Here With Me Read online

  “Look at me, Melinda.” I do as she says, and I can’t imagine her being insecure a day in her life. “Deacon is not from here. He’s from Dallas. But he’s a good man. He believes in helping women, which speaks very highly of his mind and his heart. Stop second-guessing yourself.”

  Deacon.

  A pit is in my stomach. She thinks I’m talking about Deacon.

  “Right…”

  I guess we could all start by being a little more honest with each other, and I thought Sawyer and I were ready to come out and be official. I’m way less certain now.

  The problem with everyone knowing the truth is dealing with everyone’s opinions, and while I’m confident in my ability to stand up for myself, it would help if I didn’t feel so damn unsure of him.

  I take another drink of wine trying to ease this pain in my chest. What will it take for him to finally trust me? What if he never does? Can I live with that?

  16

  Sawyer

  Mindy’s cheek is against my chest, and her breath gently swirls in and out. She holds me like the little anchor she’s always been, and warmth settles my stomach.

  I almost didn’t come here tonight.

  Everything in me wanted to stay in my bedroom and keep myself on lockdown until I figure this shit out. Sitting in the darkness, looking at my window, I knew I couldn’t leave her hanging again. Not after last night. When I got here, I could taste the wine on her lips. Still, her kisses, her little moans, sliding my hands along her breasts, sinking deep between her thighs… She calms the storm in my mind. She soothes the beast raging in my chest.

  I sat by that pond all afternoon trying to regain my equilibrium. What happened? Can I control it? Why now? I’ve finally decided to put the past behind me, take a chance, move forward with my life… And it all comes crashing down. After so many years.

  Mindy makes a soft noise and dips her chin, her soft cheek sliding against my skin. My arms tighten around her, and I’m not sleeping tonight. I can’t move forward with her without answers to these questions.

  I think about timing, and I want to believe part of the problem is taking a day off and not focusing on work. Exercise, manual labor, these things keep my mind here in the present. I don’t have time for brooding when I’m concentrating on this year’s harvest or next year’s crop.

  Tomorrow will be different. I’ll get back in the saddle, work hard our last week in the fields, and this blip on the radar will be forgotten.

  “You’d think as hard as we work, lifting a six-year-old all day would be easy.” Taron’s leaning against the old red Chevy attaching a canvas bag to the end of a twister-picker.

  “Dove will give you a workout.” The sun is low and golden in the sky, and I drop baskets in the bed of my truck. “I thought she’d given up Angelina Ballerina.”

  “She has.” He leans to the side, stretching his back. “We rented a cabin out on Darby Lake Friday. I spent all day yesterday tossing her in the water.”

  My jaw tightens, but I don’t mention Mindy and I were out in the same spot Friday night.

  “What did you do Friday night?” He picks up another picker to repeat the process.

  “I was around.”

  “I didn’t see you here.” Leon walks up, dropping a load of crates against the wall. “You must’ve gotten in late.”

  “Late?” Taron’s brows rise and he grins at me. “Sawyer was out late on a Friday night? After getting up at the ass crack of dawn?”

  They’re both looking at me, waiting, and I shrug. “Just driving.”

  I push the memory of Mindy’s head in my lap out of my mind in case they see it in my eyes.

  Crossing his arms, Taron lifts his chin. “Where were you yesterday?”

  “You are not my CO.” I take the crates Leon dropped and move them beside the sorting tables.

  “I don’t have to be your commanding officer to know you’re up to something.”

  “I saw him.” Leon returns with another load of crates, and my stomach tenses. “Out at the pond.”

  “The pond? I didn’t see any fish.” Taron carries the assembled pickers and leans them against the truck. “Not like you to go fishing and not catch anything.”

  “You don’t have anything better to do than worry how I spend my time?”

  He props an arm on the side of the truck bed. “Why’re you getting so riled up?”

  “I don’t feel like playing twenty questions.” Dropping the last of the crates, I leave them to finish preparing for work tomorrow.

