Acceptance seemed the better choice.
But his mother had been toying with the idea again that she might move to Waycross to live with her sister, and she’d been leaning on Sam to start cleaning out sheds and garages in preparation for that possibility. And while it was more than likely not to happen, Sam was tired of the nagging.
And while Tate really didn’t want to be here on a beautiful spring day cleaning out his father’s man cave, here he was. His mother had refused to set foot in that shed since she’d found Frank Harris’s body in it eight years ago. So the only alternative would be to leave Sam to deal with it all herself, and he certainly couldn’t do that. Not again.
Intellectually, he knew he’d done the right thing by taking the opportunity and going to school, just as he knew he couldn’t have taken Sam and Ellie with him, no matter how much he wanted to. But he couldn’t forget the looks on their faces the day he actually left. While Sam and Ellie both claimed to understand and support that decision, there was simply no way to forget it. He’d been Sam’s hero until that day, but now she wouldn’t take a shred of help from him. He’d betrayed her, and he didn’t know if she’d ever really forgive him for it.
“Any idea what this is?” Sam held up a triangular piece of metal that might have once been blue before left to rust.
He forced himself back to the task at hand. “Trash.”
“I know, but what is it really?”
“Trash,” he insisted.
Sam laughed and added it to the growing pile. “At least this is easy.”
“I told you to throw a lit match in there. That would have been easy.”
“There might be something of value in here. You never know.”
He snorted. His family had never had much money—just enough to keep them respectable. There were no priceless heirlooms hiding out here. He pulled out a box marked “Old Clothes” and opened the lid. “Do you think this stuff is even worth donating?”
“Just set it aside. Terri might want the fabric for one of her crafts if the clothes are too dated to donate.”
He moved it to the trash pile. He was not going to shuffle this crap around.
Sam caught him. “Hey, now.”
“Trash, keep, recycle, donate.” He pointed to each pile as he named them. “Pick a pile. There are only four choices and ‘Cousin Terri might want it’ isn’t one of them.”
“Fine. Just let me go through it first.” She pulled a few things out. “Hello, 1987.”
“I told you,” he said when Sam closed it back up and shoved it over to the trash pile.
“It was worth a look, at least.”
“Why?” He really just wanted to get this done as quickly as possible. Being out here was just picking at old wounds to see if they still hurt.
“Like I said. There might be something valuable in here. People have found original copies of the Declaration of Independence cleaning out old storage sheds and attics.”
“I’m going to go on record now saying we aren’t going to find something like that.” Sam tossed a look at him over her shoulder as she disappeared back into the darkness. “Your best hope is that the junk man doesn’t charge us a fortune to haul off all this crap,” he called after her.
“Too bad we can’t trade the bottles and cans in for cash.” She appeared carrying another box that clinked as she walked, adding it to the recyclables pile. “We’d be rich.”
Tate just shook his head. How the old man had managed to not die of alcohol poisoning long before his heart gave out had to have been some sort of medical miracle. In a way, he wondered whether this was why his mother “couldn’t bear” to help with this project. Would she not be able to keep up her denial in the presence of solid proof? Or did she just really not want to have to face that truth?
“It’s such a waste.” Sam sighed.
Tate looked at her sharply, unsure what exactly she was referring to. The possibilities were endless, it seemed.
“Nothing quite like tossing out the remains of what could have been your college tuition, you know?”
Since Tate had enough student loan debt to send most people into heart palpitations—and only the string pulling of Doc Masters with the scholarship committee had kept that amount from becoming enough to give him palpitations—he knew exactly what she was talking about. “If you want to go to school, Sam—”
She waved him off. “One step at a time, bro. Believe it or not, I do have a plan.”
“And that plan is . . . ?”
“Excellent and well thought out. Trust me.”
He would have to. For now, at least.
God, just being here was messing with his head. He tried to shake it off.
Instead of pressing for the details of that excellent and supposedly well-thought-out plan, he wiped the sweat off his neck and pulled out the sawhorses that had supported the optimistically named “workbench” and tossed them into the trash pile.
It wasn’t exactly a hot day, but they were both sweating from the work and grimy from the years of dust. Sam had a long black smudge across her forehead and Tate’s T-shirt was sticking to his skin. Looking at what they’d accomplished in just a few hours was impressive, but knowing how much was still left to do was disheartening.
Two boxes marked “Ellie” were set over to the side. Neither Tate nor Sam had opened them to even see what might be inside. The boxes caught his mother’s eye as she came out with plastic cups of ice water for them. “Why don’t you bring those into the house? I’ll call Ellie and get her to come down and go through them next week.”
Sam gave him a careful look and shook her head, forestalling anything he might say. “Sure thing.”
“You’re making a lot of progress,” his mother said. “It’s like a treasure hunt.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Sort of.” A sad, twisted one with nothing good to find.
“I’m making lunch now, so I’ll call you in when it’s ready.” Then she left, pointedly not sparing a glance at the collection of liquor bottles that outsized everything but the trash pile.
“Ellie’s not going to come down here. When will Mom accept that?”
