by Amber Kelly
“As long as there is no herbal-enhanced butter involved,” I say.
She starts loading the island with everything I need—butter, sugar, flour, et cetera.
“You could use some herbal enhancement, if you ask me. But we’ll keep this batch PG,” she replies.
Erin and Ansley are assigned blondies, Jena gets royal-icing duty, and Mom and Sara-Beth tackle cupcakes.
We spend the next hour mixing ingredients and kneading dough. I use the cookie cutters to cut out the perfect festive patterns—stars, flags, patriotic top hats, and hearts.
We place them in the double oven and pour ourselves more wine. I leave the girls at the table, chatting and picking over the food that’s left, and join Mom and Sara-Beth out on the porch while the cookies and cakes bake.
I sit in the rocker and look out over the yard. The old fort that Daddy built for Gene and me in one of the trees is still standing. The rope ladder swaying in the breeze. It’s the same yet different. No cows are mooing in the distance, and no horses are grazing inside the fence line.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you when Dad died,” I say as I look over to Mom.
She smiles at me. “Oh, honey, you had a life. I didn’t expect you to stop living for me,” she says.
“I should have. Our relationship was always contentious when I was growing up, but I should have been here when you needed me.”
Like she has been here for me.
“You might have been able to keep the farm,” I add.
She laughs. “Oh, kiddo, I had no desire to keep the farm going. That was your father’s passion, and he wanted to leave something for Gene.”
“I can’t believe he just left you like he did.”
She shrugs. “He wanted to live his own life too. I suspect he only stayed around here because he didn’t want to disappoint your father. Running a farm for the rest of his life was never his dream.”
“It must have been hard when he took off.”
“At first, I tried to keep up with everything, and it was scary. Then, I realized I didn’t have to. I called Sara-Beth, and she sent Hilton and Graham out here to survey the land. They helped me parcel it off into four five-acre lots. They found buyers for the livestock. I kept the parcel with the house, my gardens, and barn, and they put the other three on the market. They sold within two weeks. I still have my home, my view of the mountains, all the privacy I need, and the sale gave me a very nice nest egg to live off of.”
“I’m glad you had them,” I say as I reach for Sara-Beth’s hand on the rocker beside me and squeeze. “I just … it was hard to come back here,” I admit.
“That’s because you were a daddy’s girl,” Mom surmises.
I think about that for a minute, and it’s true. My daddy was my rock. The one I could always count on. I thought he was the only one.
“It took losing him for me to see you,” I confess.
“I know, and it’s okay,” she tells me.
“It’s not,” I whisper.
Before I can say more, the timer goes off on the stove. We stand, and I follow them back inside.
I look down at the cookies and remove the ones that have expanded and cracked. I set them aside. I place the others on a cooling rack, so I can add the icing Jena colored red, white, and blue.
“What are you doing with those?” Mom asks.
“Throwing them out. They’re messed up,” I answer.
She reaches into the cupboard and hands me a sugar shaker. “Here, just sprinkle them with powdered sugar. They don’t have to be perfect. The beauty of the cookie is in the imperfections,” she says.
“It is?” I ask.
“Oh, yes, look at them. They taste the same as the others. They came from the same batch of dough. So they have cracks. Big deal. It gives them character and they’ll still be just as delicious.”
I look up at her. “Are you trying to tell me something, Mom?”
“I’m telling you, you don’t waste good cookies because they don’t meet your idea or expectation of perfection. You throw some sparkle on them and take them to enjoy the party.”
All righty then.
She and Sara-Beth start adding food coloring to the buttercream icing they prepared and scoop it into bags.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, and she looks up at me. “I never realized that spending time with you could be so rad.”
She smiles. “I knew spending time with you could be.”
I pull up a music app on my phone and connect it to the Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen.
The six of us dance around the island, singing at the tops of our lungs, decorating our confections, and enjoying our time together.
By the time we are done, sweaty, and covered in flour and sugar, we have six dozen decorated cookies; eighteen tins of blondies with red-and-blue-coated candies; twelve dozen cupcakes with red, white, and blue sprinkles or sanding sugar; and of course, a large batch of Mom’s special medicinal toffee.
I shoo the girls off to go home and leave the cleanup to Mom and me.
“It was a fun night,” Jena says as she hugs me good-bye.
Erin and Ansley agree.
It truly was.
Once they are all on their way, Mom and I roll up our sleeves to clean the kitchen.
“That was a blast. I’m so glad you and the girls came to pitch in,” Mom says.
I help her pile the dirty pans and glasses beside the sink and wet a cloth to wash down the island.
“We had a good time and they’re great. It’s like we’ve been friends forever.”
“That’s the way it is with true friends. It’s like your souls connect from the beginning,” she muses.
“They want me to stay here in Balsam Ridge. Can you believe that?”
“The better question is, can you see yourself living here again?”
“Don’t talk in circles, Mom. I’m seeking your advice here,” I say.
“You’re a smart, beautiful, and capable woman. I’m not going to tell you what to do.”
She fills the sink with warm water and starts to soak the dishes. I stop beside her.
