The Rhubarb Patch

by Deanna Wadsworth

  Flushing a bit, he tossed the skillet so the vegetables didn’t burn. “Thank you,” he managed.

  Old memories and new feelings betrayed Phin’s resolutions. He’d done the romance thing already and had gotten it right the first time. Tom had been his first and only love. His first kiss, his first lover, his first everything.

  People didn’t find real love twice, did they?

  After everything Phin did after he lost Tom, did Phin even deserve a second chance?

  But damn, he could so easily see Scott taking Tom’s place, filling the void in his heart and his life, and teaching Phin to love in a whole new way.

  “Somebody knows dinner is served,” Scott observed.

  Grinning, Phin looked at his dog. She’d woken up, almost as if her internal timer knew exactly when the burgers would be done. Scott carefully chopped up a little piece for her and put it on a dessert plate.

  Phin laid the seared asparagus on the tray with the burgers. He always liked a little presentation for a meal, and with all of Scott’s condiments in small bowls, their spread looked very tasty.

  “Let’s dig in,” Scott announced, handing over a plate. They had their burgers assembled just about the time the fries finished. After Scott took them out of the oven, he hung the kitchen towel he’d used as a potholder on the stove handle. He smiled at Phin. “I don’t like messy towels lying around.”

  The innocent aside was a sucker punch.

  “Of course,” Phin managed.

  Your last conversation with Tom was fighting about towels.

  Scott dumped some fries on Phin’s plate beside the asparagus. “You want more?”

  Struggling to be back in the present, Phin forced a chuckle. “Oh no, that’s plenty.”

  Scott shrugged and piled his plate high, only taking four spears of asparagus.

  It had been years since Phin had eaten anything as processed as french fries. Hopefully, the food wouldn’t seek revenge on him later. He ate them with some ketchup, begrudgingly admitting they tasted delicious even if he had no business putting more chemicals into his body.

  “You want a french fry?” Scott asked the dog in a baby voice. He glanced at Phin. “Is that okay?”

  “Go ahead. She’s a hundred and thirteen in dog years. A little fry isn’t gonna hurt her.”

  Though Katie couldn’t hear, she knew when someone offered her food. Scott waved the fry near her nose, and she snapped it right out of his hand.

  “Whoa!” Scott jerked his hand back.

  Phin chuckled. “You gotta watch her.” Then he showed Scott the proper way to give his dog a treat, fingers curled in, the fry just out of reach. “Easy,” he warned her. “Easy.”

  This time she took it with a little less ferocity.

  “She is a little shit,” Scott said. Then his eyes got huge. “I didn’t mean it like that. I like her. I swear!”

  Phin laughed. “I’ve had her for a long time. Tell me something I don’t know. You gonna try the asparagus?”

  Spearing one with a fork, Scott held it in front of his face, examining it.

  “It’s not gonna bite you,” Phin teased.

  “I know, but you gotta realize I’ve never even had broccoli.”

  “What?”

  “My mom bought frozen peas and corn. And we had carrot and celery sticks with ranch. Lettuce on tacos, and occasionally a bag of salad with cucumbers, tomatoes, and cheese. That was her idea of eating your veggies. I haven’t been very experimental, so that’s the extent of my vegetable repertoire.”

  “Oh, the things I can teach you.”

  Scott looked into his eyes, his expression and voice shifting with a sensual challenge. “You promise?” he purred, then bit off the tip in a lewd fashion—well, as lewd as eating asparagus could be.

  God, the man is flirting with you! Flirt back!

  But he couldn’t. At this point, it wasn’t fair to either of them.

  So then why are you even here?

  Phin cleared his throat. “Well, do you like it?”

  Chewing thoughtfully, he nodded. “Yeah, it’s not too bad.”

  “Not too bad,” he teased. “Maybe we’ll batter and fry it next.”

  “Now you’re talking my language.”

  After they finished the dinner, washing it all back with the microbrew beer Scott had purchased, they found themselves on the small couch on the enclosed back porch.

