Blindsided: A Moo U Hockey Romance

by Victoria Denault

  “I flat out refuse to work with that asshole,” Clyde announces. He’s standing there in his battered old overalls and green plaid shirt, which hangs off his emaciated frame. All he needs is a straw hat and it would look like we have a scarecrow on our porch to anyone driving by on the street. Clyde needs to consume something other than alcohol. I’ve never known him to be anything other than painfully skinny, but there is one picture on the mantle of him sitting in a camping chair down by the lake, a fishing pole in one hand and a smile on his face, and he’s heavier. His body more like my dad’s with a thicker waist and broad beefy shoulders. My dad is in the grass at his feet with his own tiny, plastic toy fishing rod and he’s about two or three, which means the picture is from the year my grandmother ran out on them.

  “That’s okay, Clyde,” Daisy responds for me. “We can do this without you, like we do everything else.”

  “I work hard young lady. You don’t think I work hard? You two are off galivanting around your fancy campus so you don’t know nothing,” Clyde barks and our dad pats him on the shoulder as he emerges on the porch, the screen door to the house banging shut behind him. I wince at the noise which feels like a firework going off too close to my ears.

  “Dad, they aren’t galivanting. They’re learning,” our father clarifies, leaning heavily on the cane he now uses every day. “And we all know you work. Daisy, apologize.”

  Daisy sighs and rolls her eyes dramatically which makes Clyde turn a new shade of red. “Sorry, Grandpa. But with all due respect, it’s better if you’re not at the farmer’s market. You are the reason we don’t have our own booth anyway.”

  “It’s that George Adler’s fault. He butted in line. I was last, sure, but if he hadn’t gotten all flirty with that Oleson woman in front of me then he’d have been standing behind me. That dirty, slimy, womanizing—”

  “Relax!” Dad repeats, cutting Clyde off before the expletives start again. The man swears like a drunken sailor, especially about all things Adler. Uncle Bobby rounds the corner of the barn. He’s got two of our Cashmere goats with him, Blair and Jo.

  Clyde huffs. “I’m not going to the damn market. Not ever. And you know what I’m going to do with my free time?”

  “Clean the goat pens? Milk the goats? Check on the beehives? Make the cheeses?” Bobby asks lightly, but it’s a dig. Clyde won’t officially give the farm over to any of us but he’s stopped doing much of anything here, except drinking and bitching. Clyde gave the reins over to my dad a couple years ago but now that my dad is unable to handle full-time farm work, Clyde thinks selling it is a better option than holding onto it until Daisy and I graduate and can take over.

  “I’m gonna go to that realtor in town to see if that client she had is still interested in buying,” Clyde announces and storms back in the house.

  He stomps off around the porch to the back of the house where the extension with his self-contained apartment is located. This summer a real estate agent came by and told Clyde she had a buyer looking for farmland in the area and was willing to pay a decent price. Clyde didn’t say yes, but told her he would keep it in mind, and he’s been threatening us with it ever since. Now, I turn to my dad with worried eyes. He shakes his head. “Ignore him Mags. He’s just mad you’re working with Georgie Boy.”

  “Yeah,” Uncle Bobby agrees with an easy smile. “Besides, the realtor works at the same agency as Tanya Adler, so Clyde won’t step foot in there and likely won’t sell through them either. Especially since I told him Tanya would make money off the sale.”

  “He believed that? It’s not Mrs. Adler’s client or her agency, so she won’t,” I say, and Bobby’s grin deepens.

  “Let’s not explain that to your grandpa, okay?”

  Daisy laughs. I want to laugh too, but I’m scared it will make my head pound harder. Ugh. I am never drinking again. Despite their reassurances, I let my eyes sweep wistfully over the property.

  I grew up in the large, white, clapboard farmhouse. My chubby toddler hand prints are pressed into the concrete steps that lead up to the porch on Clyde’s side. Daisy got her first set of stitches after wiping out on her bike in the driveway when she was eight. I helped build the cheese barn that sits across the drive on the only hill on our land when we shifted to goats. I spent hours as a pre-teen in the towering sugar maple down by the road when I wanted to escape my family, reading or daydreaming. I may not own this land, but I am this land. I do not want to lose it.