While their family dynamics might politely be called “complicated” and “requiring therapy,” Ellie’s husband had made his stand very clear very early on. There was no polite whitewashing of the truth by him: Frank Harris was a violent alcoholic who abused his family. Doug hated the father-in-law he’d never met—which was probably a good thing, as even the kind, even-keeled Doug might not be able to resist dealing out some justice on his wife’s behalf. Doug might pity his mother-in-law, but he could not forgive her for not protecting her children and he didn’t exactly encourage Ellie to visit the old homestead.
Tate liked Doug a lot for that.
“I know,” Sam said. “But do you really want to get into that with her right now?” She shot a look at the house.
“At some point we’re going to have to. That much denial can’t be healthy.”
“Can it wait until I have my own place again?”
Hell, they’d avoided it for twenty-something years now, so what was the real rush? He nodded.
“Good. I’ll go through those boxes later and see what’s in there. I’ll call Ellie, and if she wants any of it, one of us can take it next time we go up.”
“What will you tell Mom?”
“I don’t have to tell her anything. She knows Doug doesn’t like her, even if she doesn’t know the truth why. She likes playing the poor, mistreated, and misunderstood mother-in-law.”
“Our family is so messed up.”
Sam laughed, but it was the hollow, humorless kind of laugh that spoke to resignation more than anything else. “There’s no such thing as a functional family anyway. Every family is messed up in its own way.” She slid Ellie’s boxes off to one side with her foot. “At least we’re not too screwed up from it.”
“That’s debatable.”
“‘We cannot let the hurts others inflict on us darke
n our own souls.’”
It was such an un-Sam-like statement that he nearly dropped the box he was carrying. “What the hell?”
“It’s a quote from a book Molly loaned me. I’m finding it very helpful.” There was a defensive edge to her voice, daring him to make fun of her.
“Molly’s loaning you self-help books?”
“Yes. And I appreciate it, too. They make a lot of sense.”
“I never thought you’d be the type to go for that new-agey drivel.” He wouldn’t have thought Molly would be, either. She seemed so happy and well balanced. Why on earth would she need self-help books? On the other hand, hadn’t he just realized that Molly might not be exactly what she presented? Maybe the self-help books were part of that mystery.
“Molly said that book really helped her, so I’m inclined to think it’s not drivel.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Or at least I’m willing to give drivel a try.”
Maybe Sam had some answers. “You and Molly must be getting pretty tight, then.”
“I wouldn’t say we’re ‘tight’—Molly’s not the tell-you-everything type—but when things get slow, we talk.” Sam looked at him and smiled. “I like her. I can see why she and Helena are such good friends.”
“Oh?”
“Helena and Molly both run deeper than they appear. I mean, you think you know them, but when you try to put your finger on it, you realize you really don’t.”
He knew Helena better than anyone. But Molly? Sam was right about that.
“Say, did you know that Jane’s pregnant?”
He was still examining this new information about Molly and her self-help needs, so it took him a second to catch up after Sam’s non sequitur. “Jane Searcy?”
“Yeah. She’s just starting to tell people.”
“Tell her congratulations for me.”
“I will, but I’m telling you because that’s good news for me.”
“Because . . .”
“Because Jane’s going to cut down on her hours at Latte Dah, probably going to part-time once the baby arrives. That means more hours for me. Rachel and Holly can’t pick up many extra hours because of their school schedules. I may even get a promotion.”
“Did Molly tell you that?”
“No, Jane did.”
“And you want a long-term career as a barista?”
“I like the job. The money’s good and the people are nice. I can’t complain about it.”
“I’m glad.”
She shot him a cheeky grin. “Glad I can’t complain?”
“Well, yes. But more glad that you’re getting it all sorted out.” He knew that Sam had secretly hoped her marriage would turn out like Ellie’s, keeping her away from all this. It took guts for her to come back and start over when that didn’t pan out. He just wished Sam would let him clear the path a bit. It was the very least he owed her.
“We all make mistakes.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I could be worse off than I am, you know. I have a place to live, I’m in no danger of starving, and I’m digging myself out of my mess. It’s all good.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Gee, thanks.” She rolled her eyes, preparing to flounce away.
“That was honesty, not snarkiness,” he assured her.
“Oh. Well, thank you.” She gave him a small smile, then straightened her shoulders and looked back at the mess still awaiting them in the shed. “You know, your ‘cleanse it with fire’ idea is really starting to look good.”
“I’m still standing by it.”
Sam drummed her fingers against her thigh. “Do you know Dennis Handry?”
Only because Dennis did some dog walking and pet sitting and had put some flyers up at the clinic. “Not personally.”
“He’s trying to save up some money for a trip this summer.”
“Okay . . .”
“He’s a smart kid, easily able to tell trash from possible not-trash . . .”
“I like how you think, Samantha Harris.” He stood and wiped his palms on his pants. “Put him to work and have him send the bill to me.”
“Only if you let me pay half. Or at least a third—we should hit Ellie up, too. It’s only fair.”
