The Farmhouse

by Elizabeth Bromke

  Rhett waved off her apology and settled into the booth, studying the menu and feeling disappointed to learn that Mally’s—which, by now, he figured really ought to change its name—no longer served breakfast all day long.

  “All right, what’ll it be, Mr. Rhett?” Gretchen had reappeared, a fresh smile replacing the earlier, forced one.

  He cleared his throat. “You can just call me Rhett. And I’ll take a burger, I suppose. Plain. No cheese.”

  “Burger and coffee? That’s a new one.” She chuckled, and Rhett’s stomach twisted into knots at the bizarre reminder of his old friend. He knew Maggie had kids. But it still felt surreal. Maggie was a mom. A mom of a teenager, at the least. Maybe even a young woman.

  Slowly closing the menu, he offered it to her and pointed out the obvious. “You sound exactly like your mom.”

  “I get that a lot,” Gretchen answered, earnestly, as she jotted down his simple order and took the menu. “Be right back with your burger.” She strode away, and Rhett watched the front door swing open once more, undermining his previous assumption that business must have died off when Mally did.

  The new arrival’s face was unfamiliar and his age hard to peg. He could have been fifteen or twenty-five.

  Rhett watched on as Maggie’s daughter pranced over to him and flirted, confirming Rhett’s suspicions about the adolescent shape to the boy’s face.

  Moments later, after the girl and the customer flounced just past him, Rhett found himself face to face with the boy, who was far friendlier than his waitress friend—or girlfriend, as the case seemed to be. She had sat him in the booth just beyond his, and as Gretchen left to fill his drink order, Rhett met the boy’s gaze.

  He offered a smile and a nod and tried, unsuccessfully to focus on the muted news that was projecting from the small, mounted tube television above the bar.

  Gretchen returned with his hamburger, and—to his surprise and confusion—made small talk.

  “So are you just back for a visit?” she asked, while Rhett pushed his French fries to the far corner of his plate.

  “Oh,” he began, “Sort of. I plan to move back permanently in a few months, but I need to sign some paperwork today. My family owns land out past the old schoolhouse. And, anyway, I have a sister who lives in New Albany and wanted to be closer to her.” He felt himself rambling and took a bite of the burger to stop.

  “Closer than where?” she asked, leaning her hip into his table.

  “Louisville,” he replied, wondering if Maggie had ever mentioned him to her friends. He realized that might be awkward and shook the thought. “Anyway, I like small towns better.” It felt like a weak justification, and Rhett began to wonder why, exactly, he had chosen Hickory Grove rather than, say Corydon, or Elizabethtown, or anywhere. Oh yeah. The Houston family acres. Seventy five of them, to be exact. The perfect tract for a hunting cabin or a family home or whatever it was that Rhett would decide to build. He’d commute back to Louisville as needed to check on his various rentals. Maybe he’d even pick up a few properties in Hickory Grove, eventually.

  Satisfied that she’d accomplished something, though what he did not know, the waitress smiled and glanced over to the boy before trotting off, her steps lighter than before.

  “Why Hickory Grove?” the voice belonged to the boy, whose earnest expression was a mismatch for his female friend’s hot and cold behavior. In that way, she was decidedly unlike her mother.

  Rhett sucked in a breath before replying across the booth. “I’m from here, originally.”

  “Family still here?” The kid’s accent didn’t belong. He must be a west coast transplant. Rhett thought to ask why he was in Hickory Grove, but decided against it. He was growing tired and needed to get to the lawyer’s office to have the deed transferred in his name before heading back into the city in a hopefully functioning truck.

  “No, like I said. Sister up north. Parents moved east. But I’ve a claim to some land here, and that’s what I want. Plus, friends.” The last note was an exaggeration. Maggie never did reply to his text that he was heading back to town. And Luke, the very reason he’d even considered buying land in his hometown, was away on business.

  Rhett took another bite of his burger but felt the kid’s eyes on him. He chewed carefully, then swallowed, wiped his mouth, and threw the guy a bone. “How about you?”

