Home Again with You

by Liza Kendall

  A lump rose in Jules’s throat, and tears welled in her eyes. “Th-thank you, Aunt Sue,” she whispered. Then she hugged her tightly, molding her own body to her aunt’s warm, pillowy one. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, hon. Now, how about some Irish coffee?”

  “Sounds great.”

  Jules settled into one of Sue’s padded kitchen chairs and accepted the coffee. She always felt so comfortable with her aunt—unjudged, loved. Whereas her carefully made up mother set her teeth on edge. Her mother . . . who must be sick with worry over her husband’s health. She needed to go check on her. But not now. In the morning.

  “You look exhausted,” Aunt Sue said, her eyes searching Jules’s face.

  “Rhett Braddock’ll do that to a girl,” Jules grumped. And then flushed when she caught the double meaning in what she’d said.

  If Aunt Sue noticed, she didn’t comment on it other than to add, “Sofa’s always yours. You know that.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll sleep at home tonight.”

  Sue nodded, seeming a bit disappointed. Then she clinked her mug against Jules’s and took a big gulp. With a wry smile, she added more Baileys. “Why do I have a feeling that things are gonna get complicated around here?”

  Chapter 6

  The Hotel Saint-Denis didn’t exist in Silverlake when Rhett was a kid. It looked a little like someone built a castle in a cattle pasture. The thread count was high. The temperature carefully modulated. The bottled water gratis, according to the small card with the fancy script. The soap smelled like French lavender.

  It was awesome. The stuff of dreams, if you weren’t used to it. He was used to it, what with the money he’d been able to splash out throughout his career, and, in that way, it shouldn’t have made much of an impression.

  Maybe what made the impression was the sense of contrast. Rhett thought about his brother waking up in the family house out at Silverlake Ranch. Even if the two of them never saw eye to eye again, there was something nice about the idea that they were probably up at the same awful hour. It would be chilly there; Declan probably had a fire going. Well, after he did a round of chores. Maybe he was using the same cozy-but-lumpy quilts. Maybe he was using the same cast-iron skillet to burn eggs for breakfast. Maybe the rooms still smelled more like cedar and hard work than lavender.

  Jules, too. Jules would be getting up in a little to start work at the stables.

  A flash of Jules waking in the morning mixed up in the sheets knocked him sideways. Sexy hair tangled more from his own hands running through it than from sleep. Flawless skin and a second of a sweet, shy smile before she realized he was bolting.

  Loneliness coursed through him; Rhett sat up on the side of the bed and hung his head in his hands for a moment. Why am I here?

  To make sure Silverlake Ranch and his family were okay. To make sure Grady was okay. To make sure Frost was okay. He paused when he thought of Jules. He hadn’t asked her about her dad. Not the way he should have. He’d gone straight to work on the business. These were people he’d known his whole life. Thing was, he was used to putting feelings like that in a box with a lock and shutting it all away. He hadn’t really discussed it with Grady, either. He’d offered to buy the Holt operation and figured everyone could read between the lines: I do care.

  Their dad had thyroid cancer with a good prognosis but no guarantees. That’s pretty much all Grady had said.

  No guarantees.

  You can do better, Rhett.

  So as he’d done a million times before in prep school, in graduate school, and as a rookie in the cutthroat world of high-stakes finance, with the weight of expectations on his shoulders and nobody to help him carry the load, he took a deep breath, muttered, “You got this,” and seized the day.

  He made quick work of his Dallas projects, eager to head out into town and then over to Jules’s—well, his . . . maybe a little of both? Weird—at a more reasonable hour.

  He checked the markets. He sent e-mails to his team back at the firm, which was more than capable of operating in his absence. And then he put on sweats and running shoes and took an early-morning jog through Silverlake, observing as the town shook off sleep and embraced the slow dawn.

