Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1)

by Lindsey Pogue

  Deciding my video chat is much more important—it’s one of the only things I have to look forward to these days—I pad toward my room and shut the door behind me. I can’t wait to see Reilly’s face, his smile. I want to tell him about the new filly that was born earlier this week, about how Mr. Reilly greeted me in town yesterday and actually smiled at me. And I can’t wait to see the amusement on his face when I tell him that Mac is semi-seeing Connor, even though I don’t think it will last. I think of all the things that have happened since the last time we spoke, and I miss Reilly more.

  I plop down on my bed, pick my laptop up off the side table, and open it up on my lap. I hope we have longer to talk today, more than fifteen minutes, unlike our last chat sixteen days ago. Papa flew me to Missouri for Reilly’s graduation from boot camp, but since then I’ve barely talked to him. He’s not allowed to tell me where he is, at least not yet, and he’s only been gone six months, though it feels like it’s been a year. The days feel like weeks, and I still have months before I’ll see him again, years if he doesn’t come home on leave for the holidays.

  Things are harder than I thought they’d be, or at least different now that he’s actually gone. Though I know he’s happy when we chat, there’s a distance in his voice, a sadness in his eyes. It makes me wonder what life is like there, what it’s really like.

  Haunting stories of how guys act in the military come to mind. Though I try not to, I remember the way Bethany nearly snorted when Nick mentioned we were “doing the long distance thing.” She was one of many people who’d joined us for his send-off party, Mr. Reilly not included. I try not to think about the horde of girls impressed as they pawed at him, imagining him in a uniform. The way they flirted with him made me strangely proud, though I was annoyed, but the way he flirted back lingers most acutely. He was just being polite.

  I wait for Reilly’s delayed image to show up until the screensaver comes on, then I wait some more. The minutes tick on, feeling more like hours, and I begin to lose hope that I’ll get to hear his voice or see his face today. Just like last week. His email said tonight was the only time he’d have over the next couple days. So, where is he?

  I try not to think about how much longer we have to do this, how much longer I have to live this way, a suspended stretch of waiting, constantly wishing and pleading that time would go by faster when it only feels like it’s slowing down.

  Leaving the screen open, I set my computer on the mattress and lie down on my side, pulling the pillow up under my head as I stare at the bubbles bouncing and illuminating my screen. At least I have our Texas road trip to pick up Papa’s new broodmare to look forward to. It will be a nice break from the ranch—from Alison. Just me and Papa.

  I pull Mama’s crocheted coverlet up over me and finger the delicate stitching. I bring it to my nose and inhale, but there’s no scent, like usual. I wish I remembered her more, something other than her soothing voice next to my ear the night of a loud storm in this very room. I peer out my window, at the baleful afternoon, and can’t help but feel depressed and alone. What would Mama’s advice be if she were still alive? My gaze shifts to her photo on the wall, me as a little girl with ringlet pigtails giggling in her arms. She was so fair, so angelic, I can’t help but think she would tell me to hold on just a little bit longer. Reilly will show, and if he doesn’t, he has a good reason for it. I know that’s true, so I comfort myself by letting my selfish need to talk to him go as much as I can.

  There’s a quiet knock on my bedroom door, and I peer over at it. “Come in.”

  Papa creaks the door open and steps inside. “Hey, Smurf,” he says, and the tone of his voice is too soft and sad for his next words to be anything good.

  “What is it?” I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  “I’m going to have to postpone our road trip, at least for a little while.”

  I lie there quietly, tears pricking the backs of my eyes.

  “I think we should wait until Alison’s feeling better. She’s . . .” His eyes search my face, like he’s contemplating telling me something. “She’s just having a hard time right now, and I don’t want her here by herself.”

  I say nothing because I have nothing nice or helpful to say.

  “Please don’t be angry with her,” Papa says, and he tilts his head. “She’ll come around, sooner or later. Things will get better and go back to normal. I promise.”

  I bite back a few vicious thoughts that spring to mind and clear my throat. Saying them will only make things harder on Papa, and he already looks exhausted. “I’m not angry,” I say.

  Papa smiles. “Liar. I can see it in your eyes.” He pats me on the hip and stands up. “Don’t be mad, Smurf. There’s plenty for us to do around the ranch. I’m gonna go make us some supper. Tell Josh we say hello.”

  I glance at the computer screen, the bubbles already gone and the screen blank in hibernation.

  I close the lid. It doesn’t look like I’ll be telling Reilly anything tonight. Again.

  Seven

  Reilly

  Sitting in the Rumbler, I stare up at the decrepit, foreboding house of my childhood. I never thought about it as anything other than a place to sleep, at least that’s how it felt the older I got. Now, I see it for what it really is—dilapidated, more than I remember it being. The sun ruthlessly beats down on the bubbled and peeling white paint, the warped shutters, and the leaning porch. With the exception of the roof I helped the old man lay my sophomore year of high school so that he’d sign my baseball waivers, the entire exterior needs a facelift, and I’m assuming the inside is no different. The whole place looks sad and feels lonely and I haven’t even stepped inside yet.