  This morning when I left Mindy in bed, she was curled up as always at my side. Her hand was in mine, and for a minute, I dreamed of a life with her. When I got back to the house, my sister was in the kitchen making breakfast. She didn’t even notice or didn’t comment when I came in the back door. She probably thought I’d been up since sunrise like always.

  Dove danced around in her Sunday dress, waiting to go to church to sing with her little children’s choir. I opted out of services this morning, not really wanting to see Mindy or her mother or the people I’ve known all my life.

  These people depend on me. Hell, the whole fucking town depends on me, and what happened yesterday nags at my insides. If I’m coming apart, it’s not a broken leg we can wait six weeks to knit. It’s scary, and in view of our family’s history, it could jeopardize everything.

  I don’t need people watching me like a time-bomb about to go off—or worse.

  Noel’s inside making supper, and I walk the length of our wrap-around porch. When I reach the corner that faces the hill, I stop. It’s a beautiful view, trees stretching up in perfect rows to a pink and blue sunset. I grew up watching that sun go down, listening to my daddy tell me about the crops or the seasons or whether he expected an early frost.

  Tracing the perimeter is a narrow dirt road.

  It’s the road that leads over the hill where we lost our mamma.

  It’s the road our daddy stood on when he took his life.

  My stomach clenches, and I rub a hand over my eyes exhaling deeply. I’m not like him. I can’t even understand doing something like that. One bad day isn’t enough to pass judgment. I have to wait.

  I just can’t risk hurting anyone.

  Our week marches by with the driving force of deadlines, workers on a schedule, and the looming Peach Festival. We’re up before dawn, leading the crews down the rows. Climbing ladders and moving fast, cleaning every limb we can reach.

  Cleaning peach trees is backbreaking work. We fill the baskets I loaded in the trucks, then I drive them to the shed for sorting. It’s our last week, and we don’t stop for anything.

  At night, I’m so tired, I don’t have time for much past dinner. I’ve texted Mindy a few times checking in, but everybody in Harristown knows how harvest is—grueling.

  Noel supervises the teens during the day, and in the evening, she works on her all-natural, peach-themed cosmetics line. I’ve already eaten crow about that one. I honestly didn’t think it would be as successful as it is, but she’s making enough money she doesn’t have to stay here.

  “What’s this?” I stop by the table where she’s filling small, round pots with what looks like pale peach goo.

  “Sugar peach lip scrub.”

  “Sugar peach?” I hold up one of the small pots, and she takes it right back out of my hand.

  “Don’t mess with my inventory. I need to make at least two hundred of these.”

  “Two hundred, shit.”

  She put Dove to bed an hour ago.

  “It’s one of my hot items. That and the coconut peach lip mask.” She’s holding a large sheet of stickers, carefully peeling them off and applying them to the jars.

  “Need some help?”

  She squints a light brown eye up at me. “How steady are your hands?”

  “Pretty steady.” I pick up a small jar and a sheet of labels.

  “Hang on.” She jumps to her feet, which only puts her head at my shoulder. Her dark hair is all on top o
f her head the way girls wear it now. “I’m going to watch you do one. If you screw it up, you’re fired.”

  “Damn, you’re a tough boss.”

  “I don’t have time to redo them.”

  Taking my time, I peel the white label with a line drawing of the sun coming over a tree from the sheet and hold it over the small pot. “Just like this?”

  “Like this.” She holds up a finished one, and I nod. I’m on the right track.

  “You’re making me nervous.”

  She chuffs a laugh. “You’ve never been nervous a day in your life. Quit stalling and let me see if you can do it.”

  Resting my finger against the glass, I apply the label perfectly around the tiny jar. “Boom.”

  “Okay, you can help me.” She drops back into her chair and resumes filling the waiting pots. “What’s got you so interested in helping me?”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk.”

