by Wendy Tyson
“Hear! Hear!” Bibi tapped her glass against Megan’s.
Wine and beer were flowing and there were toasts all around. Only Sylvia sat quietly, observing, her hand cradling the base of her wine goblet.
When the pizza had disappeared and Bibi looked drawn, Megan said, “Shall we head inside? Your room is ready, Eddie. I put your bags upstairs, and there are fresh towels and quilts in the dresser.”
“Oh, we can’t stay here. Edward told you that, yes?” Sylvia’s eyes widened. She tilted her head toward Eddie, who seemed suddenly intent on studying the lines on Thana Moore’s landscape painting. “We have reservations at Peaceful Summit Yoga Retreat Center and Spa.”
“You’re not staying with us?” Bibi stared at her son, open-mouthed. “When I found out you had flown in, I made biscuits and gravy for tomorrow, your favorite, Eddie. And homemade biscotti for Sylvia.”
It was Sylvia who answered. “I’m afraid this is a business trip, Bonnie. Edward should have told you that. I’m going to meet with local artists and artisans so I may bring some assets back to Milan.” She looked at Eddie for confirmation, but his fingers were twisting around his napkin, an activity that seemed to require all of his attention.
Bibi said, “Eddie?”
Sylvia’s smile was hard. “I made reservations at the Center. It’s new. It’s a business expense. We will see you for dinner later in the week, perhaps?”
“Oh,” Bibi said, crestfallen. “I thought Eddie and I would spend this time together.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” If Sylvia was picking up on Bibi’s disappointment, or if she cared, she didn’t let it show. “Eddie is coming to the Center.”
Megan watched the all too familiar way her father dealt with conflict—by escaping. He stood, kissed his wife on the forehead, and then gave Bibi a quick peck on the cheek. “I need to get our things,” he mumbled. He nodded to Megan, avoiding her eyes.
“Yes, good.” Sylvia sipped the last of her wine, scanning the faces around her with a fierce intensity. “The pizza was nice. Too cheesy, perhaps. And watch the sausage. It overwhelms the palate.”
Clay gave her a half smile. “Thanks for the feedback.”
Sylvia waved a hand languidly toward the paintings on the walls. Her gaze lingered on the portrait. “That artist. Thana Moore. I recognize her work. She’s scheduled to show at the Center. I want her pieces to take back to Milan.”
That was interesting. Megan hadn’t seen her old friend Thana in ages—since that craft fair years ago. Before Mick died. Before Megan’s life changed forever.
“I’ve heard Thana’s work is tough to get these days. We bought these back when she was a nobody.” Megan stared at that portrait, trying to keep her feelings out of her words. “You may need to order something well in advance if you really want a piece of her art.”
Sylvia merely smiled. “I think she’ll accommodate my requests. I look forward to meeting her.”
“You’re used to things going your way, aren’t you?” Bibi asked, with no apparent attempt to hide the bitterness in her voice.
Sylvia glanced in the direction of the entry door, the very door through which Eddie had just exited. Her face darkened, although the shadow passed so quickly that Megan thought perhaps she’d imagined it. Finally, Sylvia said, “Yes, Bonnie. They generally do.”
Megan found her father in the upstairs hall, outside the room he’d once shared with Megan’s mother, Charlotte. Since Charlotte abandoned her family more than two decades ago, the room had been vacant. Back then Eddie, suddenly finding himself to be the too-young single father of a daughter under ten, had moved to a guest room. Their marital quarters remained empty for years, until Eddie relocated to Italy. After that, Bibi, not one for overt sentimentality but a great holder of grudges, made it into a sewing room. Any traces of young Charlotte Birch had been swept out with the dust bunnies.
“I met her, you know.” Megan moved down the darkened hall toward her father. She watched him breathe deeply, square his shoulders. Always preparing for flight, it seemed. Even when there was no enemy in sight. “My mother, I mean.”
Eddie’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh?”
“Christmastime. Last year.”
“Not since?”
“No. Not since.”