  The rich orange, pink, and gold sunrise unfurled east of town, spreading its glow over fields of wildflowers (despite the March chill in the air), pecan, peach, and apple orchards, and placid livestock intent on grazing. It lit the local vineyard that produced peach wine, a quite passable chardonnay, and a cabernet that he enjoyed greatly. Not that he’d been there . . . but even from Dallas, he ordered from the locals here as much as possible, to support them.

  As the rising sun began to bathe the local businesses, Rhett fought a rising tide of sentiment that he had absolutely no use for. He sloughed it off like the sweat beading on his forehead, with a casual swipe of his sleeve.

  Rhett jogged past the local storefronts again, noting that Sunny’s Side Up was already open and serving at six A.M. Sunny caught sight of him as she poured coffee for a customer, hesitated for a split second, and then waved with her order pad.

  He found himself absurdly touched, wiped his face with his sleeve again, and decided he needed a good old-fashioned country breakfast before he tackled things with Jules and the Holt books.

  He opened the door and went in. There were old-fashioned wooden booths lined up like open arms, with waxed, red gingham tablecloths. Old farm implements served as decor on the walls, and ceramic rooster planters held napkins and silverware in the center of the tables.

  “Why, hello there, darlin’,” Sunny said. She was a handsome woman in her mid- to late forties, with crow’s feet around her eyes that emphasized her good humor. She stared at his face and shook her head.

  Instantly Rhett stiffened. He changed his mind about breakfast.

  “Why, you are the spittin’ image of your mama,” she said. “It just caught me off guard for a sec. C’mon and sit, Ever-Rhett. Right here in the corner.”

  Rhett felt himself relax again, and let her lead him to the booth she indicated. “You knew her? My mother?”

  “Sure did. She was a wonderful lady. What can I get you, hon? Coffee? Specials are right here.” She pointed at the laminated plastic menu she slid in front of him.

  “Coffee,” he said gratefully. “A big ice water. And”—he scanned the menu quickly—“omelet with cheddar, turkey sausage, onion, and spinach.”

  “Biscuits on the side? Hash browns?”

  He almost choked as Jules’s words echoed in his head. I’ll fry up “the equipment” and serve it to you with a side of hash browns . . .

  “Biscuits,” he said. “Thank you, Sunny. Been a while, huh?”

  “You haven’t been in here since you were, what, thirteen? Since before you went back East, Rhett.”

  “I’m surprised you recognize me.”

  “I’m not, honey. Anybody would peg you for a Braddock, but I’d know your face anywhere, and that’s the truth. Don’t be a stranger.” She looked at her watch. “And if you take your time, you’ll meet up with your brother Deck, right here at seven. This same booth.”

  Meet up with Deck. Nah, he’d take a pass on that for today. Tomorrow was good enough. What the hell would they say to each other, anyway? How would they begin when it had been so long? There was so much water under that bridge, but they’d sailed in opposite directions.

  “Sure,” he said. “If I have time.”

  Sunny’s eyebrows shot up, but she said nothing and went to get the coffeepot and his ice water. When she returned, she assessed him shrewdly as she poured. “Pride,” she said succinctly. “It goeth before a fall.”

  And that was the only thing she said until she came back with an overflowing plate of food, ruffled his hair as if he were ten, and said, “Eat up, darlin’.”

  * * *

  Jules woke early around four thirty
A.M. instead of five thirty A.M. She lay in the dark of her tiny cabin on the property, random thoughts hitting her consciousness like heavy raindrops before a storm.

  Mom . . . need to talk to her. How is she holding up? How does she feel about this whole sale-to-Rhett business?

  Doesn’t matter how she feels . . . she always agrees with what Dad thinks is best. It’s how she was raised. To be a good, traditional wife: supportive, sweet, and a fantastic country cook.

  Poor woman. How did she get me as a daughter?

  Where can I get a humane mousetrap? There’s that squeaking overhead again.

  Darn. I have no milk for cereal.

  She needed to start eating better. The same queasy feeling from yesterday was back, and as much as she’d like to blame everything on Rhett, this might be more than stress.

  Do not get the flu. You can’t work the stables with the flu, and Rhett will take over everything!

