Cavanaugh

by Jody Kaye

  “I meant what I said about the overages.” She’d never considered her underhandedness might put Ross at a monetary disadvantage. It had to have weighed on his mind when he mentioned his previous money issues during their picnic. Rose felt miserable that she’d put him through that again.

  “Oh, I plan to charge you for them now that I know it was your underhandedness.”

  “Well, good. I guess.” She sounded sheepish, turning to face him. Ross had lost respect for her.

  He was looking at the picture now. One eyebrow cocked up before he rubbed the stubble on his handsome chin.

  “What else is wrong?” she asked.

  “I just realized something.”

  The intensity with which Eric had looked upon his daughter was what had first caught Ross’s attention. Widening, sorrowful pupils had betrayed his expressionless face. There was a moment that Ross imagined Eric launching his body across the room, lusting to regain the embrace of something he’d once held dear and was now deprived of. Not wholly of a sexual nature. No, Ross wouldn’t paint Eric Kingsbrier as a deviant who’d molest his child. It was a shattered existence. As if he feared the simultaneous pains when holding onto the girl may both heal and sear him.

  “This picture isn’t you at all, is it? Same blonde hair, but this woman has her hair up and she’s wearing a cardigan. The car she’s sitting in is vintage and the paper’s begun to yellow. She’s also probably downright the happiest person that I’ve set upon. Her brown eyes are elated, unbounded. Whereas yours tend to take on a hint of someone who is either scheming or thinking that someone’s out to get you, and you want to best them first.” Ross set the picture back down on Eric’s desk facing Rose. “So who’s your doppelgänger, Miss Kingsbrier?”

  “That’s my momma.”

  To prove Rose wrong, Eric Kingsbrier traipsed through the terra cotta kitchen on his way out. He glanced from side to side, taking in the warm palette and custom craftsmanship, while maintaining an aloof distance that spoke the volume of his disinterest. Eric didn’t bother to tell the crew they were wasting daylight. He strode by them more curious as to if they only took orders from their employer; if he barked, “Get back to work!” would each man jump to task without hesitation?

  In truth, he’d come upon the site last evening. His dinner plans were cancelled at the last minute and he’d sought out Benita to cook his meal before she left for the day. Entering the kitchen it wasn’t until his fingers touched the granite counters that Eric paused to look around. He smiled at the seamlessness of the space. The kitchen and sunroom to the left were now a cohesive set of adjoining rooms. The remodel created a sense of hospitality and comfort that wasn’t present before.

  The earthen tones and trim gave the room a cozy atmosphere. Yet, the small windows—that he’d ordered boarded up—were now floor to ceiling, letting in the soft ending of the day as the light disappeared over the treetops, making him feel at one with nature. To the right, a set of French doors with long sidelights that surrounded the back entry opened onto an impressive new porch. Instead of binding away the outside, the trio of spaces gave the opposite effect of what Mr. Kingsbrier envisioned.

  “Sir, the job they’ve done is beautiful, isn’t it? I thank you so much for the changes,” Benita said, coming from the squat hall. “Give ‘em a week and I’ll be ready to move right in. The summer kitchen’s done its job right well, but with the fall comin’ on and the holidays. Oh!” She clapped. “I can create a grand meal in a grand place such as this.” Her hungry gaze fell on a monstrous stove as if she’d devour the hunk of metal like it was a holiday roast bird.

  When he’d shown Benita the white and metal kitchen plans, she’d looked them over with simple agreement that they were nice. Rose had been right. Eric hadn’t given thought to Benita’s job, that she needed more than one oven or may enjoy the sun as it streamed through the windows as she did her early morning baking.

  He hadn’t much reason to come in here to begin with. Far less since domestic bliss had left him blistered like boiling water jumping from a hot pot. It was wrong of him to believe that, since he didn’t find value in the space between these walls, no one else did.

  Knowing Benita should have been lauding Rose, Eric accepted her praise, welcoming her into the new workspace. Because of her, his body had never lacked nourishment. It was his soul that hadn’t been fed.