“Since when?” I ask.
“Today.”
“Come on, Mom. I know you have an opinion. What do you think I should do?”
She drops a stack of plates into the sink with a loud clank, picks up a sponge and starts to scrub them. “I think you should start concentrating on what you think instead of what everyone else does,” she says.
“You’ve always wanted to control my life and my decisions, but now that I’m actually seeking a little motherly guidance, all of a sudden, you think I should make up my own mind?” I ask for clarification.
“I’ve never wanted to control your life, Taeli.”
“Oh, come on, Mom. That’s all you’ve ever done. When I was in high school, you were the only mother who went to every single away game and made me stay in the same room as you.”
“After I caught you sneaking out of your bedroom window. It was a consequence of your actions, Taeli. I didn’t want you to get into any trouble. It was my job to protect you,” she insists.
“More like embarrass me,” I grumble.
“Oh, please. You’re just projecting. You aren’t still angry about that stuff. It was years ago,” she chides.
“I am still angry. I wish we could have had a better relationship, but you never got to know me in a way that we could be friends. All you ever did was ground me or scold me.”
“Because I was your mother, not your girlfriend. A mother’s love is many things. It’s gentle, it’s kind, it’s stern, it’s teaching and rearing, and yes, sometimes, it’s punishing. But it is unconditional. The love that breastfed you, rocked you to sleep when you had colic, made you chocolate chip pancakes every Saturday morning, and kissed your skinned knees is the same love that whipped your behind when you needed it. Fierce, crazy, and at times, angry love. That’s what I always gave to you. Always.”
“Always? You didn’t talk to me for almost two ye
ars when I followed Damon to Northwestern. The only communication I got from you was through Daddy, and I’m sure ninety percent of that was him pretending you cared.”
She tosses the sponge she was using into the sink and turns to face me. “Pretending I cared? Taeli, I’m your mother. All I’m capable of doing is caring. Yes, I was upset when you left school and wasted your scholarship. I thought you were throwing away your future,” she explains.
“Don’t you think I know that now, Mom? Walking away from the full-ride education was the worst decision of my life, but I was young and blinded by love.”
“Exactly. You were blinded, and I was trying to be the guiding light for you,” she explains.
“I should have listened to you. There, I said it. Go ahead and say I told you so. You’ve been waiting so long.”
She shakes her head. “No, kiddo, I wasn’t. God had a different plan for you. I see that now. I was never meant to write your book. I was just the narrator for the first few chapters. I look at you today, and I see a lovely, strong, resilient woman, who I’m proud to call my daughter. A good mother. A better mother than I ever was. If you had listened to me, we wouldn’t have Caleb. What would we do without him?” she says.
I sigh.
“Now, I’m ruining his life too.”
“No, you’re not. You’re doing what needs to be done. Sometimes, being a good mother is defined by making the hard decisions. Don’t stay buried under the weight of them. Caleb will understand. It may not be tomorrow, but one day he will,” she assures.
“You think leaving was the right decision?” I ask.
“Yes, I do. You needed space and distance to sort yourself.”
“Sort myself,” I repeat.
“Exactly. You were dealt a raw deal. You were hurt and humiliated, but you don’t have to stay hurt and humiliated and turn bitter. You can rise up like a phoenix from the ashes of that pain, and in the process of healing, you just might find that you feel more alive than you ever have. The door has been opened, baby girl. All you have to do is walk through it.”
I let her words permeate my soul.
“You still talking to God?” I ask, breaking the tension.
She huffs. “Of course I am. Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I didn’t realize the big guy was a fan of your extracurricular activities,” I tease, trying to lighten the moment.
“Oh, don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy. God doesn’t mind me using my crops for healing. He makes it grow. I don’t overindulge, and it’s better than drinking myself numb,” she defends.
I shrug. “If you say so,” I muse.
“Listen, I settled it with the Lord, and that means it’s settled. You and the other gossiping old biddies in town are just going to have to accept me for who I am,” she declares.
She returns to washing dishes, and I step behind her and wrap my arms around her shoulders. I kiss her cheek.
“I can do that, Mom.”
“And so can I,” she whispers with a catch in her voice.
“I still don’t know what to do.”
“Well, kiddo, it’s your life and your book. Now, all you have to do is turn the page, and you’ll get to start a brand-new chapter.”
“Yeah, I wonder who all will be in this story.”
“Anyone. Everyone. Just make sure you choose what you want this time.”
We end our night in her bed, watching a sappy movie and falling asleep side by side.
When I awake in the morning, I have a voice mail from Damon.
Asshole.
I take my phone upstairs and dial his number. I pace back and forth, growing angrier and angrier as it rings.
“Hello?”
“What the fuck, Damon?”
He sighs. “I know.”
“No, you don’t know. He is going to be so disappointed. Why did you even have me tell him you wanted him to go with you if you were going to cancel?” I ask.
“Something came up.”
“Oh, really? What could be more important than seeing your son?”
“It’s an emergency at the office.”
I scoff.
“What?” he asks.
