“Okay.” A framed picture of a lion sits on his desk. No kid in it, just a lion’s head staring at me as if I’m some kind of threat to this place. I quickly redirect my focus to my new boss and push the unease aside. So what if I’m missing a fundamental part of working here? I can still help. Can still give whatever task they assign one-hundred-percent effort. “I’ll be happy to help any way I can.”
“If you’re anything like Doreen, I have no doubt you will.” His cell phone rings, and he presses a button before looking up. “So, when are you starting?”
No one has said. “I guess tomorrow?”
“Good. Good. I’ll talk to Ralph this afternoon.”
I stand because Eric’s phone rings a second time. “You can get that. I’ll go check in with Margie before I leave and see you in the morning at . . .”
“Eight-thirty is good. That’s when everyone gets going.” He answers his phone but tells them to hold a second. Setting the device back on his cluttered desk, he once again zeroes in on me. There’s a tiny mole just a centimeter below his lash that he should probably get looked at. It’s angular and dark.
“January,” he says, and I quickly stop obsessing over his skin. “I really do appreciate your being here. You have no idea what an answer to prayer you are.”
That itchy feeling returns, and I blame Doreen for buying me generic fabric softener. “Thank you. I’ll do the best I can.”
And really, what else can I offer?
I’m not who they think I am, nor whom they need, but in this case I intend to pull a page from Doreen’s handbook. If this is their God’s plan, then I’m going to ride it as long as I can.
three
Because this season of my life seems to be steeped in irony, it should come as no surprise that I’m currently living in a bridal cabin on thirty acres of land that’s filled with romantic walkways and structures.
Not that I’m complaining, because I’m not. This land has been in our family for four generations, and the beauty, along with the serenity, is probably the only reason I’m not still curled beneath my covers refusing to get out of bed. My daily walks have kept me sane, and today’s walk is no exception. I only wish it wouldn’t remind me of how estranged my family has been for years.
I blow on my frozen fingers when I reach the top of the hill and sit on a bench that overlooks the entire property.
When my pawpaw died a decade ago, he willed his sixty acres to both my mom and aunt to be divided up evenly. Doreen turned her portion into an amazing wedding venue—the Boots and Lace Ranch. A name that so perfectly describes my aunt and uncle that it makes me smile every time I say it out loud.
B&L has four cabins that collectively sleep thirty people, two reception barns, and three different ceremony locations, though the third is currently under construction. My cabin is off from the others with a single bedroom, full kitchen, and a quaint but elegant bathroom. Doreen had it built for the bride and groom in case they wanted to stay on-site, but more often than not the parents of the bride rent it out, since the newlyweds are often eager to go and begin their honeymoon.
I offered to vacate the cabin when the venue was in use, but I believe my aunt’s exact words were, “Pishposh. The day the mighty dollar takes precedence over my niece is the day the good Lord needs to take me up to heaven.”
A smile forms and then immediately fades when my gaze drifts to my mother’s side of the property line.
Unlike my aunt, who has carefully cultivated every blade of grass, Mom returned to Georgia the minute the ink dried on the title and left her inheritance to rot. Not that any of us were surprised. Mom fled to Georgia at seventeen with fifty bucks in her pocket and only returned for short visits after I was born. I once asked her why she hated Texas so much. Her face paled and she said that some stories were meant to stay in the past.
I didn’t understand that theory until recently, but now I get it. Pain is easier to deal with when it’s left untouched. The land has been no exception.
Doreen offered to buy her out, but she refused, sparking another fight that has yet to be resolved. For ten years now, Mom’s thirty acres have sat neglected, becoming more and more overgrown with brush and wildlife.
It’s odd. Every time I look past the small fence that distinguishes one sister’s inheritance from the other, I think of how the contrast is a direct reflection of their personalities and lifestyles. Even more disturbing is that I feel like the fence in the middle, my life a mix of neglected chaos and carefully tilled love.
Sighing, I stand, even though I just got here. It’s out of the ordinary for me. On the bad days, I’ve been known to park myself here for hours. This bench is my favorite spot on Doreen’s land because it’s located right next to a hundred-year-old live oak whose branches make an eighty-foot diameter canopy. The trunk is close to six feet wide and sturdy. It’s the most popular of the ceremony locations, and it’s easy to see the appeal. There’s something safe about a piece of earth that’s withstood Mother Nature’s wrath for so many years. Even alone, I feel empowered. I can’t imagine what it would feel like as a couple, promising to love each other for a lifetime. At the rate I’m going, I’ll probably never know.
The trek back to my cabin is the same one I’ve taken every day since moving in. It’s been showered by a monsoon of tears, though each day seems to bring less of an ache with it, as if every step is a stitch in my heart. I hope so, at least.
There’s two hundred feet of flagstone between the oak tree and Doreen’s new gazebo area. I step on each stone, avoiding the cracks and the grass poking from beneath them. As soon as I clear the hill, I see the same two commercial trucks that have been there nearly every day since I moved in: Kyle’s Construction and Landscaping.
At least now the heavy equipment is gone. It’s been nonstop noise since the New Year. They poured concrete last week. Had about twenty guys out here scraping, coloring, and stamping. The effect is beautiful. Three circular slabs, stacked to create rounded steps that lead to the crowning feature . . . a gazebo that hasn’t been built yet. I’ve seen the drawings, though, and it’s a masterpiece.
I wave at the father-son duo, who are currently walking the area, inspecting each section. As is our routine now, Mr. Kyle Senior waves back, while the younger, broodier Kyle ignores me completely. It’s harder for him to do so today since he’s just walking the site, and I think I get a barely perceivable nod, though I can’t be sure. All the same, I take it as an invitation and do something I’ve never done before—I walk in their direction.
Maybe it’s from the high of my interview this morning or just the small measure of friendliness I received, but I’m fueled in a way I haven’t been since the breakup.
“Hey, guys,” I say when I get close enough for them to hear me. “This looks fantastic.” They colored the three slabs differing shades of barn door red, each getting lighter as they approach the center, then stamped the surface so it looks like stones pressed together. “It’s artwork on the ground.”
Mr. Kyle grins at his son. “Yeah, Dillon certainly has an eye for design. I take back all the arguments I made about staining the concrete.” He pushes his son’s shoulder affectionately as pride fills his weathered face. It’s a good face, too—solid bone structure, a thick, wide jaw, and distinctive cheekbones that are rarely seen on a guy. And he smiles a lot. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him not smiling in some capacity.