For Those We Love

by Lisa Sorbe

  I smile politely, and try to be as tactful as I can. Because when I woke up this morning, I thought I’d be alone. Ben made some remark last night about leaving early for work, so when I clamored out of bed this morning and started out for the kitchen, I didn’t think I’d be getting sidetracked by a wolfpack. Literally and figuratively. “So, has Lenora’s house always been the happening place to be at,” I glance at the old grandfather clock in the adjoining living room, “seven-thirty in the morning?”

  Natalie laughs. “Well, there have been some hopping shindigs in this house, I can attest to that.”

  I raise a brow.

  “But all that aside… I was just dropping off Asha. And then Ben,” she draws out his name, peering at him over her shoulder, “lured me in with the promise of hot coffee. Which,” she holds up her capped mug, “he delivered.”

  I bet he did.

  Ben coughs. “Yeah, well. Who can turn down free coffee, right?”

  I can’t help but throw him a smirk, to which I’m rewarded with a glare.

  “Anyway,” he says, “Thanks again, Nat. Really appreciate you watching Asha yesterday.”

  Natalie waves him off. “Oh, it was no bother at all. She and Bruce had a field day with all the snow. As a matter of fact, I could hardly get them to come in last night.” She throws a conspiratorial glance at me. “But who doesn’t love a roll in the snow, am I right?”

  Um, this gal, I want to say. This gal right here.

  But I just grin and nod, like I know what she’s talking about. Like it’s completely rational to prefer the snow swept tundra of Minnesota over the tropical beaches of Southern California.

  “Anyway, duty calls.” Natalie raises her cup again in parting, and it’s then that I notice the stitching on the breast of her puffy black coat. Northern Lights Wildlife Center & Rehabilitation. And under that, in the same cursive script: Natalie Boon, DVM.

  “And Lenny?”

  My eyes pop back to hers.

  “We have to get together while you’re here. I’ll get your info from Ben.” She throws him a look. “Text me her number, okay?” Then, back to me, “Our book club is about due for some new blood. You read, right?’

  I nod, though I can’t remember the last book I actually took the time to read in full. Probably something for college…over three years ago.

  Natalie flashes me one last smile, bright white teeth against full red lips. Her rosy cheeks push up and she wiggles her fingers as she and Ben disappear into the kitchen.

  Asha stays behind and studies me, her dark eyes slanted pools of onyx.

  I plant a hand on my hip and stare down at her. “So you live here too, huh?”

  She just blinks at me before swiveling around on her butt, aiming for the kitchen at a trot, no doubt lured by the same smell that’s been making my mouth water since I got down here.

  My stomach grumbles as I follow.

  Ben is buttering a piece of toast when I enter, his hip pressed into the kitchen counter and one foot crossed over the other. He gives me a slight nod and motions toward a spread of food on the kitchen table. “Help yourself.”

  I have half a mind not to, to refuse what is so obviously a ploy at gaining my trust, my sympathy, my understanding, my approval. Or whatever it is he’s after. Because as much as I’m aware of how he feels about me, I haven’t exactly made what I think about him a secret.

  And he calls me surface?

  This jackass is so transparent he’s practically a ghost.

  And he might as well be—haunting my every step since I landed in Minnesota twenty-four hours ago. In fact, I’ve spent more time with him than without him since I got here, and I need a break.

  Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you want to look at it) my stomach overrules my mind, kicking my stubbornness right to the curb. Reaching for the plate he set out for me, I pluck pieces of bacon from a pile before scooping a spoonful of scrambled eggs from a heaping mound on a platter in the center of the table. “Is this how you always do breakfast?” I ask, snagging two pieces of buttered toast from the next plate over.

  Ben joins me at the table, like we’re just two friends hanging out and not two people who would, without hesitation, push the other out into the elements and lock the door behind them.

  He slides of mug of coffee my way. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

  I shrug as if to say not really, and then fold two pieces of bacon together and shove the entire thing in my mouth.

