Here With You Page 11

  His brother shouldn’t have to give up his income to help out with the farm bills. That was Brady’s job; to run the farm, take care of the house and his mother. Carter deserved to have the life he wanted, not be forced into living on a farm for the rest of his life.

  While his future may have been carved out for him as the oldest son, he didn’t mind dedicating his life to Marshall Farm. It was his life, and Brady couldn’t imagine doing anything else with it.

  Working outside in the fields, watching seeds turn into tiny plants and saplings, and later produce fruits and vegetables he and the community would pick and bring home to eat, nourished something deep inside him. This was his calling.

  And while computers didn’t scare him, being stuck inside behind one all day held no desire to him.

  Brady tucked a sleeve of crackers in his shirt pocket and dug around the silverware drawer for a spoon. He and his brother weren’t slobs, but they didn’t have much time lately to clean the house. Or do the dishes.

  Claudia had come over a few times to help with laundry and tidy up the kitchen. He owed her big time.

  Tapping his knuckles on his mother’s door, he called out in a soft voice, “I have butternut squash soup.” He pushed the door open with his hip and studied his mother’s frail frame.

  The bedside light was on, her reading glasses next to the lamp and an unopened book. Alexis brought a bag of books and magazines last week. As far as Brady knew, his mother hadn’t rustled up energy enough to flip through them.

  “Mom.” He pushed her glasses out of the way and set the soup on top of the book. “It’s time to eat.” The sun had set an hour ago and the last time he’d offered her food, it had been high in the sky.

  She ate a piece of toast at lunch and said it gave her a stomachache. Torn between forcing her to eat more for energy or letting her be, he’d caved and left her to sleep.

  When his father was dying—not that his mother was, he had to remind himself—Dorothy did all the caring while Brady and Carter filled in for him, running the farm. It had been August, and blueberry season was in full swing.

  Brady had never worked as hard or such long days in his life. He didn’t want to be a failure to his father or his mother and figured out problems on his own as they arose. He’d been working side-by-side with his father since he could walk, so it hadn’t been anything new. But he didn’t have his father to bounce ideas off of or to ask clarifying questions.

  Douglas and Dorothy hadn’t doubted his ability to run the farm. Not once. In all his grief of losing his father, he’d managed a sense of pride as well, not wanting to let his parents down. It was what got him through his father’s death.

  That fall, during his senior year, he’d decided not to go away to college and earn a degree in agriculture. Instead, he skimped on his studies, doing just enough to ensure he’d still graduate the following spring, and spent every waking minute working on the farm, making his father and mother proud.

  Looking down at his mother, her hair thinning from the chemotherapy and radiation, he realized he had it easy back then. His mother had the brunt of the work, caring for their father, knowing he was dying and there was nothing she could do for him.

  “Mom,” he said again, gently, but loud enough to wake her. “I have soup.” He sat at the edge of her bed and nudged her side.

  “Hmm?” Her eyes fluttered before opening and squinted in the soft light from the lamp. “I already ate.”

  “You had half a piece of toast six hours ago. Mrs. Le Blanc made butternut squash soup.”

  “Ours?”

  Brady smiled. “She was sure to tell me the squash came from our farm stand.”

  “I’ll call her.” His mother dug her elbows in the mattress and struggled to sit up. “Thank her.”

  “Eat first.” He helped his mother into a seated position and fluffed the pillow behind her back.

  Carter came up with the ingenious idea to use his laptop desk as an eating tray for the times when their mom couldn’t get out of bed. Brady reached for it between the bed and the nightstand and placed it on his mother’s lap.

  He’d learned after a few trials and errors not to fill the bowl too full. Not only did his mother not eat much, it often spilled in the process of delivery.

  “It shouldn’t be too hot.” He picked up the spoon and held it to her lips.

  “I’m not an invalid.” She took the spoon from him and fed herself. A good sign.

  Her chemo treatment was three days ago, and she finally had a little life in her. Brady dreaded bringing her for her next treatment in the morning. If this round was like the last, his mother would be vomiting and in pain for a solid forty-eight hours after.