  Katie pawed at his leg when he opened another beer. Chuckling, Phin told Scott, “She wants some of my beer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” He went back inside and got the plate Scott had fed her on. He placed it on the floor and gave her a splash. She lapped it up eagerly.

  “Are dogs supposed to have beer?” Scott asked.

  “Not really.” Phin shrugged. “But I don’t give her a lot. She loves the stuff. Just not Bud Lite.”

  “She can taste the difference?”

  “Yeah, she’s a picky little thing.”

  Scott chuckled. “She’s like one of those Catholic school girls who go wild after they get out, huh?”

  “And how do you know about Catholic girls?”

  Scott raised his hands. “I know nothing about Catholic school girls. But I’ve always heard they’re pretty wild.”

  Phin laughed. “That describes my pilfering, beer-drinking schnauzer, doesn’t it? The day she got out of the convent, she was headed straight to hell.”

  Their laughter was swallowed by the gentle, rushing breeze of impending rain. Outside, the trees rolled and throbbed, all but breathing in the night, the flutter of leaves mingling with the growing wind. Then gentle droplets pattered the roof, mist blowing in lightly through the open screens.

  “I love the rain,” Phin whispered, setting his empty beer on the floor and resting his hands on his belly.

  “Really? Why?”

  “It’s peaceful. It’s like the earth is taking a shower and everything comes out better afterward. I love the sound of rain. Even the smell of it.”

  Scott studied the darkness, face scrunched up in thought.

  Perhaps the curious nature of a writer caused Scott to ask a lot of questions, but he was a wonderful listener. A real conversationalist. Phin and Nancy had gotten along well for that same reason, each savoring the art of conversation. Since she’d been gone, his only conversing had been a one-sided chat with a deaf dog.

  Tom had always teased him: “You could talk to a wall.”

  It used to be true.

  While younger, he’d been a Chatty Cathy, but as he got older, the conversation had to have meaning. Life was too short for idle chatter. Talking for the sake of talking was a habit Phin had let go a long time ago. He enjoyed sitting in contented silence. That would’ve probably surprised Tom, but he was not the same man Tom had loved.

  He never would be again.

  Phin studied Scott in the growing dark. They’d left the porch light off, the light above the stove more than enough for them to see and still enjoy the night. He admired the sharp line of Scott’s jaw, the rich soulfulness of his brown eyes. His rounded shoulders and muscular pecs those fitted T-shirts showed off.

  Clearing his throat, he glanced away.

  In such a short time, Scott had begun to fulfill a need he hadn’t acknowledged in years. Not the need for sex—though he had been imagining it—but his need for companionship and friendship.

  His need to be loved.

  “You know,” Scott said, startling Phin. “The rain does have a beautiful tranquility out here. At home, it just floods the streets and makes driving a pain.”

  “We don’t get much flooding here. The Shiloh gets high sometimes and floods Gilead, but we’re too high of an elevation for the river to reach us.”

  “That river is so dirty. I can’t believe people swim in it.”

  Phin chuckled. “No, it’s just got a clay bottom. It’s always been that color. That’s why they call her the Ol’ Muddy Shiloh.”

  “What are you, like the
village historian?”

  “No, that would be Beatrice Bentley, the sheriff’s wife. Hey, did you ever play that message to the sheriff?”

  Scott blew a beer-aided raspberry. “Mike’s on parole and can’t leave the state. I’m not worried about that loser.”

  “But you’ll tell me if you hear from him again, right?”

  “Of course.” He pointed at the raised bed in Phin’s yard. “My mom always planted flowers on Mother’s Day. That was last week. Are you gonna plant more stuff?”

  Phin smiled. The two things he loved talking about more than Sister Mary Katherine, were cooking and gardening. “I was a little late getting in my cold crops. It’s still too early for some of my other stuff.”

  “What are cold crops?”

  “Plants that don’t like hot weather. Spinach, brussels sprouts, peas, lettuce. I actually have a glass enclosure I place over one bed so I can grow them throughout the winter. I harvested the last of the broccoli, spinach, and brussels sprouts around New Year’s.”

