by Juliette Poe
My mom takes another delicate sip of her tea, sets the cup down, then pats her lips dry with her napkin. After she places it back in her lap, she says, “Well, Deacon seems like a genuinely nice man. Did you know he’s been doing all kinds of work for Pap over at Chesty’s this week? He also refuses to take a single dime for it.”
I can’t hold back my smile. I did know that, and I’m incredibly touched by the gesture. I’m also proud of Deacon. Not that it was a shock. I know he charges good money to do a solid job, but he’s also the type of guy who would volunteer to help out friends or family members of his friends. I’m not surprised in the least he’s doing this for Pap. I’m grateful, too. All of us grandkids are so busy in our everyday lives we probably don’t step in to help him as much as we should. Chesty’s is a dying business. And by that, I mean that as Pap gets older and loses interest in it, it’s going to fade away. None of us grandkids want to become bar owners, so Chesty’s has a limited lifespan.
“He must have a lot of money saved if he can afford to just hang around and not work for a living,” Trixie says, a means of poking around the edges to learn more about Deacon.
“I think he has a lot of money saved up since he doesn’t have a lot of expenses. Doesn’t own or rent a home, and he owns his motorcycle. And he works really high-paying jobs on government contract, some of which he gets hazard pay for.”
I know a lot more about Deacon’s finances, since he’s been completely transparent about everything in his life. I’ve told him how much my bakery makes each year, and he confided about the incredible amount of money he has saved over time.
“So what is his next move?” Laken asks. Although she has been dismissive of the information I offered about Deacon today, she cannot hide the worry in her expression. She thinks he’s going to break my heart by leaving.
Frustrated, I shrug, my nose stinging with the telltale signs of unshed tears. “I have no clue. I asked him last week when he was going to be moving on, and he said he hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Trixie asks.
“Not if ‘not thinking about it’ means staying here with Larkin isn’t all that important or worthy of thought to him,” Laken snaps at my sister. What she said makes sense, sort of. Also, she’s starting to go into twin defensive mode, and she can get really hot under the collar when coming to my aid.
The real reason for this tea becomes apparent. They are poking around for information on how likely it is I’m going to be let down by this wandering man. They want to be cognizant—ready to swoop in for support and comfort.
Sadly, I don’t have an answer for them.
My shoulders sag as I admit, “One day, he’s just going to come to me and say he needs to move on. He’ll say something like, ‘Today’s the day, Larkin. I’m leaving’.”
Glancing around the table, I see that all three women are saddened by my proclamation. Why I can’t see an alternative is beyond me, but it probably has everything to do with the fact he’s the wanderer and I’m the root. That just doesn’t make for long-term growth.
“And what would you do if he did that? Would you ask him to stay?” This question comes from my mother. The one who takes my happiness most seriously because I am her child, after all.
I give a tiny shrug, shamefully admitting, “I’m not sure I have the guts to ask him to stay.”
“Why not?” Trixie demands. “What’s the worst that would happen? He could say no, but he could also say yes. So why not ask?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “But if I never ask the question and I never get a solid answer, I can at least believe he was greatly troubled by his decision. Maybe I could even convince myself he doubted what he was doing. If I ask and he says he can’t stay, then that’s flat-out rejection. I can never soften that in my mind down the road to ease the sting.”
My mom’s hand shoots out and grabs my own, giving me a hard squeeze. Her eyes are shining with empathy and fear. Still, her words are what I would expect from a woman who is strong and defiant in the face of adversity. “Or perhaps you need to fight for it. What if he is doubtful? What if he is troubled? What if he really doesn’t know what to do and needs you to push him? You might need to gear yourself up to fight.”
“Or…” Trixie says in a suggestive tone, not able to hide the lawyerly attitude she can’t suppress. “You could try to talk about it all ahead of time. At dinner tonight, tell him how you feel. Tell him you want him to stay.”