“That’s your mother, I guess.” Eddie put his hand against the heavy wooden door and removed it quickly, as though the surface had burned him. “Unreliable.”
“She wrote me a letter.”
“She remarried, Megan. Has a new family.” His words were almost a whisper. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I know about her other children. And as for getting hurt, it’s a little late for that.”
Eddie picked up the suitcase that sat on the worn runner and nodded. “Well, then.”
Just like Eddie, Megan thought. Leaving when the going gets tough. But, she reminded herself, he was the one who stayed all those years ago when Charlotte disappeared.
Megan said, “Do you really have to leave?”
“Sylvia made reservations. We just came for the evening, to freshen up and say hello.”
“You can change those reservations.”
Her father gave her a sad smile. “I don’t think so, Megan.”
“Bibi—”
Eddie’s hand shot up. His eyes pleaded for understanding. “Sylvia’s a good woman, Megan. I know she can seem high strung, but she’s a visionary. She sees the positive where others see only failure, possibility where others see futility. She has a sharp eye for business.”
“You love her?”
“Yes,” Eddie replied. “Very much.”
Failure and futility. As Megan watched her father disappear into the guest room to retrieve their bags, she wasn’t so sure it was really Sylvia’s business savvy he was referring to.
Two
Megan was still thinking about her father on Monday morning while she, Clay, and Porter attended to the farm chores. The tomato harvest had been strong despite the worst drought in years, and the trio undertook the painstaking process of pulling tiny cherry tomatoes off their vines. Although it wasn’t even nine, the sun beat down with the brutality of a feudal overlord, and the air was thick with sticky moisture. Megan wiped her brow with the back of a gloved hand and glanced toward the house. Bibi was baking—her way of dealing with emotional turmoil—and the kitchen was scented with cloves, cinnamon, and vanilla. A glass of iced tea and a scone would taste good about now, but Megan had promised herself she’d work in the fields until noon. If only she could focus.
Clay knelt on the ground beside her and began plucking plump little yellow tomatoes with quick, deft motions. He popped one into his mouth.
“Still angry at your father?” he asked, chewing.
Megan smiled despite herself. Clay had always been good at reading people, but they’d spent a lot of time together over the past two years. He was getting damn good at reading her.
Megan gently placed a handful of tomatoes in the basket and stood, stretching. Gunther, her Polish Tatra Sheepdog rescue given to her by the town’s veterinarian, Megan’s boyfriend Dr. Daniel “Denver” Finn, lay to the side of the field, his attention trained on her. Beside him, Megan’s mutt Sadie lay chewing a tennis ball: mouth on the ball, gaze on Gunther. Megan knew it would take only the slightest indication from Gunther that he wanted to play and Sadie would be off in a sprinting mass of joy. She lived to play, eat, and sleep…and in that order.
If only people were so simple.
“Angry with Eddie?” Megan said. “No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know—maybe.” Megan stomped a foot against the dirt. “He’s only been back for a day and already I’m frustrated.”
“With him or with her?”
“Her?”
Clay’s look was one of amused exasperation. “Sylvia.”
“How
can I be angry with Sylvia? I don’t even know her.”
“And how can you get to know her if she won’t spend time with the family?”
Megan shrugged. “It’s her choice.”
“You feel hurt. Your father left Bibi and this farm to be with Sylvia and she doesn’t have the decency to spend a few days getting to know his family.” Clay smiled to soften his next words. “She’s kind of…mean.”
Megan felt her shoulders slump. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. How could I not feel disappointed in Sylvia? It’s the first time she’s meeting our family, she could make some effort. And I guess I’m annoyed at my father for being spineless. He’s always taken the path of least resistance, but I thought maybe he’d changed.” Megan frowned. “You saw how upset Bibi was. She doesn’t ask for much. And she’s in there now baking enough scones to feed everyone in the tri-state area.”
“I’ve eaten three this morning. She brought them out with a pot of coffee at the crack of dawn.” He pulled a dozen or so tomatoes off the vine, letting the sounds of the farm fill the void. When he finally spoke again, he didn’t look at Megan but continued to harvest tomatoes. “Is that what this is really about, Megan? Their trip to the Center? Bibi’s reaction?”