  With that thought as inspiration, Jules slipped out of bed, shivering in the slight March chill. She turned on her tiny electric faux fireplace and streaked through the shower before realizing that both of her two towels were still in the dryer of the Holts’ outdoor laundry facility—in another shed.

  Her choices for drying off were the plastic shower curtain (not promising), a hand towel, or paper towels. She grabbed a faded blue hand towel embroidered with daisies, which had been her grandmother’s, and mopped at herself.

  The tiny towel was useless for her hair. So she twisted the water out of it and stuck it in a clip on top of her head. She’d run out of conditioner, too, so it was going to be impossible to comb through it . . . might be easier after it dried. She didn’t much care.

  She dug through the trunk she kept her clothes in and produced another flannel shirt, an old Silverlake High T-shirt, and a battered, paint-speckled pair of jeans with holes in the knees. She didn’t bother with a bra, yet. Not as if the horses cared, and the darn things were so uncomfortable . . . she’d go back and get one before she met up with Rhett or gave any lessons.

  It was five A.M. now, so her mom would be awake. It seemed to be the single thing that she’d inherited from the woman who’d given birth to her: a tendency to pop out of bed before dawn like a slice of toast.

  Jules made her way along the winding flagstone path that led from her little cabin past the laundry and storage shed to the back patio area and its fire pit with outdoor seating. The wind chimes tinkled; her mother had hung them from the pergola along with various baskets of flowers and a birdhouse that looked like a tiny red barn.

  Another birdhouse, made by her dad and painted the same shade of blue as the house, stood atop a big branch that her father had nailed to a square wooden platform.

  Jules went up the back steps, opened the screen door, and knocked lightly. Then she pushed open the main door and entered the tiny back porch that led into her mother’s blue and white kitchen.

  Bacon was already slowly frying in a plug-in, nonstick skillet. It was turkey bacon, these days, much to her father’s disgust, but it still smelled good. Her nose detected biscuits in the oven . . . yum. A full pot of coffee stood ready to invigorate anyone who needed invigorating. And her mother was pouring milk into a little steel pitcher to set on the table, which was set for three—as if she knew Jules was about to walk through the door. Uncanny.

  “Mornin’, sweetheart,” Mom said with a gentle smile. It faded a bit as she scanned her daughter’s appearance.

  Jules groaned inwardly. “Good morning, Mom.” She kissed her cheek and slid an arm around her. “How are you doing?”

  “Well. All right, I suppose. All things considered.”

  “How’s Dad?”

  Her mom grimaced. “He had a rough night. He’s still sleeping. I made him take a pill.” Then she changed the subject, staring pointedly at Jules’s chest.

  “Honey, no daughter of mine is going to walk around without a bra. It’s not decent.”

  “I just came to borrow some milk. And the horses don’t care.”

  “Julianna Holt.”

  “Okay, okay. Fine.”

  “And what on earth is going on with your hair?”

  “Ran out of conditioner. Can’t comb it right now.”

  Helen Holt compressed her lips and silently poured Jules a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks.” Jules added liberal amounts of milk and sugar.

  “Do you want sweetener instead, sweetheart?”

  Subtle. “No, thanks. I prefer the real thing.”

  Helen turned to check the bacon, turning each piece carefully.

  Her mother’s blond hair was cut in a neat bob and turned under at the ends. She wore pressed dark jeans, a starched white shirt with a collar, small pearl stud earrings, and her own mother’s cameo necklace. Her nails were painted the palest pink and her simple wedding band glinted under the rustic kitchen lighting.

  Jules didn’t know any other woman who’d be fully pressed and dressed by this hour of the morning. Good Lord—she had her makeup on, too. Very understated, as usual. But flawless.

  Jules sprawled into one of the chairs her father had made, plopping her behind onto the cushion her mother had made, and sipped at her coffee.

  “Are you wearing the sunscreen I gave you?” her mother asked.

  Jules rubbed at the freckles on her nose and mumbled something indistinguishable into her mug.