  “I brought you crackers as well.” He opened the sleeve and placed it next to her bowl.

  “Thank you.” She closed her eyes and leaned back into the pillow, a lonely tear escaping her eye.

  “Mom?”

  She sniffed. “I’m okay.”

  No. She wasn’t. “Tell me what I can do.”

  Opening her eyes, she cast a sad smile at him. “You’re doing it, honey.”

  “I wish I could do more.”

  She set the spoon in the bowl and blinked, her eyes closing for a few beats before opening again.

  “You do too much. Always have.” Reaching for his hand, she squeezed, not as hard as she used to do. “I worry about you.”

  “No need.” He patted her hand. “I’m a big boy.”

  “Since your father...” she trailed off as if speaking wiped the little energy she had from her body, “died, you’ve sacrificed a lot. Your life.”

  “My life is here. On the farm. You know I love this land as much as you and Dad.” Probably more.

  “I want you to be happy.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re alone.”

  Shit. He knew where his mother was going with this. The wife and kids thing. She wanted it for him, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to settle down to please his mother or because that was what he wanted.

  A year ago he could have honestly told his mother he hadn’t given it much thought. Now. Not so much. Not with his friends—even if he didn’t socialize much—finding love and getting married.

  Alexis. Ty. Hope.

  “I’m never alone, Mom. Besides, you and Carter are always underfoot,” he teased. “There are always people at the farm.” Changing the subject, he pointed to her bowl. “You need to eat.”

  “Field workers and customers. Not the same.” She picked up her spoon and sipped her soup.

  The shrill of his cell phone in his pocket startled them both. “I want that soup gone by the time I come back.”

  He slipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out his cell, answering it on his way out of his mother’s room.

  “Hello?”

  “Brady. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

  He cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear as he ladled a bowl of soup for himself. “Not at all, Mrs. Le Blanc. I was just feeding Mom some of your soup. I’m about to indulge in a bowl myself.”

  “Glad to hear Dorothy is eating. How is she feeling today?”

  “Better now that the chemo has worn off. She has another round tomorrow so...”

  “It breaks my heart. I’m glad the doctors were able to detect the cancer before it spread.”

  “Me too.”

  The kitchen door swung open bringing in a rush of cold air, Carter following behind carrying a pizza box.

  “I had planned on spending this weekend making casseroles for you and your family to freeze before Henry and I leave for vacation on Monday, but I’ve come down with the stomach flu, and I don’t want to risk contaminating any of your food.”

  “You’re too kind and have done more than necessary already, Mrs. Le Blanc. You need to take care of yourself. The flight to California is long.”

  Since retiring last year, Henry and Claudia had been flying out to Ben’s family’s vineyard in Napa twice a year
. They came back tanned and refreshed, happier than ever. Brady wished his mother could do the same. At least go away somewhere warm during the winter with girlfriends.

  She didn’t have many close friends, spending all her time on the farm. The women in town were nice to her though, all calling up when they heard about the diagnosis.

  “I asked Grace if she could fill in for a while.”

  “Grace?” He couldn’t picture her in a kitchen. Fine linen tablecloths and waiters in bow ties seemed more her style.

  Carter flipped open the pizza box and shoved a slice of pepperoni in his face. Brady shook his head and held up the bowl of soup. “How’s Mom?” Carter whispered.

  Brady shrugged and nodded. “The same,” he mouthed.

  “I taught her a few recipes while she lived here. She doesn’t like my help anymore and has learned to be a fairly decent cook. She’ll come by tomorrow with something for your family.”

  “She doesn’t have to do that.”

  “If Dorothy is going in for another round of chemo tomorrow, you’ll need our help. She’ll come by with dinner for you and Carter after she closes up.”

  “Well, thank you. That was kind of you. Both of you.”

  “Give your mother our love.”

  “I will. Take care of yourself.”