  Round eyes flicker to mine, worried. “What’s wrong?” She lowers her hands, and I shake my head, placing a hand on her smooth knee.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Jesus, can’t I talk to you?”

  “You never do.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Her chin drops, and she gives me a look from under her lowered brow. “You barely talk to anybody.”

  “I talk to you about things.”

  “You didn’t even talk to me about Taron.”

  Shifting in my seat, I pick up a small glass jar and the sheet of labels. “I didn’t know what to tell you about that. What happened to us was hard to explain.”

  “Taron was able to explain it.” She goes back to her work. “So what’s on your mind?”

  “If I needed to be gone for a little while—” Again, her hands drop, her eyes going wide. “Settle down. If I needed to take a trip, for instance, do you feel like you could keep the place going?”

  She sniffs and pokes out her lips. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere.” Because I’m not convinced I need to go anywhere—for all I know, I had a bad day. “I’m thinking theoretically. You and Mrs. Jenny and everybody have made plans. It got me thinking, maybe we should—”

  “First…” She holds up an index finger. “You’re not going anywhere, and we don’t need to plan for that because you’re going to be here.”

  A smile curls my lips, and I’m reminded why I’ve never worried about my little sister’s ability to take care of herself. Noel’s a pistol.

  “Second,” she continues, holding up another finger, “You left me in charge once before, and the place didn’t fall apart. Of course, I can keep things going.”

  “Alright. I didn’t know if having Dove or running your business might have changed things for you.”

  “They have not.” Her eyes flash a moment, then she returns to her work, tapping the small pot of lip mask or lip scrub on the table and muttering to herself. “I don’t even know why you’d suggest such a thing. Like you’d ever leave your family…”

  “Hey,” I stand, touching her bent knee. “I love you, sis.”

  “Love you.” She catches my wrist as I’m going. “Hey, do me a favor and open the store for me.”

  “What?” I pause, looking down at her. “Is your arm broke?”

  “It’s been closed since last fall. I don’t want to see any mice or rats or… critters.” She does a shiver, and I shake my head.

  “We sealed it up tight when we finished it. You don’t keep anything there. It’s fine.”

  She looks up at me with those puppy dog eyes. “Please?”

  “What’s wrong with Taron?”

  “Oh, he’s working with Dove on all her pageant stuff.” She drops her chin. “I feel silly.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “You’re embarrassed.”

  “Sawyer.” She cuts those eyes up at me. “Just help me out, okay?”

  Taron appears around the corner, grinning. “Tell me when you’re going, and I’ll be your backup.” He slaps me on the shoulder before heading to the sink. “We’ve faced rats before, right?”

  I look back at my sister. “When do you need me to do it?”

  “Just before the weekend. I don’t expect anybody before the festival starts.”

  “I’ll let you know when I go.”

  17

  Mindy

  The most I get from Sawyer is a text this week telling me harvest is kicking his ass, and he looks forward to seeing me soon.

  “I’m at my house,” I sing-song to my phone. “You can always come over like you’ve been doing the last few days.”

  He doesn’t, and my pride won’t let me go to him.

  So I proudly sleep alone every night in my bed with my window unlocked and a lead weight in my stomach.

  On Tuesday night I cried.

  I’ve seriously got to stop.

  Deacon is texting, asking if I’m ready to follow-up on my Dallas plan. I can’t tell him I want to put it on hold again after his pep talk. But if I start planning for Dallas in this frame of mind, I’ll leave Harristown for good. Of course, five seconds later I take it all back thinking of all the reasons to stay.

  I have to stay and see this through. Sawyer and I have come so far, we’re so close, I can’t move to Dallas, even temporarily, when I feel like every moment matters.

  The festival kicks off Thursday. The Peach Ball is coming, and I’m his date. As far as I know that hasn’t changed. In the meantime, I’ve got to finish the poster. Andre texts me every day asking for it, but I ditched all my starter ideas.