  With a resigned exhale, I reach for my duffel in the passenger seat and reluctantly step out of the truck, letting the door swing shut behind me. With one final glance at the shambles in front of me, I head for the house. There’s no sense in prolonging the inevitable.

  A coiling tension I haven’t felt in years creeps into my neck and shoulders the closer I draw to the front door. I knew coming home wouldn’t be easy, figured it would be blood, sweat, and maybe a few beers with Nick until I got the house sold and the hell out of dodge by the end of the summer. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the moment I open that front door, my best laid plans will go up in smoke, and I’ll be left with next to nothing in my savings.

  As expected, the porch protests beneath my feet. The shredded screen barely hanging by its hinges opens with a creak, and I’m left staring at the rusted door handle. The feel of the key in my hand is strange, feels a little heavy for some reason, but finally I unlock the door.

  Must and stale cigarettes assault my senses as I push the door open, and I use the back of my hand to cover my nose. It smells like the place hasn’t been opened in years, not months. I drop my bag in the doorway and stare at what seems like a weathered, sun-bleached image of a childhood I’m not sure I want to remember. Everything is caked in dust and the closed blinds only make the small, narrow house feel like one long, ominous cage. A quick scan of the connected kitchen, living room, and closed bedroom doors tells me I’ll have to do more surveying if I’m going to know what I’m up against, but I also feel the need to know what the old man’s last days were like.

  The house groans as I step into the living room, and I can feel the floorboards bowing beneath my feet. This whole place feels foreign, like I’m somewhere that should be familiar but it’s been grossly altered. The rug is covered with stray bits of food and dirt, and there are balled-up pieces of paper littering the ground, in the crevasses of the couch and in his “off-limits” recliner. Yellowed wallpaper peels from ceiling to busted floorboard, and I can’t help but think the old man was the glue that held this dying place together. Now that he’s gone, it’s like the house can’t stand on its own anymore. It looks like it wants to be torn down.

  I can’t imagine living in this dump alone.

  Analyzing everything, I step into the adjoining kitch
en, filled with dirtied, molded-over dishes that look like they haven’t been cleaned in months, like they’d been piled up long before he passed. He clearly needed help, more than he’d ever let on, and I wonder how many times he thought to call me.

  Zero, I assume. The man was too proud, too stubborn to ever consider reaching out, let alone act as though he even liked me.

  Flicking the light switch, I’m surprised to find that the power’s still on, and that’s one less thing to put on this growing list of crap I have to worry about.

  Taking a step back, I leave the kitchen for what it is—disgusting—and walk back through the living room, passing the old man’s room that feels too impending to enter at the moment. I head toward the end of the house, toward the bathroom and my cramped bedroom that always felt more like a hole to hide in than anything else.

  Slowly, I open the door, uncertain what the old man did with my room after I left. He knew I was never coming back. He could’ve taken a sledgehammer to the walls, for all I know—he probably should have.

  So I’m surprised when I find that everything looks exactly the same, like he’d never even gone inside at all. The afternoon light seeps through the only portion of the blinds that aren’t obscured by the shrubby limbs outside the window. My letterman and a too-small suit jacket that Nick’s mom loaned me once still hang in the closet with the busted sliding door, and baseball memorabilia clutters the walls. But so do pictures of Sam and me—photos of us at the beach, at the lake with the crew, at the fair . . .

  I realize I’ve drifted inside and I’m standing in front of them, too busy staring at her angelic face to care. The way her brown eyes glitter and smile at me through the photo makes it seem like it was all a dream, and I don’t like the way that makes me feel. I expected things to be different between us after what’s happened, after she tore my heart out and practically spat on it by dating the biggest ass in town, but I guess I didn’t expect the way things are now to bother me so much. The Sam from earlier today was distant and different. Though she was still a little awkward, something I always adored about her, she could barely look at me. It’s a sign of how damaged things truly are between us, and for the first time in years I don’t feel angry or hurt by her, I feel sad. The feel of her hand in mine, the way her lips were parted in surprise, makes me realize how much I really miss her.

  The sentiment takes me aback, and I step out of the room and shut the door. I quickly check the condition of the bathroom and decide I need to get to smashing things before I lose my shit and end up at Lick’s, passed out at the bar like my old man used to do.

  I head for the master bedroom and bath to check their condition, telling myself that the old man’s dead and whatever condemning words he’d have had for me going into his bedroom can’t hurt me anymore.

  Like with my room, everything inside the master looks untouched, like the old man hadn’t even slept in here. The covers on the bed are perfectly made but dusty. The physical condition of the room is much like the rest of the house—old, rotted, and ready to be torn down—but it doesn’t look lived in at all. There are no dishes or clutter on the nightstands or strewn across the floor like the living room and kitchen, save for a stack of old books. Was he even in here in his last days? I feel like that’s something I should know, but I try to ignore the fact that I don’t. It only lasts a fleeting moment before anger shoves its way into my thoughts.

  As I turn to leave, I notice a stack of papers on the chair beside the bedroom door, and the name etched across the top of the paper is familiar—Daniel Morton. The old man included his name and phone number at the bottom of the letter he’d sent me. Picking up the paper, I realize it’s a letter dated almost exactly four months ago—April 13, the day the old man had written my abrupt, last-request note.