Megan pulled her gloves off and studied her hands. “No.”
Clay turned toward her. His eyes probed, persistent but kind. “Your mother?”
“My mother. My childhood. My desire to have one parent who’s reliable. I have a runaway mother, a ne’er-do-well father, and now the quintessential mean stepmother.” Megan laughed. “I sound about ten years old, don’t I?”
“You sound human. And you have a right to your feelings.” Clay stood. He bent backwards, and Megan heard his spine crack. “Go to the Center. Talk to him. Get to know Sylvia.” His smile was warm. “If they’re too busy to stay here, go there.”
Megan considered this. They had a ton to do around the farm, but she could get away for a few hours tomorrow. That would give Sylvia and her father time to themselves first. She’d make reservations at the spa’s new restaurant and take them to lunch. Megan pictured her father from the night before: defeated, sad, torn. Yes, she’d go meet them, alone. Without Bibi this time. Without the pressure of the farm—and the reminders it surely wrought.
“You’re pretty wise for someone so young,” Megan said.
Clay laughed, and Megan liked the way his eyes crinkled. He’d make someone a good companion someday, she thought. She had to remind herself he was only in his mid-twenties, wise beyond his tender years. An old soul, for sure.
“Glad I could help.”
Gunther let out a bark and took off toward the front of the property, tail waving wildly. Sadie ran after him, nipping at his ankles.
“Reaction like that from Gunther can only mean one thing,” Clay said.
“Denver.” Megan smiled.
The veterinarian wasn’t due back from his trip for another day. Megan knew she should take her time cleaning up the garden tools, but she sprinted after the dogs instead.
“Megs!” Denver spun her around. He placed her gently back on the ground and kissed her. Stepping back, he said, “You’re a sight to behold, with your dirty nose and your bonnie smile.” Wiping the dirt off her nose with his thumb, he said, “Did ye miss me?” Denver’s Scottish accent seemed even stronger—perhaps the result of his trip to his homeland.
Megan kissed him, longer this time. “As a matter of fact, I did.” She took him by the hand and led him toward the house. Bibi would be happy to see him—almost as happy as Gunther had been. Denver had saved the pup from the hands of an abusive owner, and while Megan was the dog’s true love, Denver would be his forever friend.
About ten feet from the porch entrance, Denver paused. “Megan, before we go in, I want to talk to you. Alone.”
His tone made the hairs on Megan’s neck stand up. Requests for private conversation from someone you loved were rarely a good thing.
“Sure, what’s up?” She forced an airiness she didn’t feel.
“It’s my sister. She insisted I not come to Scotland. You know that, Megs. Said things were ‘just fine.’” Denver sighed. It was then that Megan noticed the hollows under his eyes, the three days’ growth of auburn beard on his strong chin. Denver’s was a handsome face. Not pretty, but with enough furrows and lines and chiseled planes to be dangerously sexy. It had always been those blue eyes that captivated her, and they were holding her hostage now. He frowned. “Things are very much not fine.”
Megan waited. Denver’s sister, his only real family other than his aunt who lived in Winsome, an aunt he nearly lost nine months prior, had been in a terrible car accident. He’d flown to Scotland against her wishes. Now, it seemed, the promises that her injuries had been minor had been said to reassure, not convey truth. Megan tightened her grip on Denver’s hand. He squeezed back.
“Broken ribs. A sprained neck. Flesh wounds from the glass. No companion to help her, no kids around. It nearly killed me to leave her like that, but I had to get back and get the practice in order.” Those blue eyes searched for understanding. “She needs me, Megs. For a bit, I think.”
Megan felt the twinge tugs of pride and disappointment. No Denver? Just when she’d gotten used to having him in her life.
“You need to go,” she said. “Of course you do.”
“You understand, then. You won’t be cross with me?”
Megan laughed at the serious glint in his eyes. “Of course not. I’ll miss you, is all. When are you flying back to Scotland?”