  Ben catches my gluttonous act and hides a smirk behind his coffee cup.

  “So, how long have you been shacking up with my grandmother?”

  I bite out the question, which I won’t deny is sort of rude, considering the amazing feast this man just supplied me with. But Lenora was eighty-nine and Ben has to be somewhere in his late-twenties/early-thirties, so of course inquiring minds want to know.

  How did their relationship start and what the hell was it all about?

  In my mind, there’s only one obvious answer, and it consists of two words:

  Gold digger.

  Ben sets his mug down and reaches for his toast, taking a bite and chewing slowly before he answers. “About a year.”

  He says it so casually, either not sensing the sting of my words or choosing to ignore them entirely.

  I take a sip of coffee and wait for him to elaborate, but of course he doesn’t.

  “So how’d you two meet?” I stab a chunk of scrambled egg with my fork and lift it to my mouth. “I’m betting it was quite the meet-cute.”

  Ben sets down his coffee mug and rests his elbows on the table, and it seems I’ve finally gotten his attention. “All right, let’s do this.” He leans forward. “I first met Nora when I moved up to Lost Bay, about five years ago. She had a soft spot for animals, as I’m sure you already know, what with being her only granddaughter and all.”

  His voice is ripe with sarcasm, but I don’t rise to the bait.

  I want to hear this.

  “I do. In fact, she used to joke that she liked animals better than most people.” I fold my arms on the table. “Though she always seemed to get along just fine with everyone she met.”

  Aside from my mother, that is.

  Ben smiles, and it’s warm and soft and sort of sad. “Yeah, she’d tell me that and I’d always tell her she was full of shit.”

  “That was blunt of you.”

  He chuckles and reaches up to rub his bicep. “It was.”

  “Lenora liked blunt. I bet she appreciated it.”

  He slides his fingers through the handle of his mug and sits back in his chair without responding. But his eyes are alive with some memory I’m not privy to.

  “Lenora valued honesty,” he finally says. “And I always did my best to be honest with her. Which is a strange feeling, if you’re someone like me, who grew up learning to bite his tongue. But with Nora? She, uh,” he laughs, “she had a way of getting you to talk, even when you didn’t want to. It’s like she drew out all the shit, all the crap you thought was so terrible, the kind of stuff that you never wanted to see the light of day again, and helped you find a new perspective on it, you know? This whole new way of looking at it.”

  “Yeah, well. She could charm the truth out of a politician, that’s for sure,” I say, his assessment of my grandmother giving rise to one memory in particular. “I was just a kid—second grade, I think?—and Lenora was sitting for me while my mom and Cliff were on their honeymoon. She came into my class one morning to give a talk about archeology and when she went to leave, I faked the stomach flu so I could go home with her.” I return my attention to my plate, push some eggs around with my fork. “I was going through some stuff at that age, you could say, and being around people was so hard for me back then. All I wanted to do was stay in my room and read. Lenora called it escaping reality.”

  Ben doesn’t take his eyes off me, doesn’t give any clue as to what he thinks of my rambling confession.

  “Anyway,” I continue,
“about an hour after we got home, I cracked and confessed everything. She always placed so much trust in me, and there I was, abusing it. She told me she wasn’t angry, just disappointed. Which, as everyone knows, is way worse.”

  Ben’s expression remains unreadable, and now I’m just angry at myself for revealing that stupid story. For giving him insight into a memory that doesn’t exactly paint me in a positive light.

  Manipulators run with shit like this. They take what’s dearest to you and twist it around, preying on your emotions and your weaknesses and even, sometimes, your strengths. Nothing is off limits to these guys, and the mystery surrounding his relationship with Lenora makes me wonder if Ben isn’t one.

  He takes a bite of toast, chewing while he considers my story. “It was damn near impossible to hide anything from Nora. That woman could read people like a book. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with a bull shit detector as good as hers. She used to tell me that life was too short to spend it shoveling other people’s shit.” His laugh is soft. “Feisty and wise with a mouth like a sailor. That was our Nora.”

