The Rhubarb Patch

by Deanna Wadsworth

  No one had ever looked at him that way.

  Scott fell in love, or more accurately lust far too easily. That’s why he was determined to learn how to be happy by himself rather than defining his happiness by a man. He didn’t want to end up like his mother, always with Mr. Right Now instead of Mr. Right.

  But did Mr. Right even exist?

  His heart gave a pull. Though Scott intended to be single for an entire year, he suddenly longed to be a recipient of the dazzling affection on Phin’s face.

  Clearing his throat and needing to be away from this big, tempting man, Scott asked, “You gonna sleep out here?”

  With a sigh, Phin managed to get to his feet, with the aid of the railing. “No, we’re gonna go in.” He helped Sister Mary Katherine to her feet, and she hobbled to the back door, then slipped through a doggie door. He smiled at Scott. “I’d invite you to come in for a drink, but I believe I’ve passed my limit already.”

  “No problem. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  Phin continued to stare at him with an odd expression. “I’m not too thrilled about the circumstances that brought you here, but I am glad you moved in next door.”

  “Oh, um, thanks.”

  With a nod, he turned into his house. “Night, Mouse.”

  “Good night, Phin.”

  The short walk back to the house helped clear his head, the damp grass cool on his bare ankles. He shivered as he reached the door. The day had been warm, but when the sun went down, it was downright chilly. Scott locked up the house and headed upstairs for a hot shower.

  Phin was a big man who left an even bigger impression.

  After the shower warmed him up in the pink bathroom—he needed to repaint—he headed to the spare bedroom. It felt wrong to sleep in Nancy’s bed. Not just because it was sea-foam green and smelled of old lady, but, well? Who wanted to jerk off in their grandmother’s bed?

  Talk about creepy!

  Though he knew the light of his tablet interrupted sleep function, and he already had insomnia issues, Scott decided to play on Facebook before he went to bed. The rhubarb jelly post didn’t have as many likes as the one about Phin in his underwear or the one of Phin picking violets, so he decided to post a new one.

  Country Update #9: So the ever-surprising Mr. Phineas likes to garden at night… drunk! LOL I saw him fall over his own feet in the garden. #onlyinthecountry #countryupdate

  Chapter Seven

  SCOTT’S FEET pounded on the damp path, the faint spatter of mud tickling his shins. His breathing was labored but steady as he jogged along the trail behind Gilead that ran parallel to the Shiloh River. The bright green of spring was broken up, here and there, with white blossoming trees and pretty pink ones that he’d discovered were called redbuds after he’d googled it. Crisp spring air filled his lungs, fresh, rich, and unlike anything he’d ever smelled in the parks back home. Out here, the rush of the muddy water whispered like gossip on the wind, and the answering calls of birds and bullfrogs created the sounds of nature’s very own cocktail party.

  The locals called the trail a towpath because at one time mules pulled boats through the canal to drop off supplies for the businesses. Two locks, both of them still operational and in use, were on either end of the village, with the towpath separating the canal from the river. An Ohio historical sign at the beginning of the towpath explained Gilead had been just one of many stops along a major canal system that once stretched from Lake Erie to Lake Michigan. Most of the canals had been filled in, but Gilead maintained their portion of the canal as a spillway for flooding.

  The river was a county divide line between Hope County on the north and Maple County and Gilead on the south. The Isaac Hamilton Grist Mill, a big gray landmark on the north bank, was the first thing drivers saw from the nearby highway, right before a large sign proclaiming “Welcome to the Historic Village of Gilead est. 1833.” The mill was fully functioning and had its own operating canal too—fancier than the one in Gilead because it was state funded. It was used for tourism, not as a spillway, and came complete with a group of volunteers who dressed up in old-fashioned clothes and explained the region’s history to tourists and students on field trips. Scott heard they still used mules to demonstrate how the boats would move through the lock systems of the old canals. He’d have to check it out this summer.

  Another runner approached and Scott moved to the right to give him his lane. The middle-aged guy smiled. “Beautiful morning,” he said as they passed.

  Scott barely managed a hey before the guy was gone.

