“Oh, Rosalie,” he said, his arm still on her door.
She swiveled her head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. “Yes?”
“You want to get together?”
Now her eyes snapped to his. Was he kidding? No. He actually appeared sincere. “Ah …”
“I’m only working until noon today, just until the out-of-town orders are loaded on trucks. Maybe we could meet at the Whistler Inn for lunch.”
“Lunch?” She gripped the steering wheel and resisted the urge to slap her forehead. She was an English teacher for heaven’s sake, and all she could muster was monosyllabic responses.
He chuckled. “Yeah. It’s the meal in the middle of the day. Most people eat it.”
She glowered at him. “I can’t do lunch.”
“Are you sure? I thought maybe I could catch up on fifteen years of Whistler Creek gossip.”
“Bryce, your parents can fill you in on what’s happened around here.”
“I suppose they could, if all I wanted to know about was the sixty-something country-club set. But I never cared much about those people when I lived here.”
Right. You much preferred the simple earthiness of the Campanos. Well, not any more. “Look, I just can’t. I’m working at the stand today.” That was a lie. Saturday was Rosalie’s errand day. She did chores while Danny helped Claudia at the stand. Now she had to hope Bryce didn’t stop by.
“Some other time then?”
She eased off the brake, gratified when the truck slipped away from him. “Maybe. Who knows?” she said.
“Rosalie?”
She gingerly stepped on the pedal, slowing the truck to a crawl. “What?”
“I still miss him, too.”
She hit the accelerator and drove off. When she looked in her rearview mirror through burning eyes, she saw Bryce standing there, hands on hips, watching her leave.
Chapter Three
Marjorie Benton slid another pancake on top of the stack she’d already layered on Bryce’s plate. “You ready for more bacon?” she asked.
He stared up at her. “Mom, enough. I’ve only been home a few days, and I’ve probably gained five pounds.”
She scooted the syrup bottle closer to him. “It’s Sunday, Brycie. We always have big breakfasts on weekends, remember?”
Bryce sought help from his father who remained hidden behind the newspaper. “So that plate of scrambled eggs and sausage that you brought to me in the wholesale market on Friday morning was a light meal?” he said to her.
Roland Benton covered up a chuckle with a rustle of the sports section.
Marjorie sat at the table next to her son. “It wouldn’t hurt you to put on a few pounds,” she said. “I know you don’t cook for yourself as a bachelor …”
He started to tell her that he was a good cook, even had a recipe box in one of the cartons currently stored in the garage, but figured she’d then tell everyone in town about her son, the kitchen wizard. Probably not the best image for the new football coach to project. Besides he could always tell when his mother was on a roll and knew the futility of trying to stop her.
“… I suspect you haven’t eaten properly in years,” she continued. “I know that woman you were married to didn’t like to cook.” She paused. “Or keep a clean house.”
Bryce smiled around a bite of doughy pancake. It wasn’t as if he and that woman had lived in squalor for four years. True, Audrey hadn’t been the domestic type, but she’d made sure the cleaning lady showed up weekly, so he’d never been able to write his initials in the dust. And she’d mapped out the best take-out restaurants in Lubbock, so when he didn’t feel like cooking for the two of them, they’d never gone hungry. Housekeeping issues hadn’t been what broke them up.
Marjorie raised one finger in the air. “But …”
Bryce swallowed and washed down the pancake with a big gulp of milk. Here it comes.
“I think we should discuss what’s really concerning me this morning,” his mother said. Behind his newspaper, Roland took a long swallow of coffee.
Bryce set down his fork and pushed away his plate. “Mom, do we really need to go over this?”
She tapped a manicured fingernail on the tabletop. “I don’t see why you’re meeting with a real estate agent today, Bryce. Give me one good reason why you’re rushing into this.”
He set his elbows on the table and looked at her. “Mom, would you like to see my driver’s license? It’s proof that I’m thirty-three years old.”
Her spine stiffened. “I know how old you are, Bryce. I was there the day you were born.”
“But you haven’t been there every day for the last fifteen years,” he said. “I’m used to living on my own. I need my own place.”
“What’s wrong with your old room?”
“Nothing. It has four sturdy walls, a big window overlooking the back patio, a view of the cornfield and the peach orchards. It’s a paradise.” He took a deep breath. “In fact, I think you and Dad should strip it bare, paint the walls a bright sunny color, move in your sewing machine and cutting table and make it your home hobby center.”
“Really, Bryce! I’m only thinking of you.”
He glanced at the ceiling as if inspiration, and patience, could be found there before covering her hand with his and once again wishing he weren’t an only child. “Mom, I love you. You know that.”
She brushed a strand of blond hair off her forehead and sniffed.
“I want a home—my home—and I want it in this town.”
She pursed her lips a moment. “This is your home, Bryce. What need do your father and I have for this big house?”
“That’s a good question,” he said. “And one for you and Dad to think about. But for now, I’m tired of living in places that, for the last fifteen years, have always seemed like temporary shelters to me. Dorm rooms, apartments, condos. I want a house, a little bit of land, some grass with honest-to-goodness roots that I can fertilize and watch grow. I’ve waited a long time for this opportunity to come my way, and I want those roots in Whistler Creek soil. Soil with my name on the deed.”
Marjorie looked out the sliding glass doors which opened onto a view of acres and acres of rich Benton farmland. “But all this will eventually be your soil, Bryce.”
“Maybe so, Mom, and I look forward to helping Dad when he needs me. But for now …”
Marjorie