  When I look at the photo I took of Sawyer in the orchard, I want to cry. He’s so beautiful, and I can still feel his arms around me. I can still hear his deep voice telling me I’m beautiful or he wants to kiss me.

  Ugh, I want to throw it all out and do another still life, Vase with Peaches. Andre would kill me. Based on my preliminary ideas, he has planned the entire festival around a “Falling in love in the orchard” theme. He keeps asking why we didn’t think of this sooner…

  Possibly because it’s the first year I’ve had a real chance at owning my love? It’s the first year we got so close to coming out and sharing it with everyone?

  The senior beauty pageant is in full planning mode, swimsuit competition included. I have no idea how this is going to play out or what the families are going to say. The elderly residents say they don’t care—they’re tired of being treated like children who have no free will, and these old ladies will walk out in their swimsuits if they choose.

  Clearly a geriatric revolution is brewing, and I can only presume it’s fueled by Viagra and lube. I don’t know why they think I object. I think it’s a fun idea, and it’s bound to sell tickets.

  So far, it’s shaping up to be the craziest harvest on record.

  “I’d give anything to see Debbie Turner in a swimsuit at her age.” Mrs. Irene laughs as I help her get ready for bed.

  All around her room are pictures of her family and paintings of flowers and angels. She wants it this way, even if she can’t see them.

  “Everyone’s saying it’s a contest between Ms. Wilson and Ms. Turner.” I hold her hand as she climbs into her adjustable twin bed. “Mr. Hebert isn’t even a judge.”

  She leans her head toward me, narrowing her eyes. “It’s like he had this scenario in mind the whole time.”

  “So he can say he’s banging Ms. Silver Peach!” I start to giggle as much at the name as the conspiracy.

  Mrs. Irene puts her hand over her laugh, shaking her head. “Just because we’re old doesn’t mean we can’t manipulate the system.”

  “If only we could leak the story to the public. We might sell more tickets.”

  Mr. Grady agreed to give the nursing home seventy percent of the profits, since he’s slapping Grady’s Used Cars on everything for free.

  Mrs. Irene holds her clasped hands in front of her nose as she laughs. “It’s like The Silver and the Restless!”

  “Days of our Silver Lives?”

 
“The Bold and the Silver!”

  “Yes!” I cry, and she closes her eyes as we both laugh.

  It feels good to laugh away the heaviness in my chest. A few tears are in my eyes, but they’re good tears. They’re not worrying about Sawyer nonstop tears.

  “Come and hold my hands.” Mrs. Irene holds hers out, palms up.

  I climb onto the side of her bed and place both my palms on top of hers. “It’s been a few days since we’ve had any time alone.”

  “I’ve been dying to ask about Sawyer LaGrange. Why did you keep it a secret? He’s a wonderful man.”

  “He is…” My throat tightens, but I swallow my sadness. “He’s really, really wonderful. He’s also guarded and closed and a complete loner. He ghosts me for days, and then he’ll show up like nothing happened.”

  Her slim brows furrow. “What’s this about ghosts?”

  I shake my head, squeezing her hands. “It’s an expression. Basically it means he’ll disappear for days with no word. Like a ghost.”

  She tilts her head to the side, thinking. “That’s very clever. Did you make that up?”

  “It’s been around a while.”

  “Your generation is so creative with language. Ghosting.” Her expression turns serious just as fast. “What does he do while he’s ghosting?”

  I shrug, even though she can’t see. “He just… goes inward. He doesn’t call or text or anything. He’s just silent.”

  “So you kept this relationship a secret because you’re not happy?”

  “Actually, being with him is the happiest I’ve ever been.” Again, my silly eyes heat, and I struggle to keep the wobble out of my voice. “I kept it a secret because I don’t need everyone’s opinions on what I should or shouldn’t do…”

  “And?”

  My stomach squirms. This is the part I hate. “I’m not sure he wants people to know about us.”

  Her lips press into a thin line, and her eyes blink down. It’s impossible for Mrs. Irene to keep her feelings from appearing on her face.