A Risk Worth Taking (7 page)

Ford
snickered.

“City
life’s made you a shit-talker,” Casey said. “Let’s see if you can back it up.”

I
stuck my chin out. “Name the time and place.”

“Friday.
After work. Usual spot.”

“You’re
on, country boy.”

“I’m
gonna kick your ass, city girl. Winning creek races is what I do.”

“This
is somethin’ I’ve got to see,” Ford said.

“Bring
beer. I want a cold one in my hand for my victory dance,” Casey told him.

“And
if the lady wins?” Ford asked, one brow raised. Sweet Lord, he was sexy when he
did that one-brow thing.

Casey’s
eyes took on a mischievous glint. “Tell you what. Ford takes the winner out for
a drink. Winner’s choice,” he said.

“Deal,”
Ford said, and damn if his expression didn’t match Casey’s as he looked at me.
I felt beaten already, though we hadn’t even raced yet. And with Ford as the
prize, I was almost scared to win. But I wasn’t going to back down, either.

“Deal,”
I repeated.

Ford

“
I have
a simple philosophy: Fill what's empty. Empty what's full. Scratch where it
itches.
”
–
Alice
Roosevelt Longworth

I’d
managed to stay away three days before I couldn’t avoid her any longer. In
truth, I could’ve waited until Casey had left her office before tracking him
down about the vents, but the opportunity to see her in those snug pants, hair
stacked in that messy bun she always wore to her “office” was too good to pass
up. And I was itching to see her, to renew the image of her face in my mind. If
thoughts of her were going to keep me up at night—and it was clear by now that
they were—I needed an updated picture.

I
wasn’t disappointed. Her hair was piled high and her bare toes, painted red,
were tucked up underneath her ass in that wheeled desk chair when I walked in.
She was smiling at something Casey had said and the open way she held herself,
without thought or care as to what anyone thought, made me jealous of their
relationship for the first time since I’d met them. I wanted her to be that
open with me. To talk that freely and smile that fully because of something I’d
said.

It
would be so much easier if I let this go. Moved on. Hunkered down with my
plants. Which was exactly what I’d spent the past few days doing. Studying,
take notes, recording progress. Testing. That poison ivy on Casey’s leg was
healing nicely. I still owed him a six-pack for that, though.

But
even after days spent away, she was still there. Etched into my brain. And each
time I thought I’d pushed her out, she’d pop up again. Either in overheard
conversation or a glimpse I’d caught walking from the house to her dad’s garage
or the small shed turned office for Frank set in the center of the greenhouses.
And each time, the bounce of her wavy hair or the shake of her ass was like a
punch in the gut.

And
now they were going to do a creek race? Did that involve bathing suits? Shit, I
hoped so. I closed up shop and headed home for the night. I was so caught up in
thoughts of Summer, bare skinned and bikini-clad, that I almost walked right
into a tree. I swore and shifted left, heading toward home. I’d been so caught
up with their wager, I’d made myself the prize. Only thinking of Summer and how
if she won I’d get that date after all.

Fucking
A. Casey was right. I had an itch.

Summer

"Our
mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met."

—Marguerite
Duras

I held
two fingers over the sprayer, pointing the half-empty can of air freshener into
the corner where the filing cabinet stood. It was another attempt to mask the
lingering smell of my mother’s perfume. My last one—very similar to this except
it’d been the first half of the can and now I was spraying through the last half—had
failed.

I’d
sprayed until I couldn’t breathe and almost gagged on the droplets of scented
liquid hanging in the air before I’d given up and bolted from the room. An hour
later, I’d returned only to find a weird mix of the mountain berry-flavored
freshener and my mother’s perfume, now stale, mingling together and stubbornly
hanging on.

That
was yesterday.

I’d
quit early and hadn’t returned to the office until first thing this morning.
I’d crept carefully to the corner, hopeful when the air by the door and my desk
had both smelled clear. But when I reached the cabinet and inhaled, I smelled
only the perfume. No trace of mountain berry.

This
was ridiculous. What was it about that damned perfume that wouldn’t quit? Time
for round two of mountain berry. And if this didn’t work, maybe I’d call a
fumigator.

I
sprayed until the can was empty, holding a bandanna I’d swiped from my dad over
my face to mask the worst of it. I dropped the spray can into the garbage on my
way out and closed my office door behind me, heading for the kitchen. If Mazie
was cooking anything with berries, I’d vomit.

Bright
female laughter made me look up, and I froze in the doorway. Mazie sat at the
table in my usual spot, smiling and chatting away with her guest. Across from
her, sipping on a glass of sweet tea, sat my mother.

When
she caught sight of me, her smile faltered but she recovered quickly. “Hello,
Summer,” she said.

“Cathy,”
I returned, my tone chilly.