  He disconnected and tossed his cell on the counter so he could pick up his bowl with two hands.

  “You’re saying no to pizza for a bowl of healthy soup? Shit. I hope I’m never as old as you.”

  “I’ll have a slice when I’m done with this. I couldn’t shove pizza in my mouth while talking on the phone.”

  “Sure you can.” Carter took a bite of pizza, the cheese stretching from his hand to his mouth. “I do it all the time,” he said with a mouthful.

  He’d make a remark on his brother’s lack of a girlfriend if he had a leg to stand on. Carter, despite his lack of manners, managed to always have a date or a girl at his side. Including Grace.

  Speaking of. “Mrs. Le Blanc is down with the flu, so she won’t be cooking for us anymore.”

  “That’s too bad. Aren’t they leaving soon anyway?”

  “On Monday.”

  “We can order takeout until they get back.”

  “They’ll be gone until Christmas. We’re not eating takeout for six weeks. Mom needs healthy food.”

  “I can’t cook worth shit, and you’re not much better.”

  “Claudia asked Grace to make some meals.”

  “Grace?” Carter laughed and wiped his hands on a paper towel. “I didn’t know she cooked.”

  “She’s bringing dinner tomorrow. I’ll tell her we’re all set though.”

  “What’s that saying about a gift horse and its mouth?” Carter opened the fridge and pulled out two beers. “Want one?”

  “Sure.” Brady took the bottle and set his bowl in the sink. “Thanks for the pizza,” he said, helping himself to a slice.

  They didn’t order out often. No one delivered in this area and the time it took to drive to a restaurant and order, and then get back home again, they might as well had boiled a pot of water for spaghetti.

  The nearest pizza joint was twenty minutes away. Maybe he could learn how to make homemade pizza. Their mother was a good cook but kept to the old-fashioned classics. Meatloaf, roasts, chicken, shepherds pie, lasagna. For dessert, pumpkin and apple pies, and oatmeal raisin cookies.

  Good home cooked meals using as many of their homegrown fruits and vegetables as possible.

  “I’m gonna contact a few clients. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “You just want out of kitchen duty.”

  “Damn straight.”

  Brady didn’t mind. There wasn’t much to clean up anyway. The soup needed to be stored in a container, the crockpot washed out, and the pizza box tossed in the recycling bin.

  “Mom’s got chemo at eight. We need to leave by seven.”

  “I’ll be ready.” Carter stole one more slice from the box and padded down the hall.

  So would Brady, physically. Emotionally, he’d fake it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  GRACE REALLY WISHED her mother hadn’t volunteered her to cook for the Marshalls. She couldn’t say no though. She’d go straight to hell for refusing to cook for a woman battling cancer, even if she’d been a cranky old bat toward Grace in the past.

  She didn’t have much time to plan, prepare, and cook after her mom had called last night. Scrolling through her Pinterest page until midnight, she’d searched for an easy and wholesome meal she could prepare for the Marshalls that would also transport well.

  Lasagna popped up a dozen times. She’d made it before. Boil noodles. Mix ricotta, eggs, cheese, and herbs, dump some jarred sauce over it. Done.

  There was absolutely nothing wrong with jarred sauce, but she knew Mrs. Marshall made her own from the bazillion tomato plants they had. Grace had to at least attempt it, so she searched sauce recipes and found one with nearly a thousand five-star reviews, using canned tomatoes.

  Before she opened the shop this morning, she’d sped to the store, bought all the necessary ingredients and put the sauce on to simmer. The good thing about working practically downstairs from her apartment, she could run up every hour or so to give the sauce a stir. The blend of tomatoes, garlic, and herbs smacked her in the face every time she opened the apartment door.

  Since no one had come into The Closet in the past hour, heck, since lunch, at five o’clock she flipped the sign on the front door to Sorry, We’re Closed and wrangled into her winter coat. There wasn’t much time to layer all the ingredients and get it over to the Marshalls before dinner.