  “No way.”

  “Yeah, a cold frame is like a makeshift greenhouse. I haven’t built a proper one yet. Just that window in my kitchen. There just aren’t enough hours in the day sometimes.”

  “True dat.”

  He’d harvested the last of his radishes yesterday. Half of the beds sat empty now, but the garden would keep him very busy very soon. “I usually wait until June to put my nightshades in. They don’t like the cold.”

  “Nightshades?”

  “Tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants.”

  “I’ve never had eggplant.”

  Phin thoroughly enjoyed exposing Scott to new produce, especially the things he grew. “Well, you liked the rhubarb and asparagus, so I guess you’ll have to take my word on how good the rest is.”

  Scott studied him, the tiny light from the kitchen illuminating him from behind. Phin was overcome with a desire to kiss him, but he held himself in check. Yes, Scott flirted with him. And yes, that first night, Scott had wanted to be kissed. Lips puckered, head tilted up, and eyes closed… well? Phin had made a blunder of that.

  Probably for the best.

  He cleared his throat, then said, “Eggplant is delicious. Especially if you deep-fry it, then smother it in cheese and spaghetti sauce.”

  Scott chuckled. “Isn’t everything delicious deep-fried?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  COUNTRY UPDATE #67: OMG the storms tonight are crazy. I feel like Dorothy. And to top it off, I lost power and water! #whatishappening? #citymouseinthecountry #nothappy

  As Scott hit Post, a loud banging at his back door made him jump.

  Phin!

  The light from his iPhone was all he had to see, but Scott threw open the back door, howling wind and rain pelting him through the screen. “What are you doing outside? It’s storming.”

  Water glistened across Phin’s sunburned scalp. “I know a storm’s coming. That’s why I’m here. You don’t have a basement.”

  “A basement?”

  “Didn’t you hear the tornado siren?”

  “I heard something, but I was in the shower and ran out of water. I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t have any water and the power is out.”

  “You have a well, so there’s no water when the power goes out.”

  “Really?”

  “Look, Mouse, a tornado could be running through our property any minute. You best put your shoes on and get in my basement.”

  Scott’s stomach dropped. He’d never been in a tornado before. Sure, he’d seen bad storms hit the Detroit metropolitan area, but a tornado in the middle of nowhere?

  “Come on,” Phin said, holding the door open.

  Scott slipped on flip-flops and tucked his phone in his pocket. Then he grabbed his laptop in its bag, just in case his house was swept away, and followed Phin into the gale. The June sky had a gray-greenish hue, and all the trees blew hard, their leaves upside down. Phin ran back to his house, and Scott matched his pace, hunching over to keep the stinging rain from his eyes. Once inside Phin’s house, Scott took a relieved breath. He shook his head and brushed at his arms, soaked clear through.

  “Are the chickens gonna be okay?” Scott wanted to know. He’d grown rather fond of the bird that delivered him an egg every morning, even naming her Henrietta.

  Phin pursed his lips and glanced out the greenhouse window at the storm. “I hope so,” he said. “Come on.” He grabbed an electric lantern from his picnic table.

  Scott followed him into a pantry with a plethora of canned goods he hadn’t seen before. A door in the back corner led to rickety-looking steps and down to a low-ceilinged basement. Two upright freezers took up a large portion of real estate along with a couple whiskey barrels and a couch. Sister Mary Katherine lay curled up in a little blanket by the armrest. Phin must’ve settled her before he came for Scott.

  “Welcome to home for the next couple hours.”

  Scott looked around again, taking in the concrete floor with a big rug on it. The furnace and hot water heater were on the opposite side of the fridges and barrels. The white box next to the furnace might be a dehumidifier because the room wasn’t musty-smelling at all.

  Phin placed the lantern on the small coffee table in front of the old plaid couch, illuminating everything. He opened the first fridge and grabbed two bottles of water. Scott accepted one and sat down next to the dog, giving her trembling body a pat. Because she was deaf, he didn’t know if the pressure changes affected her worse, but she seemed unsettled.