  That was what made it easy to go on the offensive with Ross Cavanaugh. Eric had been bound and determined to get to the bottom of the story. The kitchen designers he’d used had shown him various designs. This might have been one of them for all Eric knew. In that case, he’d call out both firms and not pay either. He considered his original comments to Rose, about not paying Cavanaugh’s price, part of regular negotiations, as was turning up the heat so that the project finished ahead of schedule. What difference did it make to Ross Cavanaugh if there was a party or not?

  Rose was the wild card. Eric had always been privy to some of his daughter’s antics. His frequent absences made allowances for her furtive scheming. He didn’t wear blinders and was positive the girl deceived him before. Yet, there was a twinge of pride in the way Rose had outsmarted him this time. The juvenile actions were not quite as representative of the typical selfishness Rose embodied.

  He’d let her win this round as the ability to do so again would prove few and far between. Rose had her head in a cloud, not a head for business. George Andrew may still be telling tales that about having every intention of letting Lily Anne work at his company, but Eric knew better. George had given his daughter what she thought she wanted to get that girl to go after what, in fact, she needed. Rodger was a rock. He’d provide well for her future. It was shameful that Rose refused to see the forest for the trees and snag the reliable young man for herself.

  He believed this false-win would teach her a lesson. If not, her father had other ways of getting his point across to this stubborn child.

  Eric handed Rose her checkbook back, intrigued over how much rope she’d use to entangle herself in given the opportunity. If she spent through her trust on silly whims, like demolishing and reconstructing that outbuilding, he may have his daughter right where he needed her: Willing to comply with his edicts.

  Rose didn’t plan ahead. She’d also have to contract for feed and hire someone to care for a horse. She’d grow weary of a pony, no different than a child did a puppy. It wasn’t as if she’d care for it herself. His daughter hardly rose before noon and barely fed herself more than junk.

  In the end, all this deal cost him was a downpayment and a casual remark that Cavanaugh Construction was an asset to the community. Eric could abide by those trappings.

  After circling outside the pool fence, Eric glided around Kingsbrier’s expansive left wing toward his convertible. The roof was already down. He cared little if the elements got to the fine leather. At each annum, he replaced one car with a newer model as a gift to himself for enduring another year.

  Eric tossed his briefcase behind the driver seat and opened the door. As he sat, his wallet pinched his right buttock. He pulled the billfold from his pocket, straightening the legs of his crisp dress pants. Then, after failing at his attempts to put it back in its rightful place, tossed it on the seat next to him.

  Like a daydream, the wallet flopped open to a snapshot of Joy taken on the same day as the one on his desk. The countless times he’s removed it from the plastic to admire her beauty had weathered the picture. Joy pointed her face to the side. Her eyes were dancing and her smile was ever-present.

  Eric was thirty-two when he met his wife at a society dinner. She was more than a decade younger and malleable—a very good quality in a wife. Her own mother instructed Joy on the finer points of domesticity in preparation for her eventual marriage and she knew the role she’d play throughout her adult life.

  Once a pageant contender, Joy’s physical attributes were as perfect as her personality. She had blonde hair that cascaded down the length of her back and ex
pressive rich brown eyes that Eric found endearing no matter the emotion. There was not a color that didn’t match her complexion, though, to this day, Eric loved the way she looked in this picture, wearing soft pink with a light gray cardigan draped over her shoulders. She wasn’t too tall or short. Thick or thin. Nor was Joy overtly outgoing versus shy. Her inherent consideration for others drove flocks of women to Joy’s side in search of friendship. Men vied for her attention because she was too kind to ask them to shove off.

  Her fortune was enviable, as was the envy of others towards the man she’d accept a proposal from. Never a pauper, Eric’s business acumen was the shot in the arm Joy’s parents needed to encourage her to take his hand. She’d never not understood the concept that marriages were for mutual gain and love came later. Although, by the time they made it to the alter, Eric was hopelessly in love with Joy, to the point that he’d wondered what might have come to pass if he hadn’t proven himself worthy of her. Was the truest of love able to overcome social boundaries? It was fortunate they’d never had to find out.