“On Wednesday.”
“That soon?”
“Aye. I have a nurse lined up to help her until then. I’m hoping to stay a fortnight, then if she’s doing better, we’ll arrange for another nurse’s aide to help her out thereafter.”
A fortnight. That wasn’t so bad. Although he’d already been gone over two weeks.
“I’m sorry,” Megan said. “About your sister. I know how much Eileen means to you.”
“Ta.” From the barn, Porter’s voice called out, an admonition to Heidi, one of the Pygmy goats. Denver smiled—he had a soft spot for the goats—but his smile seemed wistful. “Come with me, Megs. Meet Eileen. See Scotland.”
Megan felt herself tensing again. She wanted to go with him. Oh, how she wanted to drop everything and get on that plane, strapping in next to this man who’d been such a surprise in her life. He was leaving everything for someone he loved, why couldn’t she? But how could she? How could she leave the farm during one of the busiest seasons of the year? How could she leave Bibi, or the café, or the animals? The new pizza farm? And what about Eddie and Sylvia? There she was complaining to Clay that they weren’t spending time with her or Bibi and she was contemplating leaving them altogether during their one visit to the United States.
Denver was studying her, waiting. He rarely asked for much. His job, like hers, was demanding. A labor of love and commitment. Her heart screamed yes, but Megan, a lawyer by training and a farmer by choice, was a woman of the mind. And the gut. And both said she needed to stay.
“I wish I could, Denver. You understand.”
His look said he understood all too well. He’d always be second in her life—second to Washington Acres. Second to her obligations.
Someday, Megan was afraid, second wouldn’t be good enough.
The rest of Monday flew by, and by late afternoon, Megan, two crates of fresh vegetables, and a dozen scones arrived at the Washington Acres Larder & Café. After putting the scones out for her staff—their chef, Alvaro Hernandez, and Clover Hand—Megan began placing the tomatoes, Swiss chard, red peppers, lettuces, and cabbage heads in the café’s walk-in refrigerator.
“Where is everyone?” she asked. Normally the café was a hub for the locals. Mealtimes were always crowded. Alvaro’s simple but flavorful farm-to-table dishes brought people from Winsome
and neighboring towns as well as tourists from New York and New Jersey, but despite the near dinner hours, the café was empty. Megan glanced at the chalkboard announcing tonight’s fare. Roasted beet and goat cheese salad. Seared chicken breasts with chimichurri sauce, rice and beans, and fried plantains. Late summer vegetable stew served with Bibi’s biscuits. A local cheese selection with baguettes and fig jam. Not too shabby for a hole-in-the-wall café behind an organic food store.
Clover mumbled something with her mouth full of orange scone.
Megan squinted in her direction. “Say again?”
Clover pointed across the room, to a stack of papers sitting on the café’s long counter. Megan walked through the kitchen and into the dining area of the café. She picked up the top paper. Her eyes scanning the sheet, she sat down heavily at one of the café’s copper-topped tables. It seemed her father and his wife were not the only people spending time at the Center.
Clover picked up another scone. “Today’s the restaurant’s grand opening.”
Megan nodded. “I see that.”
“And their dinner tasting is free.”
“I see that too.”
“That’s where everyone is.”
Megan’s eyes widened. “I get that, Clover. Thank you.”
Megan re-read the brochure. Indeed, it looked a lot like the free tasting Megan had hosted at the café when it first opened. Even the menu was similar. Suddenly Megan was thinking about the pizza farm Clay had built. They were counting on that to help keep the farm afloat during the long winter months, but if the Center became a local hotspot, both the café and pizza restaurant would suffer. Had she taken on more than the town’s economy could shoulder? The Center could be real competition. It was twelve miles away—she’d checked—so hopefully the draw was the free food, emphasis on free.
Perhaps she had more reason to visit tomorrow than simply seeing her father and Sylvia.
Megan looked up at Clover. “Why are these brochures even here?”
A guilty shadow passed over Clover’s face. “I put them there for Alvaro.”