  “I keep forgetting how this feud works,” Bobby jokes with his standard, lazy lopsided smirk on his face. “Are we the Capulets or the Monahans?”

  “It’s Montagues,” I correct with a smile. “And who knows?”

  “I was never the scholarly one in school, that was your uncle Ben,” Bobby replies about his twin brother. “Anyway, I for one am proud of you two putting aside the differences for the benefit of the business.”

  “Thank you,” I say and he winks at me. As much as my grandfather is a disappointment, my uncles are quintessentially perfect. They’re twins, a year younger than my dad, and are disarmingly charming, hardworking, fun-loving guys. They’ve been nothing but supportive of Daisy and me since birth. Even though they don’t want to continue farming and have a successful construction business, they fully supported our idea two years ago to shift the farm’s main income from dairy to goats and bees. We had to present it to Clyde like it was their idea, and my dad’s since everyone knew he wouldn’t take the idea of two high school girls seriously.

  “But I have to say, I’m shocked the Adlers agreed to this,” Dad says as Bobby disappears around to the other side of the house. He’s taking Blair and Jo to the pasture where the other cashmere goats are, like Tutti and Natalie. We name all our goats after old TV and movie characters. Everyone gets to name some, and those were named by my mom. “Old George hates Clyde with the same amount of venom.”

  “Like I said, the police said either we shared or they took the booth away from both of us,” I lie easily.

  The screen door on the porch swings open again and Mom comes out with a picnic basket in her hand. Her dark hair is swept up in a messy top knot. she’s wearing zero makeup, as usual, and just like always my dad’s face lights up when he sees her. I will never grow tired of seeing how Billy Todd looks at Violet Hill Todd.

  “Packed you all a lunch,” she says with a smile as she hands Daisy the basket. “I’m hoping you’ll be so busy selling you won’t have time to find your own.”

  “Thanks Mom. Let’s hope you’re right,” I say and she smiles and then the smile grows softer as her eyes shift to my dad. “Put a thermos of coffee in there too. I saw you yawning earlier.”

  “You’re a dream, Vi. Thanks!” Dad kisses her cheek before walking off toward the cheese barn. I try not to stare as he goes. It hurts my heart to see him move so slowly and so uneasily.

  Mom pauses in front of me and tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear and gently cups my face. “Have a good day, lovebug. Don’t let your dad over do it. And don’t let the Adlers annoy you, or him. I know they’ll try.”

  “I won’t Mom,” I say.

  “I think we’re ready to fly!” My uncle Ben calls out coming out of our regular barn tugging a squeaky dolly which has two tabletop cooler display cases on it.

  “Shh! No yelling today. Please,” I beg and press my fingertips to my temples.

  “Are you…hungover?” Mom asks, and I know the answer will make her upset. She’s always been worried we’ll turn into drunks like Clyde. We’ve been getting speeches about how alcoholism is hereditary since we were ten.

  “Yeah, she already let an Adler get to her,” Daisy adds, unhelpfully. She means the beer pong but I think of the kiss. “Tate challenged her to beer pong last night.”

  “Beer what?” Mom is horrified. Great.

  “It’s fine. I‘m fine,” I promise. “And I won’t be doing that again.”

  “I hope not because you’re underage young lady and the police may look the other wa
y on a tussle between two old grumpy men, but they’ll have no problem charging you with underage drinking,” Ben reminds me.

  “He’s right Maggie. And I don’t want you two drinking at all, whether you’re legal or not,” Mom says. “I know that’s not a realistic dream but I have it anyway.”

  I hug her. “I’m sorry.”

  “I nursed one tiny beer the entire night,” Daisy says proudly. “And like I said, if it wasn’t for Tate, Maggie would have done the same.”

  “If he offers you booze at the market…” Mom starts but I raise a hand and stop her.

  “He won’t. He’s not a complete idiot,” I reply. “See you tonight.”

  I bounce with as much energy as I can muster to the truck Ben just finished loading. “Daisy will go with you and I’ll take Dad.”

