by Jacquie Gee
“So to speak.” I nod.
“But you’ll probably prefer the award-winning one. Everyone does.”
“All right, I shall try this one first.” He holds up the chocolate one.
“Hhm,” he laughs his mouth hovering open over the cupcake.
“What?” I say.
He hasn’t tried a bite yet, so it can’t be the cupcake.
“Nothing.” He laughs again. “I was just thinking. We’ve gone from your ordering me out of your house, to you baking me your most prize-winning cupcake. Quite the transformation, don’t you think?”
“Watch yourself,” I say. “I can still have you thrown out.”
“Oh, you think so, eh?”
“On what grounds.”
“Sleeping beneath my mother.” I cross my arms.
Trent burst into a smile. He takes a bite of my cupcake. “Mmmmm, wow!” He raves and rolls his eyes. “’Dis is good…” he talks around the cupcake “… like, really good—Awesome, in fact!”
“Of course, it is,” I joke as he swallows.
“Almost as good as one of mine.”
I swat at him and he ducks.
"And you were going to teach me how to bake cupcakes.”
“I still should.”
“No need.”
"Oh?” I hilt my brows. “You keep serving those gosh awful vegan organic things, and you’ll never attract any customers.”
Trent frowns. “I’ll have you know I put a lot of work into them—"
“I’ll have you know they taste like sawdust.”
“Funny, Sal says he loves them.”
“Sal lies. Then again,”—I toss him a cheeky look— “have you ever tasted one of Sal’s burgers?”
Trent looks up. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Suffice it to say, he’s not the best judge of flavor.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He takes another bite of the cupcake and raves again. “Better stop having him judging my soup then, huh?” he adds, pulling the second cupcake from its container. He holds it up and takes a healthy bite. “Wow!” he says, then groans like he’s making love to the thing. “Mmm Mmm Mmm…” He sinks his teeth into it and hits the cupcake’s oozy goozy ganache center. “Oh, for the love of all things wonderful, what is in that?” He points to the center.
I giggle. “A mixture of rich chocolate ganache and almond buttercream.”
“Oh my—mmmm, mmmmmm…that is good.” He stretches out the good and rolls his eyes. Cake crumbles dot the corners of his mouth.
"Told you you’d like that one the best.” I uncross my arms.
"Who said I like that one better?” Trent flashes his eyes.
“I’m just going by the total body reaction,” I say.
“Yeah, well. I’ve had cupcakes, and I’ve had cupcakes, and I’ll tell you. These two?” He holds up what remains of each. “These two. Are classics.”
I love that word. I love the way he makes it roll off his Aussie tongue.
“Thank you,” I say. “But it’s okay, you can pick a favorite. I won’t be upset.”
“No. I mean it. I can’t. I just can’t. I like them both equally as much." He takes an animated second bite of each.
I laugh. I don’t care whether he actually likes them, or not. I love him. The acting job he’s putting on for me right now means everything. No one has ever gone so far out of their way to make me feel like I’m worth it. Like I make the best cupcake in the world and that I’m worth it.
My cheeks ache I’m smiling so wide. “Maaaawaaaah!” He continues the antics, picking every last crumb off the wrappings and licking every speck of fondant off each of his fingers, then he throws a kiss into the air. “Beyond words,” he says. “That’s what they are. Simply beyond words.”
“Okay, you can stop.”
“No. I don't want to, they’re that good. I hope you baked more.”
“I did.”
“Good thing. Cause these ones are gone.” He settles back and crosses his muscled arms. “And I know what I’m having for breakfast, tomorrow.” Reaching over, he rests his hand softly over mine, and fix his gaze on the river.
I take his fingers and thread them through my own. I feel strangely at ease holding onto this man. Like I've never felt with anyone before.
“Thanks.” He smiles over at me.
“For what?” I ask.
“For thinking of me.”
