Love on the Run

by Gemini Jensen

  “Need any help, dear?” an older lady with kind eyes and laugh-lines asks, appearing out of nowhere as I stroll down the aisle with my shopping cart.

  “Um, I think I can manage but I might come looking for you if I can’t find something,” I respond.

  “You just passing through, or are you one from that new family that just moved to town into the Knightley’s rental house?” She stretches to place a few cans of beans on one of the upper shelves.

  “Here let me help you with that.” I take the cans from her and raise onto my tippy-toes to return the canned food to its rightful place.

  “Thanks dear. This old body is finding it harder and harder to do things it used to do,” she remarks, reaching out to pat my arm good-naturedly.

  “But, yeah. The Knightley’s rental home. That’s us. I almost forgot that was their name. I just met the daughter Lyra today at school,” I answer.

  Typically, I’d try to cut the conversation off and make an excuse about being in a hurry. However, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in small towns, it’s that everyone knows each other’s business, and information is passed about freely. I have a nagging suspicion that if I play my cards right, I’ll discover the story behind the Knightley’s downfall.

  “Lyra ran by here on her way home from school. Such a sweet girl. Hard working and lovely too, just like her mother was. It’s a shame everything that happened to that family the past few years. Seems like Estelle dying was just the beginning of that family’s long stretch of bad luck. The accident came soon after, most say it was due to Charles turning to alcohol over the sheer sorrow of losing the love of his life. Can’t blame the man for losing his way when he was hurting so deep. A couple of families around here treat them as outcasts, and won’t even look their direction,” she states, her kind words giving the notion of sincerity.

  She pulls out a labeler, the old-timey kind that all supermarkets used back in the day, but have since done away with. Working quickly, she puts a price tag on all the canned beans of one brand in under a minute.

  “Accident?” I query, attempting to get her to continue with all this information.

  “I probably shouldn’t be talking about others’ business” she professes, lowering her voice an octave and looking around to make sure no one can intercept the conversation. Confirming we’re still the only people in the store, she continues.

  “Mr. Knightley took to drinking heavily after his wife’s death. As I already said, he couldn’t cope. One rainy night, his truck collided with another family’s sedan, the Hudson’s who were our Mayor’s brother and sister-in-law, and their two kids. The Hudson’s were well-known and very popular with most people in the town. Almost like our very own celebrities. The elder son was the star athlete at the high school during the time this happened, and everyone had high hopes for him to go off to college on a full scholarship, some people were even convinced he’d make it as a professional athlete.

  Anyways, the only survivor from the Hudson clan was the younger son, Nash, who miraculously didn’t suffer from more than a concussion. Mr. Knightley was injured badly. He’s still recovering, and from what Lyra says when she does decide to talk about it, he might not ever make a full recovery. A lot of people in town blame his drinking tendencies for taking away their All-Star, although the Sheriff of course had blood tests ran and his Blood Alcohol Content came back clean.

  The deputy who was first on scene was even rumored to certify that the crash didn’t appear to be Charles’ fault. Said the other car had crossed into his lane. The Mayor shut that one down real quick. I have a theory that Mayor Hudson’s grieving made him want to blame someone, and who better to blame than the person involved?” Lines etch her forehead as she becomes lost in thought, fixating on something, likely nothing in particular, over my shoulder.

  “That’s a sad story all-around,” I reply, taking a steadying breath before adding, “thank you for sharing that with me.”

  “Anytime honey. Now you just let me know if you can’t find anything, and if we don’t have it I can order it for the next time you need it.”

  I nod my head courteously, “Thank you for your hospitality Mrs. Harrison.”

  I find everything I need fairly quickly, pay, and then bid farewell to Mrs. Harrison. Making no detours on the way home, I go straight to the kitchen and get to work. In less than ten minutes, the ground beef, bell pepper and onion are sizzling in the pan. Five minutes later, the beef mixture is drained and combined with the cabbage, tomatoes, and kidney beans.