“I never said I wanted him to stay,” I blurt out. I receive three skeptical and chiding looks. They don’t buy that for a minute.
“Okay, I want him to stay,” I admit. “So I just ask him to?”
Trixie nods firmly. “Yes.”
“We’re going out to dinner tonight at Clementine’s,” I muse, trying to imagine how many glasses of wine it would take me to feel comfortable with having this conversation.
“Clementine’s? Cool,” Laken says with a clap of her hands. “My favorite.”
Grinning, I nod excitedly. “Deacon actually had to drive into Raleigh to buy dress pants and a suit jacket since they don’t allow jeans.”
“Now that’s a romantic gesture.” Trixie says on a wistful sigh. My mom and Laken nod.
Dinner tonight is going to be fabulous. I could use it as an opportunity to have a serious conversation with Deacon about our future. But that could blow up in my face. I could end up ruining a perfectly lovely night.
I have a lot of thinking to do between now and then.
CHAPTER 26
Deacon
From only the angle of light coming in through the shades, I deduce it’s getting close to seven once I crack my eyes open. Larkin left for the bakery over an hour ago. It amazes me how she just pops right out of bed at five-thirty with a smile on her face, ready to slay the day. This holds true even though it’s a Saturday, which is typically a day of rest or fun for most working folk.
Not Larkin, though.
I fell back asleep after she gave me a sweet kiss, but I didn’t go deep under. I keep waking up and dozing back off, thinking of her each time I came to consciousness and as I drifted back off.
But now I’m awake. I usually take a bit more motivation to get out of bed in the morning. I’m a late-night person by nature, although I’m usually always up by seven. It’s interesting. I’ve gotten so used to sleeping with Larkin each night that once she’s out the door for work, my body doesn’t want to fall back into a deep sleep. It’s almost as if I can’t entirely relax if she’s not beside me, and that doesn’t bode well for my future once I leave.
But am I leaving?
I have no desire to right now, but that doesn’t mean much. I’ve landed in places I’ve enjoyed before, and I’ve taken my time moving on in my travels. Admittedly, though, in those cases, I’d fallen for the place itself and not for an actual human.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, tucking my hands behind my head. What would it look like if I stuck around for let’s say… the long term?
First order of business would be to get a job. While I might not need the money, I do need the stimulation and self-satisfaction of being useful.
I could possibly get a job bartending at Chesty’s. Perhaps land some work on the Mainer farm. Even start up my own carpentry business.
None of those are great moneymakers, not like I make when I pick up government contract work. And none of those would really inspire long-term passion within me. I couldn’t, for example, wake up excited every morning about going to schlep drinks behind a bar.
Not forever, anyway.
It’s funny how my considering a life here in Whynot has me asking myself for the first time, “What do I want to be when I grow up?”
I have no good answer, which is disconcerting. Perhaps I only want to travel? Except… now when I think about moving on and seeing wonderful new places, it feels a little lonely. And a lot less wondrous.
I twist to look at the clock on Lark
in’s bedside table since I only have a lamp on mine.
It’s strange how easily I’ve come to think of the table on my side as mine. I keep my wallet and watch there at night after I undress. And her side is the same easy thought.
It’s 7:07. My internal clock was near spot on. I consider the day ahead of me. I’ve got a few things to finish at Chesty’s for Pap, but it should only take a few hours. He wanted a set of cabinets mounted in his storeroom. He’d had a budget to buy some pre-fabricated ones, but I managed to build him a nice set using tools on loan from Lowe. He’s a carpenter by trade but since opening Millie’s with his wife, Mely—just now noticed the similarity in the names—he’s pretty much just a hotelier.
It’s Larkin’s hope she can get off work early so we can go fishing. It’s supposed to be in the fifties but sunny, so it sounds like perfect fishing weather. There’s supposedly a monstrous catfish in the family pond called Ol’ Mud that Ryland caught once. I figure if that city slicker can do it, so can I.