A few turns of the river later, white-capped water spiraling through the rocks, Trent skews up his jaw and says, "Come to think of it, I think the first cupcake was my favorite. Though the second one is a close contender.” I swat his shoulder lightly, and when he glances over he still has fondant on his lips, and I have the urge to cup his chin and kiss it away.
“This reminds me of home, you know,” he stares out over the river, dreamily.
“What does?” I ask.
“Sitting here, next to the water like this.” His gaze dances over the river and then away—far, far away as if in his head, he’s traveling millions of miles. He swallows hard, and something is sticking in his throat.
“Where is home anyway? You’ve never told me.” I sit up in my chair.
“Doesn’t matter where you’re from, it’s where you’re going that counts, right?” He tosses me a cheeky grin.
“Funny, boy.” I squeeze his hand, the one he’s still holding. “Seriously, where are you from? You’ve never told me.”
“You’ve never asked.”
He’s avoiding answering this question at all costs, why? First on the bridge and now here.
"Maybe there's a reason I don't want to talk about where I'm from.” His jaw sets and his voice takes on a quality that surprises me.
“I’m sorry, I…” I stammer, sensing anger. “I, I just—”
“Kingscliffe.” His expression lightens as his gaze swings onto me. “I’m from Kingscliffe. In New South Wales. On the water.”
“Isn’t everything in Australia on the water?” I joke, trying to lighten things.
“I mean, right on the beach. Like in my backyard.”
“Oh, lucky.”
“I was. At one time.” His gaze gets serious and shifts away.
“Kingscliffe,” I say, letting the word settle into my mind.
“Do you ever dream of going back there?”
“No. Never,” he says altogether too quickly. And when I react to that he adds, “I couldn’t if I wanted to, it doesn't exist anymore.”
“You mean, Kingscliffe?” I scowl. “How can it not exist.”
He turns and stares off at the over the river, refusing to look at me. It’s as though he can’t bear to answer the question—or face a memory. “What is it? What are you thinking?” I pry, though I know I shouldn’t. My famous M.O.
“Nothing, I was just thinking,”—his words catch his breath— “how much you’d love it there.” He swallows hard.
“Me. Why me?”
“’Cause it’s like here, only warmer.” His eyes flicker as they slide from the water onto me. “That’s the whole reason I settled here.”
“Really?”
“Though, honestly the sunsets here are much more spectacular.”
“Well, all the more reason to emigrate.” I slide back in my chair.
I should leave the topic alone, but I can’t. “What about your family, don’t you miss them?”
Trent’s lips flatten into a tight, thin, line. “Every day,” he says, solemnly, his voice thin and reedy.
“So, why don’t you just go visit.”
His eyes turn glossy as they focus my way.
“I can’t?” He sighs and squeezes my hand. “Some of us aren't as lucky as you.” He turns his eyes away.
What is that supposed to mean?
He draws in a breath and lets it flutter out. He’s searching for words in the air. “I can't go home, because…” He stops and drops his chin. “Promise you won’t think less of me after I tell you this.” He pleads
to me with his eyes.
“Of course, not. Why would I ever—”
“I have no home to go to anymore. It's gone. All of it. My family’s dead because of me. I didn’t kill them, but I killed them.” When he looks up again, there’s sadness in his expression I've never seen before— deep, writhing gut-wrenching sadness. I can tell it’s all he can do to fight back the tears, and I want to reach over and hold him, but I feel him pulling away.
I feel layered in guilt for even asking, as he struggles to suck in a tattered breath. It’s like he’s working to work up the courage to finish his thought. The line of his mouth softens. “To me, home is where family is, and my family is gone. Wiped out. All of them. Perished in one single accident.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I bring my hands to my mouth.
“My Mother. Father. Brother. Sister. All in a train crash.” His voice cracks.
I want to die for asking.