“Try again, Damon. You can’t possibly know of an emergency that is going to take place next week.” I call him out on his bullshit.
The line goes silent while he scrambles to come up with a better excuse.
“I should have known better. You decided not to go the minute I told you I wouldn’t and you still let me ask Caleb and get his hopes up. You were counting on him to convince me to go too, weren’t you?”
“That’s not true.”
“Liar. I don’t know why I thought you might actually want to spend time with Caleb. You selfish bastard!” I scream.
“What about you?” he yells across the line.
Me?
“What about me?” I ask.
“Graham Tuttle,” he spits out.
How does he know about him?
“What about Graham?”
“Is he that singer you went to school with? The one who comes from one of the wealthy families in Balsam Ridge,” he asks.
“No, that’s Garrett. Graham is his older brother and he has nothing to do with this.”
“When I talked to Caleb, he told me that he drove your friend Graham’s car.”
“So?”
“He’s twelve, Taeli. He shouldn’t be driving anything.”
“He was in an open field without any other cars. Graham was just letting him get a feel for it. It was completely safe. I was driving my daddy’s truck around the farm when I was ten,” I tell him.
“I should be the one teaching him to drive, not Graham fucking Tuttle,” he roars.
“Then, why haven’t you?” I ask.
“Because he’s twelve.”
“Name one thing you’ve taught him, Damon. I’ll wait.”
“I’m a good father,” he growls.
“You’re a good provider, Damon. That’s it, but life is more than a big house and expensive sneakers. When was the last time you spent more than five minutes with him, having a real conversation?” I ask.
“I talk to him.”
“I don’t blame you. I’m just as at fault as you are. We let video games and television raise him while we built the practice, but I’m done with that. I’d rather live in a shack, wearing threadbare clothes, and know my kid than live in a mansion on a hill and him be a stranger.”
“I have to go. Tell Caleb I’m sorry,” he says.
“I’m not telling him. You—”
I don’t get the sentence out before the line goes dead.
I flip on my bed and scream into my pillow.
I hate him.
Graham
Pop called and roped me into a night of camping with Langford and the boys down by the creek, roasting fish over a campfire and telling ghost stories. Pop even had them draw water from the stream and showed them how to boil it over the open flames and let it cool for drinking.
“We’ll teach you how to start a fire without the assistance of a match next time,” Pop tells them.
“I already know how, Grandpa. They taught us in Boy Scouts,” Tucker informs him.
“Then, you can show Caleb,” Pop suggests.
Tucker looks to his new friend. “Do you have Boy Scouts up north?” he asks.
Caleb shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t you go to summer camp?” Tucker asks.
Caleb nods. “Oh, yeah. I do summer soccer camp, and we do a golf camp at the club.”
Tucker wrinkles his nose. “Golf camp? You like golf?”
“Not really. My dad does, and he makes me do it, so I can learn and play with his friends in father-son tournaments. It’s really boring.”
“Too bad you don’t live here. You could join the Scouts with me. It’s loads of fun. We go fishing, camping, and hiking. They teach us stuff, like how to pitch our own tents, build fires, clean fish, swim safety, cooking, rock climbi
ng, archery, kayaking, and all sorts of cool things.”
“Sounds fun,” Caleb tells him.
“Don’t worry. Dad, Uncle Graham, Grandpa, and I will teach you all we can before you leave,” Tucker tells him.
“Thanks. I really like fishing. I want to catch a bunch next time to make dinner for Mom and Granna.”
Not once the entire night does he ask for or even miss his phone or video games. It’s the most carefree I’ve seen him since he arrived.
Pop leads the boys into the woods for a bathroom break, and Langford and I grab a beer from the cooler and sit by the fire.
“So, you and Taeli have fun last night?” he asks.
“We did.”
He nods his head as he takes a pull on his bottle. “That’s good.”
“Thanks for offering to take the boys. I’ll repay that gesture,” I inform him.
“It was my pleasure. He’s a good kid. A little quiet, but Tucker brought him around.”
Just in time for them to leave town.
“So, are you and Taeli a thing now?” he asks.
Before I can answer, the boys come bounding back to the campsite.
“Time for s’mores,” Pop announces.
When we awake in the morning, we eat a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon, cooked over the fire. Then, we all help tear down the tents and pack up.
I call Taeli to tell her I’ll bring Caleb home, and we hop into my truck and head up the mountain.
He chatters the whole way home. It’s a far cry from the closed-off kid he usually is. I think the mountains are working their magic on him.
When we make it to the farmhouse, I follow him inside. We end up in the kitchen, and he snatches a piece of toffee from a Tupperware container on the countertop.
Taeli comes down the hall when she hears us milling around.
“Don’t eat that!” Taeli screams and swats the confection from his hand.
“Mom!” he shouts.
“That’s not for kids. Granna made it, and it has marijuana in it. It will get you high and get social services called on me,” she explains.
His eyes go wide. “Granna makes pot candy?” he asks.
She blinks. “You know what that is?” she asks him.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not lame, Mom. I know what pot is. I thought you smoked it, not ate it,” he replies.