  The flavorful mixture of the aromas causing my stomach to rumble impatiently, nearly persuading me to crank up the temperature in hopes that it will come together more quickly. Luckily, I’m smarter than that, but only through a lot of trial and equal amounts of error.

  While the soup is simmering together, I whip up a cake of Cornbread in a cast-iron skillet that I find stowed away beneath the stove.

  “Mom! Could you come in here please?” I yell. She comes running like there’s an emergency, but then again, she’s always been on edge.

  “What is it?” she asks, urgently.

  “First, could you taste this please and let me know if I have the seasoning right?” I ask, holding out a wooden spoon of mostly broth. She does, and groans in appreciation.

  “It’s perfect. I’d let it simmer about 10 more minutes or so though,” she answers. “This was the perfect choice too, I’m so glad I have a daughter who can cook.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Uh, secondly, I have a favor to ask and please have an open mind… can I please take a bowl and half a cake of cornbread over to Lyra’s, please. I learned some other things about her family from the lady that runs the supermarket, and I think she’d really appreciate it. She’s the only woman in the house over there, you know. I bet she has to do all the cooking and cleaning and chores. Like a modern day Cinderella,” I plead, and give my most charming expression.

  “And let me guess… You want to be the Fairy Godmother in this case? Alright, but don’t be gone too long and you already know to take your phone. If you weren’t going right on the same property I wouldn’t let you go. You know our cover story if you get asked any questions,” she very surprisingly agrees, but then adds at the last second, “And Valley…”

  “Yes, Mother?” my voice, so sugar-laced it’s practically syrupy, asks.

  “Next time you want to try and lay it on thick, you don’t have to say please every other word.”

  I give her a mischievous smile and begin working quickly to prepare for the food’s transport.

  XoXo

  Fifteen minutes later I’m loaded up in the car with a big Tupperware container of soup and a half a cake of cornbread. On the drive over, I note that the whole property is fenced in. Wide-open spaces and fields of wildflowers flanked by vast wooded areas. It only takes about a minute after leaving my own home, for me to pull outside of a surprisingly large house with a whole lot of southern charm.

  The second thing that grabs my attention, is all the beautiful landscaping: A pond by the front porch; flower-beds that have been well maintained; Cyprus trees and other shrubbery. An old tire swing sways from an ancient Oak tree, and off to the side sits a barn that appears to either be a new structure or is recently remodeled. One side of the barn has a chicken coop attached, and the opposite wing’s fencing shares a border dividing a large part of the property creating a field.

  From my perspective, they own at least three horses, a solid Black one, a Gray and White speckled one, and a White one that looks like someone splashed it with buckets of dark paint in random spots. The trio are currently grazing in the field lazily and without a care in the world.

  I pull up beside the black Wrangler I passed earlier on my way to the store, rekindling the stinging of being unwelcome and nearly causing me to back out, both physically and metaphorically.

  I seriously hope I’m well-received by the family, that would be embarrassing otherwise.

  A lot of people don’t like wh
en people just show up on their doorstep without letting them know first, and I understand that, but I’m hoping that since I brought food it will redeem my potential impoliteness. Especially with the men in the house, you know what they say about men and food.

  Hopping out of the Rav4, I walk to the passenger side of the vehicle, open the door, and grab the Tupperware from the floorboard. Hoisting the containers up, I make my way up the front steps and across the wraparound porch to the front door. It’s one of those beautiful modern glass type with an overlay of wood, depicting a nature scene, most notably carvings of pine trees.

  Rapping firmly on the glass three times, my ears immediately recognize the pitter-pattering of someone frolicking down a set of stairs. To my relief, Lyra appears on the other side of the glass, making it so that I won’t have to deal with explaining why I’m here to someone I’ve never even met.

  “Sloane? I wasn’t expecting you when I heard a knock,” she laughs contentedly as she pulls open the door in welcome. “We never have visitors anymore, but I’m glad you came by,” she grins. Relief washes over me, and I realize just how wound up I was over my potentially bad reception.