His gaze travels that distance away. “They were on their way to see me.” His voice jerks as he speaks. “I’d asked them to come. It was my first major league championship football game. Me Mum had never seen me play past high school. She shouldn’t have been making the trip. She’d be here if I hadn’t insisted. Or perhaps not. Maybe her illness would have done her in by now, I dunno. At any rate, I insisted and they came, and now they’re gone.” He turns his head, and his eyes are wet with tears. “It was selfish of me,” his voice falters, “but I had to have my way. And so they were all on the train that day. I should have been going to her. Not her coming to me. It shoulda been me who perished, not them.” His breath rattles.
“Shhhhhh,” I say, guiding his head to my shoulder, as he gives into slight sobs. “Shhhhh, you can’t think that,” I whisper. “There was no way of knowing—” I stroke his head. “Shhhhhh, it’s all right. It’s all right.”
My heart races in my chest, full of sorrow, as he falls apart on my shoulder.
“I never even asked. I just told them I wanted them there. It should have been me in that fiery flaming mess, not them.”
He chokes up, and so do I, unable to speak. I pull him closer, hold him tighter. “I’m sure they wanted to be there more than anything else. It was an accident. An accident—”
“I killed them. I killed all of them.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Me brother had a week left of high school. And me sister was about to graduate college. They had their whole lives ahead of them. And I took it away.” Tears flood his eyes.
I cup his face in my hands and pull him to me. “It’s not your fault. You weren’t driving that train.”
“I may as well have been.” He shakes.
Emotions well up in my throat, and I can no longer speak. I can’t imagine the grief he’s been carrying.
“I was top pick.” He pulls away from me. “On me way with the majors. I hadn’t been home in a year.” He looks away. “Flying all over the country, hucking a gall darn little ball as me Mum lay there wastin’ away to nothing with nobody tellin’ me, not wantin’ me to screw up me opportunity. You know she used to call every week.” He turns back to me. “Beg me to come home for a visit. Never made out there was a reason why. Just one weekend, Sonny, she’d say. Just one. I miss you. But I never came. I never made the time, I was always on a plane, there was always just one more game, and then I’ll be there. But I wasn’t. I never went. And at the end of the season, I called them up and begged them all to come to me final game. It was a long way for them.” He swallows. “But I had to have them there.” He struggles to get out the next sentence. “And I never saw them again.”
I can’t speak. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know if I’m breathing anymore.
I just sit there, stiff. Numb. Staring at the river. When I lost my father, it was devastating.
I can’t imagine losing both parents at once.
“I had chances to go home. Plenty of ’em. I just didn’t. I was a young, selfish, cocky kid. I always had an excuse, too far, not enough time, I was tired. Instead, I stayed and practiced me football with me chums that I don’t even know anymore. It was all I ever thought about. Footballin’. I’d get to me parents later, I told meself. Me brother graduated grade school. I never saw him. Me little sister went to her prom without me knowing. Mom constantly wrote how much she missed me, and I never even opened half the letters …until after the crash.” He steers a rogue tear from his eye. “I didn’t even know me Mum was sick. She and Dad kept it from me. They didn’t want to screw up me season. They wanted me to stay focused on me dream. Imagine that. All they cared about was me.”
“Parents are like that,” I say.
He breaks down, and I reach over and pull him to me again, but he yanks away this time, stiffening. “So, you see," his voice falters, "when I say you’re lucky to have a place to come home to, I mean it.” He stares longingly into my eyes.
“I understand. I’m so sorry.” I sort of fall apart, and he pulls me to him, instead.
“Don’t be,” he whispers into my hair. “It was a long time ago, now. People get what they deserve in this world, I guess.”
“Don’t say that.” I pull back. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t deserve it. Loads of kids go off to chase their dreams.”
He stares. “It was me greed that put them on that train—”
“Your wanting them to share in your successes is not greed. It’s pride and love. Which I’m sure they were full of for you.”
“Me ignoring me family over a dream is greed.” He turns his eyes on me. “At any rate, I had to come here to get away from all the publicity. I was a footballer star prodigy on my way up. On the top of the heap one day and on the bottom the next. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t play anymore. I couldn’t focus after they died. I no longer loved the game. So, I quit, got on a plane and left it all behind. Every wretched memory, let it sink into that soil. And then I came here and made soil my own.”