  Running up the stairs to her apartment, she remembered her mother had said Mrs. Marshall had chemotherapy this morning and wouldn’t be eating, but Carter and Brady would be hungry. They’d expect her to burn dinner, or to be a no-show, or to be an epic failure in some way. Alexis thought that way about her, and since she was so close to the Marshalls, Grace figured they’d feel the same.

  She unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside. Once again the aroma of garlic and herbs filled the air. The reviews had to be right. If the sauce tasted anything close to how it smelled, she’d totally impress the Marshalls.

  Not that she cared. Carter would eat anything. Toss him a bologna sandwich and he’d be in heaven. Mrs. Marshall probably wouldn’t be hungry today, but Brady would, and for some reason, his opinion mattered to her.

  Shrugging out of her coat, she tossed it on one of the kitchen chairs and opened the fridge for the beef and sausage. She filled a pot of water to cook the noodles and preheated a pan for the meat. While that cooked, she clicked on her phone to find the recipe and mixed the ricotta, eggs, cheese, and seasonings.

  Bustling around in the kitchen had been fun in her parents’ home, but making something for someone else was even more exciting. Like making the dip for the reader group last week, mixing together ingredients and watching her friends’ faces light up when they tasted it. Like finding the perfect outfit for a customer, doing things for others that brought a smile to their face made her happy. Maybe she wasn’t the selfish bitch her reputation had caused her to believe.

  Still nervous about straying from the recipe, she measured the oregano, basil, and salt, and added another clove of garlic to the cheese mixture. The sauce had required four cloves. She thought it looked like a lot, but the smell... To die for.

  Giving the mixture one last stir, she checked on the meat, stirring that as well, and dropped the noodles in the boiling water. She’d gotten the multi-tasking thing down. Sort of.

  While the noodles cooked, she ran back to her bedroom to change out of her skirt and blouse, noticing splotches of red on her sleeve. Maybe she should have changed before cooking. She tossed her lavender blouse in her dry cleaning pile and dug out a pair of black leggings from her drawer.

  Only a few weeks into the retail business and she already regretted having so many dry clean only clothes. Fine for Pa
ris, not so great for Maine. In the morning she’d contact Arianna about designing fashionable blouses and dresses that could be tossed in the washer. Or at least hand washed. Maria and Lacey’s designs were washer friendly, but not as dressy.

  Going for super casual tonight, Grace pulled on her favorite sweatshirt and finger-combed her hair back into a ponytail. Something else she should have done before finishing dinner. She prayed there were no loose hairs in the food.

  “Crap.” Remembering the noodles, she ran to the kitchen, still holding her hair with one hand. The sauce had bubbled over and the noodles looked more than cooked. Quickly tying her hair back, she scoured her tiny kitchen with her eyes searching for the strainer.

  “Where are you?” Once her hands were free she squatted in front of the cabinet where she kept her pots and pans and spotted it.

  A few minutes later, the noodles were drained and cooling, the meat had joined the sauce, and she was ready to put it all together. There was no time to taste anything. Assembling it just as the recipe listed, she stepped back to admire her masterpiece.

  “Not bad, Le Blanc.” She covered it with foil and scribbled the heating directions on a post-it note.

  Careful not to fall on her ass on the way to her car and drop the lasagna, Grace took her time down the steps. Was it only twenty-two steps? It felt like at least eighty-nine.

  It was just past six o’clock when she’d pulled up to the Marshall farmhouse, and the sun had already set some time ago. Her headlights must have triggered her arrival. By the time she closed the car door behind her, Brady was at her side.

  “Thank you for making this. You didn’t have to.” Brady took the pan from her.

  “Yeah. I kind of did.”

  He paused in his steps and cocked his head toward her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “I’m kidding. It was no trouble at all. Mom told me about your mom. I’m sorry she’s suffering. How did today go?”

  Grace hadn’t meant to start a conversation. Drop off dinner and go was her plan.

  “Today was... rough.” Brady closed his mouth and sucked in his lips as if trying to keep too much information from spilling out.