  “Good, I was worried you wouldn’t like it. I brought some food with me,” I hold the containers up as proof, “enough for you and your family. I have the worst habit of cooking way more than me and my mom will be able to eat. Half of what I cook ends up being thrown out because of it.”

  An array of emotions rapidly play across her face. She appears stunned for a brief moment. Then suspicious, before finally settling on deferential.

  “Thank you so much. This is a relief. I’m so behind schedule right now and it’s my night to cook. Me and my brother take turns, now I’m going to get three nights off in a row. Oh, I love how this is turned out, Big Bro is going to be jealous for me getting off the hook. Whatcha got in here?” she asks, removing the cornbread from under my arm as her southern accent becomes more pronounced.

  “That’s cornbread,” I motion toward the container in her hands, and then I slightly shake the container in my hand, “and this is Cabbage Beef soup. When I saw how chilly it was this morning, I decided I wanted to take full advantage of the weather.”

  Following her to the kitchen, we pass by a stairwell and a den-area that’s open, flowing with the rest of the house. A rock fireplace I could imagine cozying up in front of sits in the corner of the area, a dark-brown leather sofa, a huge flat-screen TV all pull my attention. I’m in love with her home, never encountering a cozier space. If I could describe the décor in any terms, it would be modern-country-chic.

  Matching heavy, dark-wood tables that look hand-built are placed throughout, and so many framed photos adorning every corner of each area we pass though, that you could basically get a timeline of her life. Although, I don’t take the time to actually look them over. There are several bookshelves filled to the max with books, plenty of trashy romance novels mixed in with classics and non-fiction as well. I smile to myself, thinking of lunch today.

  “Your house is amazing,” I praise her, “I’ve never been able to accomplish mixing beautiful and comfortable together. It just doesn’t look right when I try it.”

  “Thanks, unfortunately I can’t take any credit. Most of it was my Mama’s doing. She somehow made an atmosphere that suited her tastes yet wasn’t too girly for the men. We all try hard to maintain everything so it lasts as long as possible. Dad won’t let us change anything at all, not that I’m really ready to yet. Sometimes though, it tricks me into having the impression she could walk through the door at any moment, everything around here being just the way she liked it.”

  We continue into the kitchen, which sports a whole lot of stainless steel appliances. The ceiling has had skylights installed and with the sky having finally cleared enough to peek through every few seconds, sunlight filters in to create a cheery atmosphere.

  Lyra places the Tupperware bowl in the microwave, and the cake of cornbread into the oven and sets the temperature to warm.

  “I might not I have any experience with that, but I can sympathize. Emotions go all-over the place when you lose someone you love. Not that I ever have, but I’ve witnessed my mom go through it.” That’s the truth too, although Lyra won’t understand what exactly I mean by it. She’ll probably think someone my mom loved has passed away, and that may as well be true, it’s certainly close enough.

  “Have you ate yet?” she asks, as she takes some bowls down from the cabinet, and goes to set the table.

  “Actually no, I put everything straight from the pot to the to-go bowl, and then came here. I’m pretty starved,” I confess.

  “Well you have to eat with us then. After all, you’re the cook. Oh, but first I need to go get my brother. He’s out in the barn doing something or another. Dad’s already ate, and went to bed for the night. His schedule is all off because of the medicines he’s on effecting his sleep patterns. You want to walk out there with me?” she asks hopefully.

  “Uh, I’ve never actually been in a barn before believe it or not. Sure, I’ll go,” I decide, thinking out-loud, and realizing I probably sound like a sheltered and coddled little girl.

  We walk through a set of sliding glass doors in the kitchen, out onto a screened in section of the wraparound porch. It might as well be a room, with all the furniture and decorations it looks no different from one and it certainly doesn’t scream “porch” to me.