  “She doesn’t like storms,” Phin explained.

  He looked up as the house groaned. “I don’t like them either.”

  Phin sat beside him. “I’m sure we can come up with something to distract you.”

  Did he mean…?

  Swallowing hard, Scott forgot the saucy comment he’d been about to say when their eyes met.

  “You brought your computer. Maybe we could stream a movie or something,” Phin suggested.

  He tried not to let his disappointment show. “Sure, I have movie apps on my phone.”

  Dammit.

  “Thanks for thinking of me,” Scott said. “For coming to get me.”

  “That’s what friends are for,” Phin quipped.

  Friends.

  He was really starting to hate that word.

  He’d googled Taurus and Virgo after Phin mentioned them, and apparently, they were highly compatible signs. Ideally suited. Yet even though astrology said they should be together, every time he imagined Phin might make a move—Scott would settle for a kiss on the cheek, he was so starved for physical affection—Phin would revert to “just friends.”

  Giving up, for now, Scott pulled out his phone. “So what do you wanna watch? I got premium channels too. Hopefully, it doesn’t freeze up.”

  After a little scrolling—Phin leaning close as they shared the small screen—they agreed on Game of Thrones. Scott was caught up to the current season, but the show was so complex, he didn’t mind watching it a second time.

  Five minutes before the second episode ended, however, his battery died.

  “Oh no!” Phin cried.

  “It’s addictive, right? I’ll have to give you my password so you can watch them on your tablet.”

  “Or we can just watch them together.”

  “We could.”

  Why not? Isn’t that what friends do?

  Restless, Scott got up to get another bottle of water. He noticed a large garbage bag full of plastic bottles by the side of the steps—a combination of margarita mix, tequila, and whisky bottles.

  “Wow, Phin. You have a frat party I didn’t know about?”

  “They’re not all mine. Your grandma liked her Black Velvet and Diet 7Up, so she saved those for my garden. And in the summertime, we had Margarita Mondays. I saved those bottles too.”

  Scott wouldn’t mind having Margarita Mondays with Phin.

  Memories of all the times Mom had called his grandmother and every other Howe
an alcoholic came back to him. That was an awful lot of liquor for such a small woman.

  “Was my grandmother an alcoholic?”

  Phin chuckled when Scott sat back down. He stretched a long arm behind Scott, kicking his feet up on the small coffee table. “By most definitions, she probably would’ve been. But she was a happy drunk, not a mean one. Why?”

  Scott shrugged and fiddled with the bottle of water. He wasn’t thirsty, but he opened it and took a drink. “My mom always said all the Howes were alcoholics. I just wondered if it was true.”

  Phin sighed. “I never met much of her family, but Nancy had a lot of reasons to drink. She had a lot of reasons to be happy too. I’d put it this way—Nancy liked to party. Whether she was partying to forget something or just because she liked to have fun, the answer to that question is gone with her.”

  So Mom had gotten that right too. But Scott didn’t think his grandmother had been a bad person—not if Phin admired her. Maybe just a lady who drank a little more than she should? Everyone he talked to had a very different impression of her than Mom had given him. He was starting to think Mom was just projecting her anger at Dale onto his mother, which would be a very typically Rachel thing to do.

  Wanting to change the subject, Scott pointed at the bottles. “Why do you need those for your garden?”

  Lighting up anytime he talked about his garden, Phin walked over to the bag and pulled out a bottle. Tiny holes had been drilled all around it. “I bury these beside my tomato plants. Tomatoes like to be watered deep, so I figured this would get the water down to the roots more efficiently. Liquor bottles are a harder plastic than pop bottles, so they last longer.”

  “Clever. Did you learn that on Pinterest?”

  “No, Aunt Nina.” He scrunched up his face rather adorably. “What exactly is Pinterest?”

  “It’s social media with recipes and crafts. But you don’t have to talk to anybody. Sort of a virtual bulletin board where you can save links and pictures.”

  Phin raised his eyebrows. “I might have to look into that.”

  “Why don’t you do social media?”