The thought invigorates me, and I use it to roll out of bed. I head straight into the master bath where I do my normal morning ritual, including a shower and trimming my beard. I’ve been considering shaving it off, but Larkin really likes it. I mean… really likes it, so why mess with something she enjoys?
Exiting the master bath with a towel still wrapped around my waist, I glance at the clock on Larkin’s bedside table. Almost seven-thirty. Rather than a big hearty breakfast at Central Cafe, I might mosey—note use of Southern slang—to Sweet Cakes to see my… sweet cake. I could do with a coffee and pastry this morning, as well as a gander at my girl.
I move my gaze from the clock, but then roam back toward it. For the first time, I notice a book lying there. Not a regular book—a journal. It has a fancy floral cloth dust cover in pastel shades with a cream silk ribbon hanging out of the middle. I can tell there’s a pen stuck on the inside. My curiosity makes me pick it up.
I tug on the ribbon and then open the book, the pages falling open naturally to where the pen is tucked. Larkin’s handwriting is instantly recognizable—cursive with artful swirls and little doodles in the margins. Then my eyes take in the words “Dear Diary,” and a jolt shoots through my body.
I slam the book closed, painfully aware it holds Larkin’s secret thoughts and I have no business looking at it.
Except… I wonder if she’s written about me.
Her feelings about me in particular. They are still a great mystery since she’s never offered any affirmations about our relationship. I realize I haven’t either, but it’s all so confusing on my end. I’ve always felt Larkin is the one who probably has things figured out way better than I ever could. While I admit to not having many insecurities, along with quite a healthy ego, Larkin is the biggest mystery I’ve ever faced. She’s a puzzle I’d very much like to solve.
My conscience wars for a bit before capitulating on the reasoning I’ll only use the knowledge I glean for the greater good. While I realize I might not like what I read—because maybe she doesn’t even see a future for us at all—I could very well find the answer to what I should do with my life on these pages.
Damn it… I’m going to do this.
I slowly open the book, my gaze locking on the words, “Dear Diary”. There’s a date just above—yesterday—and I’m wondering when she wrote it. When she got home maybe thirty minutes before I made it here from my work at Chesty’s? It’s the only time I can think of when we weren’t together.
What inspired her to write in her diary in that brief time?
I’m about to find out.
Dear Diary,
Today started off with a bang. Floyd and Morri got in an argument in front of the hardware store, and I could hear them yelling at each other all the way across the courthouse square. Muriel finally came out of Central Cafe with her cast-iron skillet in hand, then threatened to brain each of them. Floyd didn’t pay her no mind, but Morri is enough of a newcomer he didn’t know whether he should take her seriously. He was unsure enough he ran back over to Mainer house where he’s visiting Mely and Lowe for a few days.
God, I love life in this town.
I stop reading, realizing I’m smiling at the image of the grizzled hardware store owner getting into a shouting match with a drag queen—in rural, conservative North Carolina. I kind of love this town, too.
Ignoring the stab of guilt, I continue reading.
Making this short—I just wanted to memorialize that epic fight between Floyd and Morri. Deacon will be home soon from working over at Chesty’s, and I want to get dinner going.
It’s nice… making dinner for my man. Having him come home and sit at the table to share a meal with me. Later, we’ll watch TV or talk. Eventually, we’ll end up in the bedroom. It gives me shivers even thinking about it.
This is my life now, and I love it.
I love him.
There… I said it.
I love Deacon Locke. And I want every kind of endless possibilities with him. Every day that goes by that he stays here in town, I get a little more hope I can have a future with him. And I can see it so clearly. Maybe a house that we’ll build together out in the country, kids, a few dogs. Perhaps he can work in the bakery with me… or maybe he’ll buy Pap’s bar so we can keep it in the family.
I can show him what a real family looks like. One full of love and support. He’ll belong to me, I’ll belong to him, and I’ll show him that he will always be the most important person to me.
