Page 16 of Love Off-Limits
“That’s a silly question.”
She grinned and crumbled the cheese over the tomatoes on both plates. Mom made fresh cheese from the milk her goats produced on a regular basis.
“And extra balsamic if you don’t mind,” I said, leaning on the counter.
“You and your father like it that way,” Mom said. Her soft Southern accent made every word she said sound like a song. She drizzled a balsamic reduction over the top of the open-faced sandwiches and held out both plates. “Here. Want to take these in? I’ll be right behind you with his drink.”
My stomach tightened the tiniest bit. I walked from Stonebrook’s main farmhouse where the farm offices were located over to Mom and Dad’s place once a week or so to have lunch with my parents, but it was still tough for me to see Dad struggle, to watch Mom patiently tend him as he practiced eating one slow bite at a time. Still, two months ago, he hadn’t been able to feed himself at all, so progress was progress. And hewasmaking progress. Dad could walk short distances now, and though his words still slurred, until he got really tired, we could always understand what he wanted to say.
“Olivia?” Mom said, stopping me before I’d made it out of the kitchen.
I turned back.
“Positive energy and optimism,” she said. “That’s all he needs right now.”
I nodded, unfazed by the expected reminder. Mominsisted that worry changed the energy in a room, an unsurprising opinion from a woman who spent her days wrapped in long, gauzy sundresses, making goat’s milk soap and painting landscapes, both of which she sold in the farm’s country store. Mom had never been very business-y, but she was the heartbeat of Stonebrook anyway. Unconcerned about profit margins, she chose to focus instead on the living, breathing things that made Stonebrook special. Employees, guests, and of course, her goats.
Well, and Dad. She didn’t focus on anything like she did him.
I placed his plate down in front of him and leaned down to kiss him on the side of his head. “Hi, Daddy.”
He reached up and patted the hand I’d placed on his shoulder.
“Livie,” he said slowly, his tongue tripping on thelof my name.
“How are you feeling today?”
He shot me a conspiratorial look. “Want to break me out?” he said slowly. “Your mother is h-hovering.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Where do you want to go?”
“The orchard,” he said simply, the sharpchsound melting into a softshh.“I need to check on the trees.”
Mom appeared beside him before I could respond. “The only place you’re going today is physical therapy,” she said.
Dad only grunted.
“Don’t you grunt at me, Ray Hawthorne. You want to take care of your trees? Then you have to get better so you can get around without half the world worrying you’re going to trip over yourself and fall off the mountain.” She settled into her chair. “Which meanstherapy.”
Dad shook his head and slowly picked up his sandwich.
I willed myself not to stare at the slight tremble in his hands as he did so.
“I can get around,” he said. He tilted his head toward me. “Olivia can take me in the gator.”
I would. I’d load him into one of the 4x4s we used to get around the farm and take him anywhere. But the firm set of Mom’s mouth said that wasn’t anything I needed to suggest right now. My father had been irascible and grumpybeforehis stroke. It was just his nature—though if you were willing to get through his prickly exterior, he loved deeper than just about anyone. Butafterthe stroke? It seemed like he’d been extra hard on Mom. Largely taking out his frustrations over his sudden diminished capacity on her. There was no reason for me to goad him on.
I reached over and placed a hand on Dad’s arm. “I’ll get a full report on the trees from Kelly later today,” I said. “I can even stop by on my way home and give you an update.” Kelly, our farm manager, had started putting together weekly updates for Dad, detailing the orchards, the strawberry fields, the livestock, the kitchen garden—anything that Dad might consider important. He was usually too impatient to wait for them, asking for updates quicker than Kelly could possibly provide them. But Dad had always been so hands-on, it wasn’t hard to understand why he hated having to wait for people to give him information instead of discovering it for himself.
Kelly had it harder than Calista, our event manager who coordinated the weddings and other events that utilized the farmhouse as well as the spacious pavilion in the south field. She was also generating reports for Dad, but he wasn’t half as interested in those. Before his stroke, he’d been equally involved in both sides of Stonebrook’s operation, but after, his focus had narrowed. The land, the trees, the things he’d originally loved about this place—that’s where his attention was focused now.
“An update on what?” Perry said, appearing in the doorway of the dining room. His long stride carried him across the room swiftly, and he settled into an empty chair.
“The apple trees,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
Perry frowned. “I live here.” He lived in the apartment above Mom and Dad’s garage, which wasn’t exactly here, but that was beside the point.
“No, I mean, why are you herenow? Isn’t the Arborist Society having lunch at the farmhouse right now?”