  Back home when he ran in the park, people didn’t make eye contact. Apparently, it wasn’t like that in Gilead.

  Everyone was friendly and wanted to chat.

  Heck, when he’d gone to the town’s Ace Hardware for a new doorknob for his bedroom—his kept getting stuck and locking him inside—the man who owned the place had chatted with him the whole time he shopped. He’d been grateful for his help and instructions on how to install the doorknob, and amused by the stories of his ornery cat, Buster.

  Up ahead the roar of water rushing over the dam drowned out the sounds of the birds and the rattle of leaves in the wind. Gilead was behind him now, and though the gravel trail was well maintained, the spring rains had made it moist. It also made the air smell like mud and green things.

  Truly invigorating.

  There were more trails around Gilead than this mile-long path, most of them around the mill or just outside of town by the marina and camping areas, but this was the first one Scott had explored. He drew to a halt when the trail abruptly ended on the grassy area by the dam. Gilead’s canal started here, and the first lock was partially open, letting the water move freely through the canal. A railing kept people from falling into the river, and a sign warned of the dangers of the dam’s powerful undertow. A stone shelter house sat across from the canal on the shore, with grills and picnic tables overlooking the water. Scott wondered if they rented it for events.

  He checked his Fitbit for his heart rate. Satisfied, he put his hands on his hips and surveyed the vast expanse of the water. According to the historical sign in front of him, the dam had been built in the late thirties by the WPA under Roosevelt. It connected a small island in the middle of the Shiloh, and Scott assumed it continued on the other side somewhere upriver of the mill. He’d have to check out those trails next time. A big gray bird flew low along the water’s surface, landing on a tree, which must have fallen and floated downriver before getting stuck on the dam. That tree was huge, showing the real power of the river.

  There was no one around, so Scott did a few long deep stretches. Though it would be nice to stay and enjoy the view, he was thirsty, so he turned around and headed back into town. The secluded feeling of the majestic Shiloh and nature faded when the first building came into view. At the town hall bridge, he crossed over the canal, then jogged along the alley behind the businesses on Front Street to get to his car.

  Being a weekday before noon, none of the shops were open yet, so he was surprised to see a man and woman working behind one of the shops, the one that advertised a coming bookstore. As he drew closer, he saw they had a sawhorse and were cutting wood.

  Intrigued, Scott slowed his pace. The woman waved happily, and feeling like her friendliness was an opening, he stopped and pointed at the building. “Hi. Are you guys with the bookstore?”

  “Yup,” the woman said, indicating the tall, lanky man with her. He wore an OSU T-shirt and had dark hair and eyelashes so black he looked like he was wearing eyeliner. “It’s his bookstore.”

  Scott was a bit surprised, because the guy didn’t look that old, maybe even younger than Scott. He indicated the woodworking tools and the platform extending from the back door. “Are you building a deck?”

  The man smiled, his eyes sparkling. “Yeah, an outdoor patio so people can read or drink coffee and look at the river. Probably pipe in some soft music too.”

  Still breathing hard from his run, Scott put his hands
on his hips and nodded his approval.

  “I’m Forrester Giordano.” The man extended a hand, flashing a smile.

  Scott shook his hand. “Scott.”

  “This is my friend, Holly.” Forrester flipped his thumb toward the woman.

  “Nice to meet you guys,” Scott said. “I was pretty excited when I saw a bookstore was opening.”

  “A bookstore-café,” Holly corrected. “We’ll have every coffee drink you could want.”

  “Cool,” Scott said. “Are you thinking of maybe having guest authors do signings?”

  Forrester grinned. “Totally. I don’t have any lined up, but I’ll be looking into it.”

  “Well, I’m actually a writer,” Scott said, feeling nervous as he always did when he talked about his books. “S.D. Howe. I write science-fiction romance.”

  Holly’s eyes got huge. “You’re S.D. Howe?”

  His face flamed. “Yep, that’s me.”

  “Oh my God! I’m a huge fan,” she gushed, taking two steps forward and shaking his hand with both of hers. “I totally follow you on Instagram and Facebook. I love your books!”