Mazie’s
smile faded instantly, replaced by a scowl. She rose from the chair, heading
for the hall I’d left behind. She stopped when she reached my shoulder and
hissed, “She is your mother. Don’t you forget that.”

I
ignored her and the pricks of guilt. Her footsteps faded as she left.

If
my mother reacted to me calling her by her name instead of addressing her as
“Mom,” she didn’t show it. Her expression was neutral, unreadable. I worked on
doing the same with mine, but I’d never been good at hiding my thoughts from my
face. I opted instead for anger.

She
looked good. Shit, if I was being honest, she looked great. Her hair had been
cut and colored, back to the lighter shade she preferred that left her just
this side of blonde. Her business suit was pressed like new and as always, the
simple yet elegant way she accessorized made me envious of her effortless
beauty. But it was more than that. She had a glow in her cheeks, a spark in her
I’d never seen. Not even before I’d left for school when I could remember happy
times. Or maybe I’d been a poor judge.

Hot
tears welled and I blinked them back. How could she live a lifetime with a
husband and daughter that so obviously didn’t make her happy like her new life
could? What did that say about our family?

I
still hadn’t moved from where I stood in the middle of the hardwood floor, the
bandanna clutched tightly in my hand. I suddenly had the ridiculous urge to put
it on. Even from here, I could smell her perfume. After what I’d just done to
erase it back in my office, the scent made me furious. I tried holding my
breath; I refused to move away.

“Would
you like to sit down?”

“What
are you doing here?” I asked without bothering to acknowledge her question.

“I
stopped in to see your father. And Mazie. And you,” she added, although the
last part was said with a noticeable amount of hesitation.

“I
don’t want to see you.”

Her
expression finally changed, giving away her thoughts. When it did, her brows
drew together in a look of pleading and she leaned forward across the table.
“Summer, I miss you. I hate that we don’t talk. Will you please just tell me
what it is you’re so angry about?”

“I
would think it’s pretty obvious,” I shot back. “Or is your list of betrayals so
long, you can’t sift through it?”

She
flinched. “I didn’t betray anyone,” she argued, but her words lacked
conviction.

“So
Dad and me—we’re no one now? I guess that doesn’t surprise me.”

“That’s
not fair. You are very important. But I didn’t betray—”

“I’ve
already heard the heartwarming details of you finding your true happiness—a new
job, new house, new men—so you can save your breath. I have better things to do
now. Like your old job, which went to shit thanks to you leaving, and taking
care of your husband.” I spun on my heel and stomped my way toward the door,
pulling up short when a body blocked my exit. I shoved a little in an attempt
to push past whoever had interrupted, but the chest was solid—and purposely
blocking me in.

“Move—”
I began, and stopped when I looked up at my dad. Judging by the shade of red
covering his face, he’d heard it all. And he wasn’t happy.

“Summer
Elaine Stafford, you apologize to your mother right now.” Dad’s temper wasn’t
easily lit but once you got him there, it ran hotter than a pig on a spit. And
it was definitely there.

His
tone always went deeper when he was angry, but I couldn’t remember ever hearing
it quite that low. Shit, he was really pissed. Suddenly, I was eight years old
again, facing the music for a broken window when Casey and I had played
baseball with the turnips my dad tried that year. We never grew turnips again.

I
took a step back and turned, ready to make whatever mumbled apology would allow
him to let me pass. “Dad,” I began.

Mom
was already there, abandoning her place at the table to join us in the foyer.
“No, it’s okay, Dean. She should say what’s on her mind,” she said.

“That
may be, but she can’t disrespect you in the process,” he said, a deep frown
casting lines around the edges of his mouth like the ripples from a rock thrown
into a pond.

“Maybe.
Or maybe she can’t be any other way right now.” Mom looked at me with understanding.
Which tugged at me—and then pissed me off. I stuck my chin out. “We did spring
all this on her without much warning.”

“Try
without any warning,” I muttered. Dad’s glare on me tightened. “Well, you
didn’t. I thought everything was fine and then it just … wasn’t. And she left
you, Dad. Shouldn’t you be standing where I am? Telling her how wrong this is?
How can you just be … fine?”

“Summer,
there are things you don’t know,” Mom began.

Dad
cut her off. “Because they’re none of your business.”

“Dean
…” Mom trailed off and I wondered what they weren’t saying.

The
first thing I’d asked when they’d told me they’d split was who had an affair.
Not that I could picture it from either one of them, but it just seemed like
the most logical explanation. They’d both been adamant that an affair was not
the cause or even an effect of the divorce. And they’d said it with enough
conviction, I believed it.

But,
if not that, what else was there?