  Ben nods and he and Daisy get into his truck. Dad shoves his cane into the back seat and pulls himself up into the passenger seat of the beat up Kia Soul I share with Daisy. I start down the drive and turn onto Route 2A toward town. The Adler Farm whizzes by, and Dad cranes his neck to look up their drive. “Wonder if they’ve already left.”

  “Who cares?” I reply. “Maybe if we’re lucky Tate is more hungover than me and he slept in.”

  “You’re partying with the Adler boy?” Dad raises one bushy blond eyebrow.

  “Not with him. I went to a party and he happened to also be there. And he insisted on annoying me the entire time and…” Kissing me like his life depended on it, my brain reminds me but of course I don’t say that out loud. I suddenly feel hot and put down the window. “Let’s just say I understand Clyde’s impulse to punch Adlers now.”

  Dad chuckles. “So you hate the Adlers now too?”

  “Don’t we all hate the Adlers, always?” I ask as the truck hums along. Dad lowers his window too. It’s a cool fall morning but the sun is already warming it up.

  “Yeah. I guess we do,” Dad replies.

  “Why is that?” I ask as the sun starts to gleam off the road and I pull my sunglasses off my head to shield my eyes.

  “It’s a long and sordid history, Maggie. I don’t even know where to begin,” Dad says.

  “Okay. I’ll begin,” I say. “One of my first memories was Clyde screaming obscenities at George because he thought that George had built the fence between our properties too far onto our side. George responded by throwing rotting apples at him and Mom had to call the police.”

  Dad huffs out a breath and I don’t dare take my eyes off the road to see if it’s out of frustration or amusement. “Before that we didn’t have an official fence. Just some rope tied to posts in the ground only about hip high. George put in that six foot chain link monstrosity two feet past where the original one had been so he did steal some of our land. We have always wanted to take it to court but don’t have the money for that. We did get the police to make him take down the barbed wire he had originally placed on top of it.”

  “So all this is over two feet of land?”

  “Nope. Honestly Mags, I don’t know exactly when it started. George and Clyde have been fighting my entire life,” Dad explains and puts sunglasses on over his blue eyes. “Tate’s dad Vince and I used to go at it too. We got into at least four fistfights in high school. Both of us got suspended for it the fourth time, which is the only reason I think we stopped. And one time I made Vince and Tanya storm out of the grocery store. Left a cart full of stuff in the middle of the aisle, because when I saw them there, I stood in the produce aisle and started to loudly talk about how bad the quality of their apples was.”

  I smile. “Tate’s mom, Tanya, threatened to shove a cupcake up Mom’s ass at the fourth-grade school bake sale.”

  Dad laughs deeply. “I remember that. First time I think a parent has ever been hauled into the principal’s office.”

  “Did Grandma used to fight with George Adler’s wife, Faith, too? The way Clyde and George go at it and Mom and Tanya did?”

  I steal a glance at his face this time because this topic can be touchy depending on his mood. No one in the family likes to talk about his mother, Elizabeth Todd. Dad is in a Zen mood today though because he doesn’t tense or frown he just shrugs. “Don’t remember. I was only three when she left, remember?”

  No, I don’t remember because I wasn’t alive. As usual I only have Todd family folklore to go off of. “And Ben and Bobby were barely two.”

  “Yup.”

  “And…we don’t know where she went?”

  “Maggie not this again, please,” Dad says, and by the hard edge to his tone I know I’ve finally annoyed him. “We don’t know where she went and we don’t care either. Now can we stop talking about my deadbeat mother?”

  “Fine. Fine.” I sigh and bite my tongue. The fact is I don’t actually ask about my grandmother all that much. I learned at a young age, when I was doing a family tree project in sixth grade and Clyde saw the poster board and tore it up when he saw her name next to his, that Elizabeth Todd was a taboo subject. But the older I get, the more interested I am in our family history. And lately Daisy is positively obsessed with finding out more about her, and our roots in general, so I hear it a lot since we live together. We’ve never even seen one picture of her.