  In this day and age, it mattered not. At eighteen, Rose’s trust was worth ten-fold what Joy had brought into their marriage. His eldest grandson stood to inherit the earth; hearth, home, land, and the wealth created for him therein.

  Since his daughter frittered about, making one poor decision after the next, Eric saw no reason to believe that Rose felt a calling for the kind of love he’d shared with her mother. Rose disagreed with marrying because she refused to be tied down to one person. Responsible for making them happy or held accountable for her actions. Those unbecoming qualities grew fierce through her teen years. Today was not the first time Eric considered cutting off Rose for her own benefit. Gears ground as he pondered limiting Rose’s resources to see if she’d be more obedient, less spoiled.

  In the office, Eric fought his instinct to grasp Rose by the upper arms. To shake her and make her act like the woman she resembled. To bring back the happiness his life lacked. Being left with the likeness of the woman he longed to live out his years with was unbearable. Eric shuttered himself in an effort to isolate his grief while in his daughter’s presence. Her personality was the cross Eric bore for not leaving Joy well enough alone.

  All his wife wanted was to grant Eric’s wish to have a son. Joy endured years of continual disappointment. Like any man, he’d become dismayed by their unyielding misfortune, yet never with his wife. Many times Eric watched Joy smile through sadness wishing he was able to shield her from month after month of heartbreak.

  He stared at the yellowing image. Joy’s hair, pulled back on the top, had looping curls from her hot rollers. The compromised updo gave her an air of youth juxtaposed with civility. It was only right before they’d learned she was expecting again that Joy began wearing her hair in a twist more often. It was an attractive look on her—most anything was. However, Eric was sure that whatever made her mature in that year had to do with carrying his son. That the boy was honing the best parts of his wife into a cohesive unit, preparing her for the challenge of raising his heir; nurturing the man who’d claim his future at Kingsbrier’s helm.

  Eric slid the image from the plastic slot and unfolded it. The opposite side was Joy’s reason for gratitude: a thirteen-year-old Rose. Moments before, they’d told her about Joy’s pregnancy and the look of shock and excitement on his daughter’s face was more emotion than he’d ever seen. Eric turned the photograph around. Joy’s swirling script miniatured so that it fit with ease on the back.

  “My darling, Rose’s excitement about the baby is overwhelming. It reminded me of the day I told you we were going to be parents. I know how much you want a little boy, but I’ve already been blessed with someone who is a little bit you and a little bit me. That the Lord granted us one more makes my life the most content it will ever be.”

  “What do you want this stable to look like?” With no one else on the road, Ross turned to study Rose, who was sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his truck. She’d slicked her flaxen hair back in a ponytail and wore a red gingham top with spaghetti straps. There were several tiny white buttons at the neckline. Ross wasn’t sure they had the strength to withstand the expanse of her chest given he way the fabric pulled taught. Likewise, it had been hard not to notice when she’s stepped into the cab that her denim shorts rode higher than Ross was comfortable with. His intention was to help a friend out and Rose’s attire reminded him of all the things friends weren’t supposed to do with one another.

  It didn’t help that he’d been anxious to see her this morning. Cavanaugh Construction had finished up the kitchen. After Rose’s final inspection—when she threw her arms around Ross as she told him how flawless it had turned out—the crew moved on. Ross had no reason to show up at her house. He hadn’t sufficient pretense to leave another job site and check the progress at Kingsbrier, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

  “How should I know what it’ll need. I don’t know the first thing about horses. That’s why I have you.” She figured that Ross was the best person to talk her through the process. He knew about building things and horses. That made him her expert.

  “And you want to purchase Bramble, the feistiest of any that I’ve ever met?” Ross shook his head. “She’s not the best first horse for you.”

  “Hmm… I thought we were well suited,” she said with much chagrin.