“Do you ever, miss it? The game, I mean.”
“No.” He pauses. “But I think of them every day.”
Thoughts of my mother struggling alone here in the Cove without me, while I’m up carving a life out for myself in New York, crash around in my head. I’ve been suffering from the same kind of selfishness.
“This isn’t about you, Becca.” Trent reads my eyes. “This is about me, only me.” He squeezes my hand.
“I dunno. I’ve been guilty of a bit of greed myself these days.”
We sit for a moment, both of us speechless until at last, he breaks. “I guess that’s why I got as close to your mother as I did.” He looks to me. "I couldn't help my own mother, so I guess as a substitute, I started helping yours. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Forgive you? You were here when she needed you most.”
He falls quiet, and I don’t know what more to say, though a simple thank you is probably in order. Instead, I just lean over and pull him to me and hold him as tight as I can. “I’ve been bringing me Mum’s dream to life over here. Used me football money to make it come alive, just as I’d planned to do for her. It’s given me a reason to live again.”
“What? The restaurant. Your mother wanted to own a restaurant?”
“All her life. She was a heck of a cook.” He grins.
“How cool is that.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why the place is called the Green Grub.”
“What?”
His eyes shine when he looks at me. “Me mom always wanted to call her place, Grub & Gravy, so I just tweaked it a bit. You know, skip the gravy and add the organic feel.”
I smirk.
“What?”
“I think you should have stuck with your mother’s name for it.”
“Don’t you start.” He thumbs my chin.
For several heartbeats we smile, sitting on the shore of the river together, rapids swirling past, night cicadas serenading us in the trees, the night air growing crisper, cooler, his arm around me.
“You are amazingl
y sweet,” I whisper in his ear. I lean, risking it all by gently kissing him on the cheek. He looks to me, and our lips brush. My heart speeds up. “You turned out to be a wonderful person, Trent Nash. Your family would be very proud.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” He swallows.
I blink, and he freezes, his breath rolling sweet at my neck. It seems the right time but completely the wrong time to fall into a kiss.
“Well, I’d better get back to it.”
To what, I think.
He abruptly turns his head. “Don’t wanna be the weak link in the chain that misses something and we lose the bridge.” He picks up the flashlight, does another sweep.
“Right,” I say, as he pulls away. I hover, feeling cold, empty, torn. Maybe he didn’t want what I wanted out of that last moment. Maybe he doesn’t want to kiss me. That’s why it hasn’t happened.
“You’d better get off to bed and get some sleep.” He pats my leg. “You’ve got the early shift in the morning, don’t you?”
I nod.
“You’d better go on, then. It’s getting’ late.” He jerks his head toward the house. “I’ve got it from here.”
I reluctantly pull myself to stand. “Good night,” I say, moving slowly away.
“Good night.” He calls back over his shoulder.
I start up the side of the river bank, ever thankful that I still have a mother and home, even if it is only half of it and my mother with only a half a mind. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her. I’ve never even entertained the thought. I suppose I’d still have Aunt Penny, thank goodness. I glance back at Trent sitting at the river’s edge. How hard would it be to cope if I woke up one day to find them both gone?
Unlike him, I have the opportunity to savor my last good days with my Mom.
And I’d better make sure I do it.
“Oh, and thanks for the cupcakes!” he shouts back over his shoulder when I reach the top of the bank.
“No problem. I’m glad you liked them.”
Chapter 43
I volunteered to work both bus tour shifts the next morning, while Aunt Penny, Mom, Trudy and Pamela go over the final details of tomorrow’s big event. Trent's gone into Fredericton to pick up our temporary stay, allowing for foot traffic to travel the bridge over the weekend, just in the nick of time. Mrs. Peterson sure sweet talked that judge. I need to make sure she gets something special when all of this is over with. Let's just hope Jebson doesn't find out.