  Our Nora.

  I watch him carefully, looking for any cracks, any discrepancies that I can tuck away now to pull apart later. And while I tell myself that I’m just building my case against him, this swindler of old women, there’s something in me that’s—damn it—unraveling while I listen to him talk. Like the anger, the grudge I’m carrying against him has a loose thread, and this conversation is the snag that’s pulling it all apart.

  But just talking about Lenora seems to have softened Ben’s guard. The scowl lines on his brow have smoothed out while the crinkles around his eyes have deepened, accentuating the smile lifting his features. The combination is so sweet and in such contrast to his usual demeanor that I can’t help but feel my own hard heart softening in spite of itself.

  If I didn’t know any better, the man had true, honest-to-goodness feelings for Lenora.

  That, or he’s just a damn good actor.

  “But anyway,” I say, keeping my voice even. “All that aside, it still doesn’t explain how you met her.”

  Or why she thought so highly of you to include you in her will.

  Ben heaves a sigh, like answering my questions is exhausting, and gathers his half-eaten plate of toast. Standing, he heads toward the sink and dumps the remains down the drain. I watch him prod the bread down the disposal with a spoon, and wait.

  “She used to bring the feral cats that ran around her property in to the veterinary clinic where I work.” The garbage disposal grinds away for a few seconds and then Ben turns, leaning back against the counter. Wiping his hands with a dish towel, he raises his shoulders up and down as if to say no big deal.

  And it’s not a big deal. Because I know that Lenora used to take care of the cats that gravitated to her property because of the scraps she’d feed them. If I remember correctly, there’s even an old barn somewhere on her land that she fixed up with heat and a small dog door just so the little buggers had a warm place to go when the winters hit.

  But again, none of that answers the question of why she’d leave Ben Sloane close to three million dollars in the first place. Sure, Ben and Roman say it’s for the animal rescue that he and Lenora wanted to build. But if he’s just some random guy she met in a veterinary clinic, what circumstances led them to become so close? What situation arose to prompt Ben to move in here, into her home, where she lived alone and could easily be taken advantage of by a younger, stronger person of the opposite sex? And what made her so sure he’d honor her plans? Follow through with what he said he would?

  Then a thought hits me, one that makes me distrust Ben Sloan even more.

  And it’s something I can’t believe I didn’t think of before.

  Maybe Lenora didn’t fully trust him.

  And maybe, just maybe, that’s why she wants me here.

  Some say that it’s easy to spot a liar because he talks too much. Like he’s so worried that his lie will slip that he bombards whoever is listening with so much static that it overwhelms them, throws them off guard.

  But the liars I’ve met—and I’ve known a few—have been quiet. Lip-locked, so to speak, rarely opening their traps for fear of what might come tumbling out.

  I finish my breakfast and decide Ben is the latter.

  “What are you going to do about your apartment?”

  I close my eyes against the sun bouncing off the snow and see circles of lights dancing behind my lids. “Pay the rent until Kendra can find someone to take over my half of the lease.” Though I doubt she’ll look very hard. I can only imagine how much she’s enjoying having the tiny space all to herself. “We’re signed on until June, so at the very worst I’ll only have to pay five more months.”

  I hear splashing on the other end of the line and, shortly after, my mother’s voice, “Beautiful, Aurelia! A perfect ten, love!” Then, back to me, “You should see your sister. Her diving has improved drastically since we hired Yu Zhao last summer. He’s been marvelous. Such an asset to her career.” She pauses for effect. “Yu says she’s Olympic material. Of course, we already knew that. But to have one of the greats confirm it is remarkable.”

  My eyes are already closed, warding off the light slanting in from the greenhouse windows. But if they weren’t, I’d roll them so hard they’d probably fall right out of my head. I lean back in my kitchen chair and pull my knees to my chest. Next to me, my coffee mug is steaming away, producing the most delicious aroma. But all I want to do now is puke.