  Based on the letterhead, I conclude that Mr. Daniel Morton is an estate lawyer in Benton, the next town over. I skim through each paragraph, filled with meeting dates and a list of legal documents enclosed, and the next part grabs my attention:

  Per your request, I’ve sold off your 6,343 shares of Northwestern Logging Corporation stock. After paying this year’s property taxes and electric bill in full, your son will have just over $236,395 to do with as he sees fit. I can contact him if you’d like, or I can leave the next steps in your hands. Either way, I’ll brief him in full once I’ve heard from him.

  I scan the rest of the letter, though I’m not processing what it says whatsoever. I’m too shocked and confused to think much beyond the fact that the old man had the forethought to do any of this at all.

  Massaging my temple as though anything other than a shower and a long night’s sleep will help make this day a little bit better, I let the letter drift back down to the chair where I found it. I study the old man’s room again, looking for another piece of him, anything that would help it all make some sense. John fucking Reilly, the town drunk—my hard-ass, no-good father—waited until I couldn’t stand him so much I left to grow any semblance of a heart.

  While part of me realizes he would’ve had to do something with his belongings and stocks, and me being his only son makes me beneficiary to everything he’s left behind, the other part of me knows he’s so infuriating that this goes beyond formalities and lineage. Although the only letter I’ve ever received from this man was postmortem, I know in my heart that this is his way of apologizing for being a shitty father—for ignoring me and doing nothing to show that he ever cared about me—and I want to hate him for it.

  “I don’t want your damn money,” I grind out. My hands are shaking, and I grit my teeth.

  With a deep breath, I shut the door and step into the center of the living room, peering up at the ceiling that looks rotted through. The old, single-paned windows have done nothing to keep the dampness out of the house, and it’s clear there is a major leak, if not leaks, in the attic. There’s no way this place could’ve gotten so bad in the four years I’ve been gone, which makes me wonder how I missed the state of things before I left. Or maybe I just hadn’t cared enough to notice.

  Deciding a sledgehammer to the side of the house sounds good right about now, I head through the living room, ready to start tearing this place apart, when my cell phone rings.

  The screen reads “Mad Dog.” Knowing he’s going to give me shit, I brace myself and answer. “I thought you weren’t going to bug me,” I say in greeting.

  Mad Dog laughs. “How are you, Corporal?”

  “Trying to be on vacation,” I say, poking my head out the back door in search of an axe.

  “Yeah? And how’s that going for you?”

  Spotting one by the toolshed, I step outside to grab it. “Swell.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  Bringing the axe inside, I lean it against the cupboard for later and stare at the fridge. Knowing my old man, I’m sure there’s a cold beer waiting for me inside. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?” I ask and open the refrigerator door. I’m not surprised to find a half-empty six-pack of light beer inside. Quickly, I snatch a bottle before the stench of whatever else is inside assaults my nostrils and close it again. Only four strides and I’m out the front door for some fresh air.

  “I was just wondering if anything had changed, since I haven’t gotten your reenlistment application yet.”

  “I’ve been a little busy,” I say honestly. “And no, nothing’s changed.” Sergeant Matthew “Mad Dog” Mattson was the first guy I ever got into a bar fight with because I’d been the one drinking. It was almost six years ago, one night when me, Nick, and some of the guys from the baseball team were in Benton, having a little too much fun with our fake IDs. We’d become friends after one drunken night of misunderstandings and right hooks to the face. After I graduated high school, he eventually got me to enlist, and we’d stayed in touch ever since.

  “How’s Meredith and baby number two?” I ask, realizing it’s been a while since I’ve really talked to him about anything other than reenlisting. I take a swig of beer, sit on the to
p step, and peer out at the golden brown hills surrounding me.

  “They’re both doing really well. Jamie’s almost two now, and I—”

  “Two? Wow, time’s going by faster than I thought. You gonna be a free man soon and spend some time with your family, or are you staying in the office for another go-around?”

  “I’m still voting for you to be my replacement after my stint here, but . . .”

  I laugh, really laugh, for the first time in a while. “Right, because a sterile, air-conditioned room and starched suits fit me so well. I can picture that happening.”

  Mad Dog chuckles and sighs.

  “But really, how much longer you going to be recruiting?”

  For a minute, all I can hear are his deep breaths and the sound of a pencil tapping on what I assume is his desk. I’ve obviously broached an uncomfortable topic. “I’m undecided,” he finally admits. “But I’m calling to talk about you.”

  “Me? But I’m so boring.” If he only knew. I peer back into the house, at how sad and dark it is, and wonder if bulldozing the place isn’t a better idea.

  “True. But should anything change, let me know. If you decide deployment and artillery mechanic isn’t your thing and you want to try something else out, or if you want to go career or sign up for reserves . . . anything.”

  “Sure. Okay. Hey, email me the application this time, will you?”

  “Yeah, like you even know how to use a computer.”

  I chuckle, knowing my typing skills are lacking. “And you wanted me to take over your job?”

  Finally, we’re finished goading one another, promise to grab a drink when I have some time, and I end the call.