Not if he could help it. “Whatever works.” He’d worry about the fallout of that lie later, but for now Sam was following his lead, and he’d take that as a win. He didn’t want to spend his free time out here in this dismal shed with all its bad memories. He felt lighter and cleaner already.
Sam smiled. Maybe she felt it, too. “Then let’s go get cleaned up and eat.”
“One second.” There was something he needed to do.
Inside the shed, hanging off a shelf that held an old ashtray and a fifteen-year-old radio, was his father’s belt. When he came outside carrying it, Sam scowled. “Why do you want that?”
“I don’t.”
He took it over to the grill and laid it on the rack. After dousing it in lighter fluid, he held up a match. “You want the honors?”
“Be my guest.”
The lighter fluid burned with a blue flame, but the old leather didn’t catch well, just smoldering and blackening instead.
Sam frowned, disappointed. “It’s not going to burn.”
“It doesn’t have to.” He’d made his point.
Sam squeezed his hand. “You’re right.”
They watched it for another minute, not saying anything. Then Sam tugged gently on his arm. “Let it go.”
“I have.”
He left it there, still smoldering, and went inside.
Chapter 6
The Frosty Freeze had to be responsible for most of the heart disease in the county, but that knowledge wasn’t enough to temper the occasional craving for one of their bacon-chili-cheese hot dogs. Even Dr. Tanner and Dr. Richey, who should be the leaders in denouncing such a thing, could occasionally be seen at one of Frosty Freeze’s weathered picnic tables indulging that craving. It made Molly feel a little less guilty when she also gave in.
“You’re going to get chili on the checkbook.” Tate grinned as he swung a leg over the bench on the opposite side of the table and sat. Even after a lot of stern chats with herself, something about that grin still did funny things to her. She took a deep breath and tried to focus.
“I’m being careful.” She reached for yet another napkin to wipe her hands. To be safe, she ran a second one over her face. Bacon-chili-cheese dogs were delicious, but very messy. Then she handed over the checks to be signed. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“No problem.” He looked at the stack. “Well, this is all very official-looking.”
She was rather proud of it. “I couldn’t figure out how y’all had done this in the past, so I just created my own requisition form and paperwork. Mrs. K will be able to follow the paper trail easily.”
Tate seemed to be fighting back a smile. She was trying to keep this all very businesslike, and he found it funny. Lovely. “I don’t think the accounting has ever been quite so exact,” he finally said.
“Well, I’m not going to be the one responsible for things not balancing out. This checkbook is a mess, by the way. I had to call the bank to get the account balance, and since I’m not on the account—”
Tate finally lost the fight and laughed at her. “Are you a CPA at heart?”
“I run a business—as do you, I might add. You should know better. Why haven’t you made Mrs. K get all this organized?”
He snorted. “First of all, ‘making’ Mrs. K do anything is a laughable notion. And secondly, you forget that we trust people around here.”
“That’s a good way for money to go missing. Not that I’m accusing Mrs. K of anything shady,” she quickly added. That was gossip she didn’t want to start.
“Didn’t think you were,” he assured her, still obviously finding this amusing.
“So that’s the table and tent rental invoice, and the others are supplies and such . . .” She watched, shocked, as Tate barely glanced over her carefully created
paperwork before signing the checks with an illegible scrawl. She was rather surprised the checking account wasn’t in worse shape. “Take all the time you need to look that over. Really, I don’t mind.” She was being snarky, but she couldn’t help it.
“I trust you,” Tate said with a smirk.
She didn’t know whether she should be flattered or annoyed at this point. She was quite proud of her organizational work on this, and he found it funny? So much for Sam’s insistence he was some kind of control freak.
“And there’s my lunch. Perfect timing.” He pushed the papers back to her and smiled his thanks at the teenager who’d brought his food.
She was about to offer to walk him through the paperwork anyway, but then she caught sight of his lunch. “A plain hot dog?” she asked. It looked so naked and strange without all the toppings. Her own gluttony was obvious by the trash next to her elbow, and she actually felt a little ashamed. “I didn’t know they even served them like that.”
“Only to special people.”
“Oh, you’re special, all right,” she muttered.
Tate looked around, then leaned forward. “Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered conspiratorially, “but I’ve never really cared for the chili here.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” she whispered back.
“No. Merely blasphemous.”
That made her laugh. “To say the least. And you call yourself a pillar of the community.”
He merely shrugged and took a big bite of the hot dog. Molly was now in a bit of a predicament. She was just fine as long as they had the business of the Children’s Fair to discuss, but with that done, she lacked a nice, neutral topic of discussion to bring up, and she was afraid her awkwardness would show and raise questions. It would be rude to get up and leave Tate to eat his lunch alone, even though they hadn’t planned to “do” lunch. The Frosty Freeze was just a convenient place for them to meet so that Tate could sign the checks. She’d come early and eaten already, but it might be wrong to leave now. He had given up whatever other lunch plans he had in order to be here.
She could claim a pressing need to leave, but it felt wrong to lie like that for no good reason.
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