He’ll finally have his chance to know what that feels like.
Jeez… I’ve kind of “run off at the mouth” as Deacon likes to say, except on paper. I wish I had the guts to say all these things to him, sweet diary. But I’m afraid it might be a little too soon for Deacon, and I don’t want to freak him out.
So for now… it’s our secret.
Love,
Larkin
Oh, damn.
Why did I just read that?
Why did I violate her trust and invade her privacy to find out things I would rather not know about right now? I’m still trying to come to grips with my feelings for Larkin and my future—and whether it involves her or not—and it seems my decisions are a little more imminent than I’d hoped.
I don’t know if I’m ready for this.
I don’t know if I’m ready for everything she apparently has to offer me.
In fact… I know I’m not ready. We’ve only known each other for three and a half weeks, yet she’s planning for us to build a home and have children. I’ve never even thought about having kids. Don’t know much about them. The few I’ve been around have been loud and sticky.
Looking blindly around her bedroom, I open myself up to a solution. I need an answer to my distress.
My eyes land on my duffel sitting in the corner of Larkin’s bedroom. I never unpacked—only dragged it out of her closet. I’m sure she would have shared drawer space or a few hangers, but I never asked. I’ve lived out of that duffel for years, and it has always served me well.
Because I am not a man meant to stay in one place for long.
Setting the diary back where I found it, I think I’ve decided what I need to do.
♦
I pull up to Chesty’s on my bike, easily finding a parallel spot in front. Not many people drink at half-past eight in the morning, but Pap is unlocking the door.
Killing the engine, I lower the stand and dismount the bike. “Morning,” I say.
He glances over his shoulder and mutters, “Morning.”
I follow him inside once he has the door open, removing my gloves and helmet.
“What’s on the agenda today?” Pap asks.
“Mounting those cabinets I built,” I say as we move behind the bar that leads into the storeroom. I set my gloves and helmet on the wooden bar top. “Going to fix the handle on the toilet in the men’s room too.”
“And after that?”
“Then that’s it,” I say. I walk over to the cabinets sitting
on the floor, nabbing the bag of hardware I’d picked up at Floyd’s yesterday.
“Then why are you all packed up as if you’re heading out of town?” Pap inquires gruffly.
I stiffen, then slowly turn his way. Old man is a lot more observant than I gave him credit for. He apparently saw my duffel strapped to the back of my bike when I’d pulled up.
“It’s time for me to move on,” I say, dropping my eyes to the hardware in my hand. It’s telling that I’m having difficulty meeting his gaze.
Pap’s tone goes cold “Larkin know about your plan?”
“I’m going to stop by the bakery on the way out of town,” I mutter, knowing it’s a stupid and poorly thought out plan.
“You’re a dumbass, do you know that?” Pap barks.
I jolt, my entire body pivoting to face him. “How’s that?” I ask, slightly offended.
“And a coward,” he adds. “Just going to jet out of town, spare nothing but a minute to stop by Larkin’s place of business to tell her.”
“How do you know she and I haven’t already talked about this?” I counter defensively.
“Because you look guilty and regretful as hell,” he replies soundly.
I let a low curse fall from my lips, scrubbing my hands across my beard in frustration. I do feel guilty. Skulking out of town isn’t the way to handle this. Larkin will be so hurt, and she doesn’t deserve that.
Turning my attention back to Pap, I admit, “I’m not sure Larkin and I are in the same place. Things are moving a little too fast.”
“How so?” he asks, then points at the cabinets. “Get started on your work. We’ll talk at the same time.”
That’s a good idea. I shrug my leather jacket off. Pap leans against a set of shelves that hold cleaners, paper towels, and condiments.
“Not sure where to start,” I say.
“Start at what has you freaked out,” he suggests.
I flush with guilt. “I read Larkin’s diary this morning.”
“Oh, boy,” Pap mutters as he shakes his head. “Such a dumbass.”