  “It’s upsetting that you won’t be here for her competition at state. She’ll be so disappointed.”

  Yeah, right. My half sisters could care less if I’m around or not. Needless to say, we’re not close; our relationship mirrors years of our mother’s dismissive attitude towards me.

  Monkey see, monkey do.

  “My absence will hardly ruin her day, I’m sure.” Then, remembering the reason I’m calling, I bite back the sarcasm. “I’m sure she’ll do great.”

  My mother huffs. “Well of course she will. She has the entire school rooting for her, not to mention all of Osbury Beach. Aurelia doesn’t lack fans. Though familial support is vastly important.”

  Jab-jab. Poke-poke.

  Insinuating. My mother loves to insinuate.

  Not to mention, she’s a fucking hypocrite.

  “Oh, you mean like when you and Cliff came to watch me graduate from high school?” The accusation pops out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  “Really, Lenny. That again?” My mother snorts, and I can hear her take a sip of what I’m sure is her morning mimosa. “The girls had their dance competition that weekend. I was so bombarded with last minute costume adjustments and make up and tulle… It’s absolutely preposterous to even suggest I had a spare minute to attend something as mundane as a high school graduation.” She sighs at my audacity. “Simply finishing high school isn’t much of a challenge, Lenny. Thousands do it every year. Now, if you’d managed to graduate as your class valedictorian or done something, I don’t know, worthy of our attendance, then of course it would have been a different story. For example, did you know that Penelope has been asked to read the essay she submitted to Brown University for her graduation in May? The one she wrote on the impact of technological influences on today’s youth?”

  “Wow.” My voice is flat. “That’s fantastic.”

  “It really is. And don’t think I can’t hear the sarcasm in your voice, young lady. Your sisters choose to take full advantage of every opportunity we offer them. It’s not their fault that you, on the other hand, did not.”

  I bite my lip so hard I draw blood. Or it could just be that my lips are so chapped from this godawful weather that they break open and bleed on contact. Either way, my lower lip throbs while the coppery taste fills my mouth, making me grimace.

  I want to say, what opportunities? But smarting off like that would, of course, get me nowhere. I’ve already come to terms with the way my family is,
with the way they’ll always be.

  “Look, the reason I’m calling is because I was hoping to ask…” I pause; this is so hard to spit out. “… for a favor.”

  Silence.

  “While I can’t get out of my lease, I can get out of my parking contract. It’s month-to-month, and if I cancel, I save a hundred dollars a month. And since I don’t actually get my inheritance until next year, and what with not working and everything…” God, I hate the sound of my voice right now. “I just, um, need some place to store it.”

  My mother sighs. “Well, I suppose we can store it in our garage. I’ll have the girls go and retrieve it this afternoon. And now that I think about it,” she says, perking up, “this actually works out perfectly. I’ve been thinking of asking for it back anyway, what with Aurelia turning sixteen in June. She’ll need something to drive after she gets her license, of course.”

  My car—which also happens to be my mother’s old car—is an ancient BMW sedan that was a decade past its prime when she offered it to me, and I bought it off of her for a clean five grand when I was seventeen.

  “Ask for it back? If you don’t remember, I paid you for that car.”

  And it took my entire savings account to do it. Three years of waiting tables at the Fremont Diner, from my sophomore year through to my senior, gone like that. But I had wheels, my own wheels, and the freedom to leave my mother’s house was priceless.

  “Well, you got your use out of it, didn’t you?” my mother retaliates. “That car was worth at least two thousand more than what you paid for it. Honestly, Lenny. It’s as if you don’t even know the meaning of the word appreciative.”

  “Fine, whatever. Go ahead. Give the godforsaken thing to Aurelia for all I care. Lord knows I don’t need it anymore.”

  My mother laughs, a throaty little chuckle that I know all too well. I can almost guess the next words out of her mouth…

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Yep. Nailed it.

  “That car isn’t suitable for a young woman. No, I thought we’d use it as a trade in. Get something more dependable.”