  “A plucky rider and a plucky horse don’t necessarily go well together. You’ll find out fast which one of you has the harder head.”

  “So what do you suggest I do? We are on the way to the farm and I told the owner that I’m interested in purchasing her.”

  “You were specific, about Bramble?”

  “Of course. I’ve made my mind up.”

  Ross moved his lone arm that steered the truck and rubbed the stubble at his chin. The road dipped on Rose’s side and the car bounced, gravity lifting her up from the seat.

  “Put your hands back on the wheel!”

  He looped his thumb of the opposite hand at five o’clock. Undisturbed, he commented, “That is why you aren’t buying Bramble.”

  Rose crossed her arms tightly against her chest, refusing to budge.

  The pick-up navigated several more turns on the county roads winding up at the farm they’d picnicked at. When Rose slid off the seat she pulled her short-shorts back down. Ross got out of the truck after she did, his gaze trailing down her legs to those stamped cowboy boots she’d worn the night they’d met. He pulled a baseball cap over his eyes so that no one noticed if his attention strayed to her body.

  Rose had made it up to the post and beam fence, standing up on the first rung and looking off into the distance. Bramble was out in the farthest field alone. Rose frowned. It was warm today. The post-noon sun was beating down something fierce. There were few trees to shade them in that area and she didn’t want to walk that far in the heat.

  “Come on,” Ross put his hands on her hips and set her back down on the dusty grass like a child.

  Rose sucked in her gut as she felt his firm palms encase her middle. She bit the inside of her cheek when he let go and began walking away.

  “Where are you going? Bramble’s the other way.”

  “For good reason. I told the old man to put her out in that pasture. No sense in her getting in the way. Or worse, fighting for attention and kicking the horse you do want.”

  “Bramble is the horse I want.” Rose trailed after him, skip-running to catch up since there seemed to be no stopping Ross from his present course.

  His weathered tan work boots came to rest in front of a green stable door that he pushed at with his fingers extended flat. The smell of fresh hay hit Rose, followed by the sounds of soft whinnies and chuffing. She cocked her chin, eager to know what lay beyond the threshold.

  “Oh, my,” Rose whispered, drawn into the stable in a trance-like state. Her tentative toe stepped on the old wooden floorboards, worn to a polish by generations of boots scuffing across them.

  Th
e horse behind the half-door was sixteen hands tall with a deep brown coat that bordered on black as it dropped into the shadows. A white diamond crested from her forehead to her muzzle which came straight out of the stall toward Rose.

  Rose backed away and touched the animal’s soft face all in one motion. As it nuzzled into her palm, Rose pushed back the slightest bit, stroking her cheek and feeling hot breath against her forearm. The animal endeared herself to Rose with little effort.

  They communicated in a silence broken only by the sounds of the stable. Rose felt the pressure in the room change as the horse’s heavy lungs expanded. When its large brown eyes blinked closed, the brush of her eyelashes was soft. The click-clack of hooves reminded Rose of the way a clock tick-tocked.

  “Sugar or carrots?” Ross interrupted.

  His question was easy to answer. Sweets were Rose’s lifeline. However, her girl deserved better, so she took the long stalk instead of the cube and held it up for the horse to munch on.

  “Flatten your palm or you’re going to get nipped,” he instructed.

  The carrot, leafy top and all, disappeared into the horse’s mouth, leaving Rose with a slimy hand that she wiped against her bottom.

  “She’s real gentle and forgiving,” Ross remarked.

  Most people said the same about him.

  “Her name’s Lavender,” he said, continuing on when he saw Rose’s interest piquing. “She’s an American Saddlebred, less than ten years old if I recall right. No maladies or injuries, except that scar from where Bramble kicked her a year past. Doc Marley stitched her up and did a right good job of tending to it. Her knees and teeth are good. Great lines; her momma, Mauve, is over there.” Ross pointed to a far stall, then he redirected Rose to the paddock next door. “This is her sister, Lilac.”

  “They all have purple names!” Rose exclaimed as if the convention was as sweet as the animal.”