all the equipment. I’m debating using a stall on the other side when I spot a door I hadn’t noticed before towards the back and behind the tractor.

There’s a switch on the outside, and when I flip it, I can see light around the edges from the other side. It opens on creaking hinges and I peek my head in. Mostly it’s filled with broken furniture, and I’m just about to abandon the thought of storing the wood here when something unusual catches my eye.

Leaned against the far wall is a large, rectangular box—rosewood, I think—and still in decent condition. Despite its creepy resemblance to a coffin, I move a few broken chairs onto a couple of trunks near one wall to clear some room, then make my way to it. It’s easily seven feet tall and a bit over three feet wide, with hinges on both long sides. I’m looking for a way to open it when I spot four, ornately carved legs wedged into the space behind it and realize what it must be.

Grace’s grandmother’s piano.

I ease one of the legs out from behind it to get a better look. Though it’s hollow, with recessed casters, it’s still heavy. It’s also absolutely beautiful workmanship and I fall in love with it instantly, just like I did with the farmhouse.

I’ve never worked on something like this, but I’ll bet I can find someone who has.