  Scott could never explain that while he was outgoing in real life, when it came to talking about his books, it embarrassed him. Like that nightmare of being in school wearing nothing but underwear. Every time someone read his books, they read something secret about Scott. Things he would never share in person.

  He forced a grin and shuffled his feet. “Oh, um, thanks.”

  Holly looked at Forrester excitedly. “You know, S.D. Howe? Those mpreg books you haven’t bothered to read yet? This is him!”

  Forrester’s face lit up with recognition. “That’s so awesome. I’ve been meaning to read your books since Holly loved them so much. We’ll have to host you for a signing.”

  “That would be great,” Scott said. He’d long ago gotten over his shock when women were excited to read his books, but this guy threw him a curve ball. He’d only ever met a handful of straight men who read his books, and usually only if their wives were m/m fangirls. Even then, Scott assumed they weren’t a solid one on the Kinsey Scale, because his books were definitely in the homoerotic category. Could Forrester be gay too?

  Talk about a small world!

  A huge man filled the doorway of the bookstore, drawing Scott’s attention up. “Hey, Frankie.” He jerked his head inside. “Come show me and Tony where you want these last few shelves.”

  “Be right there, Dino,” Forrester said, then turned back to Scott, still smiling. “Now that I met you, I’m gonna read your books tonight.”

  “Oh, cool,” Scott said, staring at the empty door where the big guy had disappeared. “I hope you enjoy them.”

  Walking backward, Forrester winked at Scott. “Oh, I’m sure I will.”

  Yeah, he’s in the family.

  Pausing in the doorway, Forrester looked at Holly. “Get his info so we can contact him after we open.”

  “Will do,” she quipped.

  “I could just stop back,” Scott offered when he was alone with Holly. “I live around here.”

  “Yeah? Whereabouts?”

  Startled, Scott said, “Um, outside of town.”

  “Cool. We should be open in about a month. Planning a big grand opening. It’ll be in the paper.”

  The paper? Do people still read those? But instead of saying that, he smiled. “I’ll keep an eye out for it. Okay, so, um, it was really nice to meet you guys.”

  She smiled. “Totally.”

  Awkward, he grinned. “Okay, Holly, I’ll see you later.”

  “Okay, bye.” She was still smiling and watching him as he ran away.

  Scott chuckled and shook his head. Gilead was turning out to be one pleasant surprise after another. Mom had been skeptical the bookstore would accept his books, but rather than bigots, he’d actually found fans.

  At his car, he opened the back door and grabbed a water bottle. He chugged it down, his stomach rumbling from hunger. His cereal had worn off, and the faint hint of bacon and grease in the air caught his attention. Across the street and down a ways was a place called the Riverbend Diner. He’d passed it every time he came into town but hadn’t eaten there yet.

  A cheeseburger and fries would really hit the spot after all this healthy running.

  He grabbed his wallet out of the glove box, then crossed the street, looking both ways for traffic and not seeing a single car coming in any direction. The sun shone on all the old brick and wooden buildings lining Front Street. The village seemed to have a color theme, because all the buildings, both the ones with the false wooden fronts and the brick ones, were painted in varying shades of red, tan, and green. It looked like a movie set, and Scott half expected a man with a long white apron over his barbershop quartet outfit to come outside and sweep his stoop.

  The Riverbend Diner was one of those old-fashioned places with gingham checked curtains, a spattering of pretty waitresses, red vinyl booths, and Formica tables with chrome napkin dispensers. Country music played and soft voices mingled with the clamor of a short-order kitchen. A counter with stools ran through the middle of the restaurant, and on the other side of that was the kitchen. No one manned the hostess desk, so Scott helped himself to a menu and studied all of the deep-fried things the place offered.

  “Hey there, can I get you a table?” a woman asked.

  Scott looked up to see an attractive woman around his age coming out from behind the counter. “Oh no. I was wondering if I could get something to go?”

  “Sure thing,” she said happily. “What can I get you?” She pulled out a pen from behind her ear and a notepad from her apron pocket.

  “A cheeseburger and fries, please. Just cheese, meat, and bread. I don’t want anything else on it.”