  “I’m from Tucson. But my mom grew up here like you. Becky Linden, you know her?”

  A cough tickled the back of Rhett’s throat, and he put the pieces together. Maggie’s daughter became friends with Becky’s son. He cleared it and grinned. “Of course I know Becky.” He smiled and gestured the kid to join him in his booth. “Rhett Houston.” He stuck out his hand.

  The boy accepted it and shook it hard. “Theo Linden.”

  “So your mom is back in Hickory Grove, too?”

  “Yep. Moved here in August when I left for college. Notre Dame.” The kid beamed.

  Rhett pulled a serious face and complimented the impressive detail. “Very nice. So what are you doing around these parts, then?”

  Theo smiled past Rhett then dropped his voice. “I’m in love.”

  A chuckle escaped the older man’s mouth and he forced himself not to turn and peer at the feisty waitress. Theo didn’t seem to mind though.

  “With, uh, Gretchen?” Rhett confirmed.

  Nodding gravely, Theo kept mum while the girl in question refilled their drinks and plopped a pile of french fries onto the tabletop. “There ya go,” she added, propping her hands on her hips, a smirk dancing across her mouth. “Can I get you anything else? A bottle of wine? Candles?”

  Though her joke caught him off guard, Rhett bust into a hearty laughter. Theo, however, flushed deep red, unsure how to reply smoothly.

  “If Mally’s is still the only place to take a date, then I guess Hickory Grove hasn’t changed too much,” he said, wiping his mouth as his laugh died off.

  Gretchen grinned and shook her head. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t date.”

  A silence filled the table at that, and Rhett caught her glance off, avoiding the flash of disappointment apparent on Theo’s face.

  “I’ll take the check,” Rhett answered.

  THEY’D WRAPPED UP THE awkward lunch and stepped silently into the blustery January day together, as though they’d known each other forever. Theo mentioned he was heading back to school in a week, and Rhett nodded in reply, wondering how the two got hooked up in the first place. Was it Maggie or Becky? He had a feeling it was neither. Maybe just chance.

  “Nice to meet you,” Theo offered and held out his hand.

  Rhett shook it, and replied in kind. “Have a safe drive upstate.”

  Before the kid took off toward the parking lot, Rhett stopped him. “Oh, and Theo. Before you leave town, you should tell her.”

  The kid’s face scrunched in confusion, and Rhett felt older than his forty years. Like a wizened grandpa coaching a promising shortstop. He began to shake his head as if to leave it alone, but something tugged at his insides. “Maggie’s daughter. Gretchen. You should tell her if you like her. Trust me on this.”

  A bright smile opened on Theo’s face, and he shuddered—either from cold or excitement, Rhett couldn’t tell. “Yeah, you’re right. I should. Thanks, Mr. Houston. Maybe I’ll see you around town.”

  Rhett shook his head. “I’m heading to the city tonight. Won’t be here for good until I build my house.”

  “If you need a place to stay the night or whatever, we have an extra room at my grandparents’ house down the hill.”

  A frigid wind whipped down the sidewalk and nearly knocked the two men into each other. Rhett smiled at the boy’s innocent kindness, but said no. “I appreciate that, but I’ve got a home in the city.” What he didn’t add was that although the home in question was the one he’d shared with his girlfriend of five years, it was the last place he wanted to be. But Rhett would rather fiddle his thumbs in a motel room than impose.

  �
�Well, if you change your mind, we’re just down Main Street past—”

  Rhett cracked a wry smile and held up his hand. “I know where the Linden farm is. Small town, remember?”

  It was true. He knew Hickory Grove like the back of his hand. The Linden Farm. The schoolhouse and its undeveloped acres beyond. He knew he could walk down to Durbin Family Law Offices if he had a mind to. He knew Travis Engel wouldn’t have his tire fixed for at least a few more hours, because he knew Hickory Grove.

  But, after the strange lunch he’d just finished, none of his previously scheduled business seemed to matter as much.

  Because as he pulled his phone from his jeans pocket, a text flashed on the screen.