I
shook my head. “I know the facts,” I said. “You were together. Married. You
made it look like you loved each other. For years and years. I grew up thinking
I should be like you, do what you did, have what you had. And then I find out
it’s all been a lie. Because you don’t love each other.” I stared hard at my
mom. “Or at least, one of you doesn’t. And then, instead of working on it, you
just gave up. And you didn’t bother telling me, your only daughter, until Mom
was already gone—and clearly happy with her choice. What am I supposed to say?”

“You
have every right to be angry,” Mom said.

“Damn
right. I’m pissed,” I said, my voice rising.

“Watch
your mouth in front of your mother,” Dad said.

My
mom rolled her eyes. Six months ago, that would’ve made me smile. Now, it just
made me want to cry. Remembering the way she always made me feel like we were
on the same side, even if that put my dad on the other. We would let him fuss
and then we said what we needed to say, just the two of us.

Now,
the sides were split into three. No one seeing it from the angle of the other.
I hated it.

“I’m
an adult, Dad. I can say whatever I want,” I said.

“Not
when it’s directed at one of your parents,” he shot back. “Now, watch your
mouth.”

“Fine.
Whatever. I didn’t want this conversation to begin with. Let’s just end it.” I
stepped around him, heading for the door, this time determined not to let
anything stop me. “And I want a new filing cabinet!”

I
let the front door slam shut behind me, validated by the loud noise. I stomped
down the wooden steps, again relishing the loud
thunk
my boots made as I
went. I hung a left, not even hesitating in my destination.

It’d
been a long time since I’d been mad enough to get lost, but today, the corn
stalks were just barely high enough and they were calling my name. Wandering
lost in a cornfield too high to see your way out of had a way of ordering a
person’s thoughts—one way or another. That and nobody was going to find you
before you were ready to be found. It was the best cure for a “deep-set mad,”
as Mazie called it. And it was what I intended to do.

“Quite
an exit you just made.”

My
head whipped up and I slowed at the sight of Frank leaning against the garage.
“What if it was?” I asked, trying to read whatever meaning lay behind his
words.

He
shrugged. “No skin off my back. You late for somethin’?”

“Peace
and quiet,” I said pointedly, continuing down the gravel path that led around
the garage and out to the fields.

But
Frank pushed off from the garage and stepped in front of me just as I rounded
the far corner.

“What
is it, Frank?” I asked on a sigh. He reminded me entirely too much of my dad.
They should’ve been brothers.

Instead
of answering, his eyes fixed on something behind me. I gritted my teeth, hoping
like hell it wasn’t one of my parents come to finish the argument. The sound of
a motor caught my attention and I turned, curious. In a cloud of dust, two dirt
bikes zipped down the driveway and pulled up short in front of me. Both riders
wore motocross helmets and goggles obscuring their face, but I recognized them
easily by the cut of their bodies.

Casey
was the leader—as usual. His shirt had an oil stain on the left sleeve and his
helmet was scuffed on the left side where he’d gone sailing over the handlebars
of this same machine last summer. I’d bandaged the arm he’d torn open when it
slid across tree bark as he flew. He was also the show-off of the two, cocky
and confident as the back tire slid around in a sharp-angled stop mere inches
from my booted toes.

I
waved away the cloud of dirt that rose in my face, opting for no greeting since
opening my mouth would’ve allowed the dust inside.

Behind
Casey, the second rider pulled to a much smoother stop and planted his feet in
a competent, practiced move. I watched him downshift to neutral and then let
off the clutch, his sinewy muscles tightening with the action of his hands. I
imagined those flexing muscles would look so much hotter gripping me instead of
those handlebars. My mouth watered before I remembered I was supposed to be
pissed. A fact the sight of Ford’s flexed forearms had made me forget in less
than three seconds.

“You
look like you could use some wind in your face,” Casey said. His voice was
slightly muffled by his helmet, but his words were clear. And I didn’t need to
see him glance at my mom’s car up ahead to know what he was trying to do.

I
threw a wry glance at Frank.

“Don’t
look at me,” he said. “I’m not going for a romantic evening dirt bike ride with
my own son.”

My
lips twitched. They wanted to smile at the mental picture Frank’s words made. I
wasn’t going to let them. Or give in so easily. “No helmet,” I said, pointing
to my head for effect.

“Extra,”
Casey said, pointing behind him. I looked and sure enough, there was an extra
helmet strapped to the back of his seat.

“I
thought these babies were out of commission,” I said, still prolonging the
compromise of my temper. I knew the second I got on and the wind began to whip
around me, my anger would evaporate into the dust behind me. There weren’t many
things as freeing as speed in the open air. And Casey was trustworthy enough
with a passenger on the back not to get too crazy. Usually. Mostly. Okay,
sometimes.

“That
one there’s been good since last weekend. Finished this one up last night,” he
said. “Ford helped me.”

“I
see.” I frowned, making sure not to look in Ford’s direction, even when Casey
acknowledged him. One more glance at those arms, flexing as he worked the
clutch and throttle, and I was a goner.