James is hip-bumped out of the way, and then for the first time in years and years and years, I’m being squeezed to death by someone who feels like my mom.
Ruth dumps a cup of chocolate chips into the brownie batter she began whipping up nearly the minute she pulled me inside. “Well, I would ask how New York was but I feel like I already know so much.”
“Really? How?” I lean my hip against the counter, studying her recipe but trying not to be overt about it.
“From James. He’s been keeping me informed during our weekly phone calls.”
I don’t know what prompts me to clarify, but I ask, “You mean he’s filled you in since I’ve been home?”
Ruth swirls the wooden spoon around in the batter. “Lord, no. He’s been keeping me informed since”—she pauses, shoulders resting, and looks up like she’s thumbing through her mental calendar—“heavens, since you started culinary school, really. I heard all about that awful roommate of yours—Bryce was her name?—and that time you were late to class and someone smashed right into the front of you and knocked your bagel to the ground! Shoot, I was never so mad as when I heard that.” She shakes her head and resumes her mixing, expression turning mischievous. “I reckon I’ve heard all the stories. Even the ones you probably wouldn’t want me to.”
Ruth is glowing and tan as a biscuit from her days at the beach. She seems thrilled to be standing here with me, but I’m reeling.
James has been talking about me? Not just since we became friends, but . . . for two years.
“Well, I’m sorry he’s apparently been yapping your ear off about me. You probably didn’t want to hear half of it.”
“Oh, honey, I love to hear it all.” She smiles, warmer than a cast-iron skillet off the stove. “I love your wild heart. Reminds me of your mama. I miss her every day.”
“Wait. My . . . wild heart reminds you of my mom?” This is the first time I’ve ever heard anything like that. I’ve heard my mom was passionate before, but the wordwildhas never been used.
“Heavens, yes. Do you know how many times that woman got detention growing up?” Sometimes I forget that Ruth knew my mom even longer than my dad did. She and Ruth had been close since seventh grade. “I thought Char was never going to settle down. But then she met your sweet dad in college, and the rest was history.”
“She settled down after that?”
“Hell no!” Ruth says with a laugh. “But she did marry Daniel and have babies. They were so happy. And honestly, I think her stories make yours sound tame.”
It’s nice to hear that. The other side of Zora Brookes’s coin.
Sometimes love doesn’t work out—but sometimes it does.
“How am I just now learning this?” I ask, having to lean over the counter for support. I’ve often felt sootherin my family and in this town, and to know that I get this fire from my mom is a treasure, a gift I’ll always hold close.
“When y’all were little, it was hard to talk about your parents without upsetting you. Especially Emily. The more we brought them up, the sadder you all got. So we all started keeping stories to ourselves until you asked about them, to protect you from that pain. But now . . .” She meets my eyes and covers my hand with hers. “I think we did you all a disservice. All we protected you fromwas grieving. And as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned a heart is gonna grieve no matter what. We just learn to keep it from everyone so we don’t make them uncomfortable. I’m sorry for my part in that.” She squeezes once. “But anytime you want to know anything about your mom or dad, give me a ring and I can tell you some stories that will make your head spin.”
I am warm, head to toe. “Thank you. I’d really like that.”
Ruth pours the batter into a glass baking dish, attention drifting somewhere in her mind. A moment later she says, “But as for James telling me all your stories, I’m used to it by now. He’s been talking about you for years and years.”
Now my stomach jumps into my throat.
And judging by the way Ruth has stopped working and cuts her eyes up to me meaningfully, she just intentionally let me in on a secret. A big one.
James has been talking about me—not since culinary school butfor years and years.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
James
I’m on my way to the kitchen when Tommy stops me in the hallway. “It’s time to tell them.”
“No,” I say, ripping my arm away from his hand.
To say I’m pissed at Tommy is an understatement. He showed up a few hours ago with my parents in tow without any warning. But I think that was his intent—to catch me off guard before I could get things in order and have to tell them about the state of the farm. Why there’s half the amount of crew here these days. Why I work way past quitting hour.
“James,” he says, eyes sharp, voice louder than it needs to be. “It’s theperfecttime. They’re both here. You’ve got nothing going on.”
“Shut up,” I whisper, letting my temper flare in my tone. I step closer and lower my voice even more. “It’s not a perfect moment just because you manufactured one. Because that’s actually why you brought them home, isn’t it?”