  It was the reply he’d been waiting for.

  His old friend. Maggie Devereux.

  Chapter 3 — Gretchen

  The cafe closed at three o’clock on Mondays, so Gretchen left soon after Theo and the man who knew her mother.

  It occurred to her that she could have asked Theo to wait. And he would have waited. But that would be weird.

  So instead, Gretchen found herself walking home through the mid-winter afternoon.

  In November, when snow felt like a foreigner, she welcomed it—cuddling up in the deepest corner of her twin bed with her ear buds firmly planted and a good mystery book crooked in her hands.

  But Christmas had passed and so had the welcome newness of cold weather. It was the first day Gretchen’s younger siblings had returned to school after winter break, and in a week, she—like Theo—would be returning to school, too. Though her education was different than his.

  Hickory Grove Community College.

  The esthetician program.

  Gretchen’s destiny, apparently.

  Her mom had pushed her to it, of course. But what Gretchen really wanted was another life. Not more prestige; nothing like Notre Dame or whatever. But, a quiet life.

  Chatting above fumes all day might, in fact, be Gretchen’s worst nightmare.

  Then again, when her mother asked her point blank what, exactly, she planned to do once she’d graduated from high school, Gretchen came up empty.

  Checking the clock on her phone, the eighteen-year-old calculated she had less than an hour until the school bus wheezed its way up Pine Tree Lane, braking like a locomotive in front of her house, and deposited Ky and Dakota onto their front walkway. Little Briar would still be at Mamaw Engel’s house, and would remain there until Maggie was finished with appointments or errands for the afternoon.

  Gretchen treaded carefully up the icy sidewalk until she came to her street, and by then she’d begun to sweat beneath her coat. She unzipped it and let the frigid air curl inside and wrap its way up her spine, all the while wondering if her mother was home working or out helping Miss Becky, who was still getting the old schoolhouse back on its feet.

  On the one hand, Gretchen would have loved even just thirty minutes of girl talk with her mom. On the other, she’d like to enjoy the new book she had checked out just the day before.

  The decision was settled when she arrived at her family’s two-story home to glimpse a pink piece of paper taped onto the door. Her phone buzzed, distracting her from the errant note—probably an advertisement for snow removal— and she opened the front door, stepping inside and out of the cold air.

  Gretchen answered the phone call, only to learn it was an advertisement of a different sort: a spammy robo-caller offering student loan recompense. She clicked it off and took a deep breath in to learn her mother was not, in fact, home. The absence of hair dye fumes or the putrid vapors of a perm proved as much.

  So, she tucked into her bedroom at the end of the second floor hall and closed the door before shedding her waitress uniform and bra and pulling on an oversized pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. Then, with the pleasure of a woman who’d been on her feet all day, she fell into bed and grabbed the book that had tangled itself among her unmade bed sheets.

  Sewing for Idiots.

  It was a departure. No murder. No violence. No whodunnit. But there was a mystery to uncover, and that was how to begin down the path she’d always been curious about. Ever since her Great-Great Aunt Marguerite had passed away just months before.

  Gretchen’s mother had long poo-pooed the profession. It’s cheaper to shop online than make your own clothes, she’d often admonished. That much was true, but it didn’t change Gretchen’s desperate interest in her late aunt’s mainstay of so many decades.

  Marguerite Devereux, who took the nickname Lorna in her latter years, was the go-to seamstress until her passing. Once her apprentice, Miss Patsy, left town, it was like a hole opened up in Hickory Grove. No one to hem a prom dress that fell half an inch too long. No one to shore up the fit of a hand-me-down suit. No one to sell delicately embroidered dish towels with a little white tag pinned onto them which read Crafted locally.

  Just as she began to concentrate on Chapter One: “Getting Ready to Sew,” her phone chirped to life. Gretchen shifted her eyes to its screen, debating whether to give her time to the messenger or to her studies.

  In true teenage form, she opted for the former, despite guilt gnawing at her heart. It was always a better decision to ignore the message and read the book, after all.