  “If you don’t, you’ll look like a leather bag at my age.”

  To this, she said nothing. Aunt Sue had never worn sunscreen, and she was still gorgeous. Jules liked the crinkles at her eyes and the brackets around her mouth. They gave her character.

  “I heard you were quite rude to Rhett Braddock, honey,” her mom said next.

  Jules tried not to growl, she really did. She failed.

  “Good Lord, what was that noise?”

  “My stomach, Mom.”

  “Well, the bacon’s almost done . . . and the biscuits are ready. I’ll do the eggs next. Unless you want pancakes? Though you should probably avoid carbs . . .”

  “Mom. Stop. Why didn’t you and Dad and Grady tell me anything about what was going on?”

  Helen opened the oven door, slid out the biscuits, and placed them on the stovetop. She set down her oven mitts and then turned around. “We didn’t want to worry you. And we . . . we all needed time to think about things.”

  Jules let her silence express her outrage.

  “I mean . . . your father wanted to talk to Grady. About whether he wanted to take over the stables—”

  “Grady? Whether Grady wanted to take over?”

  “Well, he is your father’s son.”

  “And I’m his daughter. Grady wants to bachelor it up at the firehouse and throw paint at canvases. He has no interest in the horses; never has.”

  “Your father wanted to make sure of that—whether or not he took an interest in his heritage.”

  “Dad knows he doesn’t!”

  “Honey, when a man gets to thinkin’ about the end of his life, he entertains dreams of having his son carry on in his footsteps.”

  Why does it have to be his son?

  “Keep his name alive, you know.”

  “Last time I checked,” Jules said carefully, “my last name was Holt, too.”

  “But your name will change when you get married—”

  “Maybe. If I ever get married. And I’m sorry, Mom, but why would Dad assume that anyone needs a . . . a . . . dick to run a stables?”

  “Julianna! I will not have that kind of vulgarity in my house.”

  “A penis, then.”

  “You stop it, you hear? Just stop.”

  “Stop what? Telling the truth?”

  “You’re not truth-telling. You’re rubbing our noses in the fact that we are traditional folks. And we refuse to apologize for that, you
ng lady!”

  “Mom, I never asked you to apologize. But I am asking you to consider the fact that I am just as capable as a guy, I love the horses, and I’m really hurt that you and Dad didn’t ask me if I wanted the property.”

  “You’re our daughter, and you will always have a place here. But you are not a businessperson, Jules. You couldn’t even stay in a junior college.”

  And there it was. The insult she’d known was coming. Her mom had just verbalized the unspoken undercurrents that flowed through the family. And triggered the shame that Jules felt.

  “Mom, that’s unfair. I hated college—it wasn’t that I couldn’t stay in it.”

  “But you didn’t have the discipline to do so.”

  You’re lazy and irresponsible. Those were the words Helen didn’t say, but they reverberated around the kitchen, just the same. They hurt so much. And they weren’t true. She just wasn’t a mini-Helen. She couldn’t be, no matter how hard she tried. And she didn’t want to be.

  Jules squirmed, despite herself. “Mom, I have plenty of discipline to do things I actually care about. I’m in my midtwenties and you still treat me like a child. I’m sick of it.” Seething, she set down her empty coffee cup and got up. She grabbed the jelly jar of milk her mother had poured for her.

  “You’re sick of it?” Helen asked. “And yet you seem just fine with living for free in a cabin on our property. You can’t remember to buy yourself basic necessities or even comb your hair. You don’t seem to give any thought to your future and you’re not even seeing a nice man who could give you one.”

  Jules’s mouth fell open in shock.

  “So please do excuse your family,” her mother continued inexorably, “for being annoying enough to worry about you. For treating you like the child that you seem all too comfortable still being.” Her mother’s face was set in creases that Jules didn’t recognize, and her eyes conveyed something tough and cold. It was a rude shock.

  “What’s going on, here?” her father said sleepily, appearing in the kitchen doorway in his pajamas. His hair stuck up in tufts, and there were sheet wrinkles on his face.