  “You got it.” She tore off the ticket from her notepad. “You can have a seat at the counter. I’ll get you a pop or a coffee while you wait.”

  “Diet Coke?”

  “Coming right up.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled. The friendliness of the people in Gilead was highly infectious.

  Taking a stool, Scott glanced around at the other restaurant patrons. Several looked to be farmers, wearing John Deere or camo hats. A really good-looking guy in a cowboy hat sat three seats down. Even if the cowboy was magically gay like Forrester from the bookstore, Scott was sweaty and gross, so he wasn’t going to start up a conversation.

  On the other side of the counter once more, the woman placed a red plastic cup full of fountain pop in front of him. “You out running by the river this morning?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He took a long grateful drink.

  “I’m Vivian,” she said, pointing at her name tag. “But you can call me Viv. You new around here?”

  “Yeah, I live outside of town.”

  “Oh yeah? Me too. Where do you live?” she asked, her gray eyes open and honest.

  It was weird how people who lived in the country didn’t think it was inappropriate to ask where you lived. When he realized no one was listening, he decided maybe it was just a country thing. “I live on 6-B.”

  She put her hand on her hip and tipped her head to the side. “There’s only two houses on 6-B. Phin and Nancy’s. Well, I guess Nancy doesn’t live there no more,” she said sadly. “Did you buy her house? I didn’t know it was for sale.”

  Scott was a little taken aback. Vivian had way too much information. “Um, I inherited the house. Nancy was my grandmother.”

  “Oh, well gosh, honey!” she cried, looking upset. “I’m so sorry about your grandma. She was the sweetest lady.” She glanced at the cowboy. “Aiden, did you hear that? This is Nancy Howe’s grandson.”

  The gorgeous cowboy looked him over head to toe. “Sorry about your loss,” he said genuinely. “Your grandmother was a real fine lady.”

  “Um, thanks.” Squirming, Scott drank some pop.

  Vivian smiled nostalgically. “Nancy used to come in here every Sunday morning. Eggs over medium, rye toast, bacon e
xtra crispy, and hash browns, not hash whites. That’s what she always ordered.” She smiled at Scott. “But I suppose you probably knew that.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said noncommittally.

  “It was such a shock,” she went on. “One minute somebody’s there laughing and being a part of your life, and bam.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that, they’re gone. Life just ain’t fair.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it is,” Scott said, feeling like his reply was something Phin would’ve said. He fixed his attention on his pop, and Vivian started chatting with the cowboy. It sounded like they knew each other pretty well, so Scott didn’t feel bad for not talking anymore.

  Back in the kitchen a bell dinged and the fry cook called out, “Order up, Viv.”

  Vivian put the Styrofoam container with his food into a bag and set it in front of Scott. When he went for his wallet, she put a hand on his arm. “Nope, this one’s on the house, honey. We all loved your grandma.”

  “Thank you,” he said, startled. He didn’t think he’d ever gotten food on the house before. Feeling conspicuous, he picked up his bag, nodded at the cowboy who nodded in reply, then smiled at Vivian. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “Back at ya. Now come back anytime. I’ll remember you. A cheeseburger that’s just bread, cheese, and meat. No other stuff.” She winked at him, then retrieved the pot of coffee to top off the cowboy’s mug.

  Smiling and shaking his head, Scott left the diner, feeling like he’d just walked off the set of Mayberry. He wasn’t sure what was more unsettling. The overt friendliness of the people in Gilead or what Vivian had said about his grandmother.

  All his knowledge of Nancy was through Mom, and there was no denying Mom had a negative streak a mile wide. She didn’t think of herself as hypercritical, often touting her open-mindedness and generosity—both of which were true, albeit served up with a side of judgmental.

  But Phin and Vivian had nothing but kind things to say about Nancy.

  Who was right?

  Not knowing the answer, he headed back to his car and climbed in the front seat. When he opened the to-go box, his car was filled with the delicious scent of salt and grease. He stuffed some french fries in his mouth before he backed out of the spot. The fries were perfectly golden and salty, just the way he loved them.