  “My mother decided she didn’t want Clyde and I don’t blame her. But she also decided she didn’t want her children, which is the unforgivable part,” Dad says as I slow the car and turn onto Pine Place that will take us to Pine Street, where the farmer’s market is held. “I mean hell, Vince and Tanya Adler divorced what, like ten years ago, but she still sees her kids. She is still a parent. My mother never reached out. Not a Christmas present or birthday card or even a letter. She didn’t care what happened to us, so we aren’t going to care what happened to her.”

  I carefully tuck into a spot in the grass lot where all the vendors park and Dad opens the door and gets out before I turn off the engine. I try to ignore how he struggles to find his balance for a second. He doesn’t like when we fuss over him.

  I hop out after him and give him a smile, walking around to the back of the car and popping the trunk. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  He grabs his cane and joins me, pulling me into a hug. “Clyde is a jerk a lot of the time but he didn’t abandon us. He raised three little boys on his own. He always found the money to give us school trips and hockey equipment and whatever reasonable request we had.”

  I hug him back, pressing my cheek to his chest. My dad gives the best hugs. He almost makes me forget I’m hungover. “Now we just have to convince him to not sell the farm.”

  “He’s bluffing on that, I think,” Dad assures me as he lets me go and grins down at me. “Just don’t tell him you’re partying with an Adler.”

  I laugh but it quickly catches in my throat and disappears when I glance across the parking area and see Tate. He and his little brother are hauling bushels of apples out of his truck. It looks like it’s their last load, not their first, which means he got here extra early. And he looks well-rested and perky and I hate him even more.

  Seven minutes later we find the booth in the long row of booths and I frown. “Are you kidding me, Adler?”

  From the other side of the booth Tate looks at me innocently. “What?”

  I point up at the tent awning above the booth. “Adler’s Apple Farm?”

  He rolls his eyes like I’m some overdramatic girlfriend and that starts to make my blood boil. “What? You want a coverless booth? So we can get rained on or sunburned? Your smelly cheese will melt if it isn’t in the shade.”

  “Our cheese is not smelly. Except the garlic one but it’s supposed to be. Well, and the blue goat cheese but…” I huff and now I’m equally as frustrated that my cheeks are starting to pink. “Listen, the booth can’t just say Adler’s Apples because it’s not just Adler’s Apples.”

  He shrugs and his little brother Jace, who is arranging apples in baskets on one side of the table is smirking like a little shit. Because he’s a little s
hit. “Maggie, we don’t have a co-branded tent. Too bad.”

  “You could just take your stinky hippie cheese crap and go home.” The voice comes from behind me and I turn and see George Adler walking up with a heaping basket of baked goods I assume all have apples in them.

  “Hi, Mr. Adler. You gonna hit one of us like you did Clyde?” Daisy asks, smiling sweetly as she walks past him to the empty side of the booth and drops a cooler of cheese down with a thud. She spins and faces Tate and his brother, copper hair whipping around from her ponytail and almost slashing George across his throat. I smile. “So here’s what’s gonna happen boys. My uncle is going to throw our tent topper over your tent topper on the one side. Okay? Great.”

  “Good idea, Daisy,” Dad says and Daisy puts a stool down behind him as Uncle Ben is wheeling over the display coolers on a dolly, the wheels squeaking angrily. The sound makes it feel like a cat is actually sharpening its nails on my brain. Ugh. I can’t help but wince and Tate notices and grins. I hope he gets incurable jock itch.

  We set up our side of the booth, Dad sitting on his stool arranging stuff as we haul it over from the parking lot. We ignore the Adler clan but talk amongst ourselves about what cheese to display where, how to stack the honey jars, whether the goat’s milk soap will melt in this heat. “Why are you all so chatty? So much noise,” George grumbles.

  “Gramps…” Tate mutters in a warning, which surprises me a little.

  “Those girls are so chatty. Yak, yak, yak,” George growls. He turns to my dad, who is standing at the back of our side of the booth. “You should teach your girls to be seen and not heard.”

  “Sorry, we don’t live in the Stone Age old man,” my dad says calmly. “I’m pretty sure my girls have more intelligent things to say than you do.”

  “Are you gonna stand in my booth and insult my intelligence?” George growls and takes a step toward our side but Tate and Jace both jump in front of him.