“Sorry, buddy.” I grab my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans and pass him a bill. “Let’s go,” I grunt, marching toward the truck.
The drive to the farm takes fifteen minutes, but it feels like an hour thanks to Rebecca’s persistent needling.
“Come on, what happened? What did you say to her? I’ve never seen Faye that cold. Even when she shut down a guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer, she was nice about it. But she was brutal to you, never seen her so frosty. I legit cringed.”
“Drop it, Beck.”
“Not a chance. I need details. This is the most interesting thing to happen since Martha’s husband got caught skinny-dipping in the lake with his accountant.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the dirt track, refusing to rise to the bait. The less I say, the sooner she’ll get bored and move on.
We turn off the county road onto the long gravel drive that leads to the old farmhouse where Mom lives. A two-story white clapboard structure that’s housed six generations of Evanses. My mother’s flower beds burst with early spring blooms, daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths crowding the soil in a riot. Remy’s horse is tied to the fence post near the barn. My brother beat us here. Sure enough, he comes around the corner of the house still in his work gear: dusty jeans half covered by leather chinks, sweat-stained plaid shirt, Stetson hat shading his handsome, rugged features. Mud clings to him in an unintentional but artful way, as if the field styled him for a damn Wrangler ad.
I climb out of the truck feeling like the amateur cowboy version. Same dusty clothes, but lacking the cinematographic flair.
“’Bout time you showed up,” he calls, lifting his chin in greeting. “I thought I’d have to eat Ma’s cake by myself.”
“Uncle Remy!” Rhys scrambles off the back seat and charges across the yard. “Grandma made cake?”
“Apple spice with caramel glaze.” Remy scoops him up and hoists him onto his shoulders in one smooth motion. “Your favorite.”
Mom appears on the porch, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She’s in her late fifties but moves like a woman twenty years younger, hair silver but still thick, pulled back in a low ponytail. She’s wearing jeans and a floral blouse.
“There’s my boy!” she calls. “Come inside. The cake’s still warm.”
“Can we have it before dinner?” my son asks hopefully.
“Only if you promise to eat all your supper afterward.” She turns to us. “What about y’all, you in for cake or are you going back out on the field?”
I glance at the sky. Still plenty of daylight left, good hours to work. The soil won’t catalog itself.
But Remy looks like he’s about to fall asleep standing up, his day having started at four thirty this morning, same as mine. And I could use the sugar rush and the comfort of my mother’s baking after the afternoon I’ve had.
“Cake sounds good,” I say.
Mom’s smile widens. “Come on, then. I’ll set up on the back porch. It’s too nice to stay inside.”
The back porch stretches the length of the house, screened in to keep the bugs out and furnished with mismatched wicker chairs and a nicked, scarred table, the wood faded from years of sunlight. The view makes up for the shabby furniture: rolling pastures dotted with cattle, fence lines running to the tree line, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the grass where a few of our cows graze lazily closer to the house.
Mom brings out the cake on a platter, already cut into thick slices, and a pitcher of tea beaded with condensation. Rhys claims the seat closest to the food, naturally, and Rebecca drops into the one next to him. Remy takes off his hat, hangs it on the back of his chair, and runs a hand through his hair—longer and darker than mine, more brown than chestnut.
I take the chair at the end, farthest from everyone. Mom cuts me a side look that says she’s noticed.
“Alright, what’s up with you?” Remy asks around a mouthful of cake, jabbing his fork at me. “Did someone piss in your coffee?”
“Language,” Mom warns, just as Rhys proclaims, “That’ll be a dollar.”
Remy bows his head to Mom and smiles at Rhys. “Add it to my tab, kiddo.”
“Ryder got in trouble with Miss Rose today.” Rebecca answers our brother, ignoring my warning glare. “He got a scolding for mysterious reasons he refuses to share.”
“Miss Rose never scolds,” Rhys declares, his face smeared with caramel. “She never yells at us, not even when Tommy Peterson put a frog in the crayon box and it jumped out and made Lily Cooper cry.”
“Yeah?” Remy asks. “What did she do then?”
“She freed the frog. Then she told Tommy that frogs are living creatures who deserve to be treated with respect, and they need to be in their natural hab… habibi…”
“Habitat,” Mom supplies.