  A text from Theo flashed in green. Did you make it home? :)

  She sighed and tapped out a curt response. Yes. Then, after a beat, decided to add a follow-up. Thanks for checking on me ;)

  Her heart stalled when the little Read receipt flashed beneath her message, but Gretchen forced herself to refocus on the paragraph about materials.

  It was no use. Three cycling dots hooked her attention on her screen, and anticipation over what Theo would say pulled her breath out in fast rhythm. Which was stupid. Theo annoyed her, mostly.

  The front door slammed shut, startling Gretchen away from her conflict of heart.

  Ky and Dakota never slammed the door. It was a good day when they so much as closed the door after themselves, actually.

  “Mom?” Gretchen hollered loudly.

  No answer.

  Curious and filled with trepidation, she tossed the book to the foot of her bed, scooped up her phone, and left her room.

  Dropping down the stairs one by one, Gretchen scanned the foyer and parlor for signs of an intruder. She gripped her phone more tightly and considered tapping 9-1-1 into it, just in case.

  But as she landed on the first floor and turned toward the kitchen, her mother appeared—alone—, hunched over the table, her body heaving in sobs.

  Chapter 4 — Maggie

  “Did you see this?” Maggie held up the pink page she’d torn from the front door moments earlier. Each corner had been ripped apart, and now four, triangular pieces of tape were left behind on the wood, leaving in the shadow of the doomed document nothing more than a hollow frame.

  Gretchen shook her head slowly, “No... well, yeah, but no. I didn’t—”

  Maggie rubbed the back of her hand across her face, smearing her makeup, and then sank down into the chair Becky had occupied only hours earlier. When the world was full of possibilities. When a bright future teased her in the form of a short, white stack of legalese.

  Now, it felt like the walls were closing in. Walls of the house she’d built with her family, or in spite of them. Walls of the house she’d one day renovate because it had so much potential. A great location! A beautiful family home! Walls of the house that never got its makeover because its owners were still trying to make do.

  “What have you been doing?” A stab of guilt followed Maggie’s stricken accusation, but Gretchen didn’t get smart.

  “I was at work. Then I came home. I saw it but my phone rang, and I got distracted. I went upstairs to read, I— why, Mom? What is it?” Fear flooded the girl’s face, and Maggie couldn’t well condemn her. She was just a child. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t Gretchen’s fault that Maggie had no control over the household finances. Or her husband. It wasn’t Gretchen’s fault that Maggie had tole
rated Travis for this long.

  “Never mind,” she answered, punching numbers into her cell phone.

  Gretchen reached for the paper, and Maggie couldn’t help but to allow her to read it. Shock absorbed both their faces as Travis’s line rang and rang.

  “Mom?” Gretchen glanced up from the thin page, staring blankly at Maggie. “Do we have to leave?”

  Maggie swallowed hard, and the line continued ringing. “Your dad isn’t answering.” She hung up and dialed again, looking frantically around the kitchen as if a clue might reveal itself.

  A second call was equally fruitless.

  “I’ll try,” Gretchen offered, tears budding along her lower lash line. Maggie nodded and bounded into the parlor, which they’d used as something of an office. Travis kept a couple boxes of paperwork in there, and Maggie always knew to toss her receipts and bills on top of the pile along with his mail. Each year come tax season, he would see to ordering it and hauling it to a professional off Main Street. What was the accountant’s name? Maggie’s mind had turned to mush as soon as she’d read the words: Notice of Foreclosure.

  How could she be so stupid to let Travis handle their finances?

  She knew the answer.

  There was no choice. He managed everything from what type of vehicles they could purchase down to what they ate for dinner each night. He decided when Maggie could start doing hair again. He decided she wouldn’t rent a space in the lone salon in town, but that instead she could open shop in their kitchen. At the time of his suggestion, the young mother was more than agreeable. After all, an in-home salon sounded as quaint and charming as Steel Magnolias.

  Then Maggie had remembered how that movie ended, and it changed her opinion. But Travis didn’t care. If she wanted to work, she could work in their house. That way, she was always available for him and the children no matter what.