  There’s a screen door leading outside that we pass through, before heading down a pathway made of stepping stones with moss (or something of that nature) filling the void between each one. Following the path around the other side of the house, I comment on how beautiful the landscaping is, and she informs me that it’s a joint effort but that her brother does the majority of the property upkeep while she does most of the cleaning tasks.

  “Although,” she points out, “he pitches in with chores too because of my being a student.”

  “He gives the impression of epitomizing ‘the ideal older brother’ to me. I sometimes wish I would have had an older brother to protect me, or a sister to share secrets with,” I voice.

  “You don’t have siblings?” she asks, sadness briefly passing over her face like she sympathizes with me for something I’m missing out on, despite my being ignorant of it. I shake my head.

  As we walk, I listen to the gravel crunching beneath my heeled boots, breathing in the pungent scent of Pine mixed with fresh outdoor air and rain, as I suddenly become a little nervous to meet her brother.

  Will he be nice? Strange? Grumpy? Easy to converse with?

  Sometimes I’m a little on the socially awkward side and suck at having conversations with people, which is why I’m not a fan of meeting new people. All that, on top of the fact that I’m too lazy to make the effort when I know I won’t be around them for very long anyway. Luckily, so far with Lyra, I’m content to fill the lulls in conversation with companionable silence. Like we’re cut from the same cloth and understand each other’s need to get lost in thought here and there.

  As we reach the large opening at the front of the barn, the scents of fresh cut hay and oil mix into the air, overpowering the pine. It’s not your emblematic red barn with white trim, but rustic and contemporary instead. Fresh and new but with the air of being rustic. A metallic sound I’m unfamiliar with carries through the air, originating from the rear of the barn. Heading in the direction of the noise, I glance around me. There are three stables to the right, and a multitude of tools strewn about everywhere. Some on the walls, and some on an old metal table.

  “It’s kind of a mess in here, sorry,” Lyra apologizes, noticing my perusal of the place.

  “It’s fine,” I assure her as we finally reach a tractor, the source of the noise. A pair of boots are the first thing visible from beneath, followed by some well-worn looking blue-jeans, one leg straight and the other bent. Whoever is under there must be very concentrated in his work, because he says nothing as we approach.

  “Hey bro-
sky, you so hard at work you let me sneak up on you for once?” Lyra goads, playfully kicking at his boot.

  “Whatever,” a deep voice from underneath the tractor grunts.

  “Well Mr. Grumpy, you think you could get cleaned up and join us for dinner now?” She asks.

  “Us?” he asks picking up on the keyword, his only response to her question, as he continues to bang around in concentration.

  “Yes, us. My friend from school has joined us for dinner, and it would be respectful of you to show up to the dinner table seeing as how she provided us with the food for it,” she commands.

  He grumbles something unintelligible and is quiet for more than a few beats before speaking again.

  “I didn’t know you had any friends… are you sure she isn’t trying to poison us?” he inquires teasingly although he sounds completely serious. Lyra says nothing, but remains standing there, hip cocked to the side, unimpressed by his attempt at comedy.

  “Fine, give me a minute to finish and let me get scrubbed up. Hopefully you can find a way to occupy yourself for 20 minutes,” his gruff voice complains.

  Slowly, he begins to scoot out from under the tractor, making it impossible to miss the fact he’s not wearing a shirt. I should look away, but once I spot a defined V cut at his tapered hips followed by a six-pack, I can’t help myself. It’s like my eyes are glued there.

  And then his expansive chest becomes visible, smooth and hairless but rippled with definition. I zero in on a smudge or two of what appears to be dirt or oil, the honest product of hard work. A few beads of sweat trickle down from the middle of his chest, across his side and onto the rolling mat apparatus he lays on.

  Good night.

  I pull my bottom lip between my teeth as I take in the sight of him. Next come the arms as he continues to push himself from beneath the tractor, a collection of black ink covering the expanse of them, and looking somewhat familiar.

  Finally, his face is revealed. A sharp intake of breath on my part has Lyra cutting her eyes at me.