Page 6 of When We Were Us
After a long shower,I dress in a matching blue silk pajama set. With my long hair wrapped up in a towel like a turban, I pad back downstairs on bare feet in search of something edible.
It’s been a few weeks since his passing, but knowing my granddad, he’s probably got a surplus of food in the cupboards. I just hope whoever cleaned up didn’t take all the food, too.
A quick peek tells me that someone, thankfully, has cleaned out the fridge, though. Nothing but a carton of baking soda occupies the shelves. Same with the freezer. The cupboard to the left of the fridge is still stocked with all kinds of spices and a few baking supplies. Flour, sugar, and molasses—all stuff that would keep more long-term. I’d have to ask the attorney who has been taking care of the house. Maybe someone from the local church?
The pantry itself is stocked with paper plates, napkins, andplastic utensils. One shelf directly below holds a bunch of canned foods.
“Jackpot.” With a smile, I start turning cans to read the labels. I find a can of ravioli and one of beef stew among various cans of veggies and Vienna sausages. Shoved way to the back is an unopened box of saltine crackers. All are unexpired.
For the next ten minutes, I set to work warming the ravioli on the stove. While it heats, I absently scroll through my inbox and nibble on the saltines. Ginger has already emailed me a file chock-full of photos of her boys and me playing in the pool last weekend.
I crack open one of the small wine bottles I pocketed from my flight, and then dig into the ravioli straight from the pot as I lean against the sink. Under normal circumstances, it would probably taste terrible, but I’m grateful for a hot meal after a long day of travel. Even if it came from a can.
It doesn't take long for me to finish, and soon, I’m running water into the dishes I’ve stacked in the sink and promising myself I’ll take care of them tomorrow. I am so exhausted and just want to crawl into bed.
I shut off all the lights and wearily climb the stairs. Surprisingly, once I’m tucked into my childhood bed, it doesn't take but five minutes for me to fall asleep.
CHAPTER TWO
hank
Turning right onto Chicory Lane,my mind snags on the same memory I get every time I drive this mile stretch of road between my parents’ place and Vern’s. Messy blonde hair, scraped knees, and the saddest brown eyes I’ve ever seen fill my mind. I was just a kid, but the memory is still vivid. It’s kind of like hearing a song or smelling a particular scent that catapults you back to a certain moment in time. That’s what this road does to me.
I would be lying if I said Vern’s death didn’t bring up other memories of driving this road, ones that I have fought hard for years to forget. It’s probably due to his untimely death, but lately, it’s getting harder to push them away. As soon as they’re gone, something else will bring another one right back around again.
Glancing at the clock on the dash, my stomach grumbles out a protest. I haven't had anything to eat since dinner last night except a cup of coffee and a dry-ass bagel as I left my cabin at five this morning. I’ve been going nonstop all day, seemingly putting out little fire after little fire, and my day isn’t close to being over yet. I’ve still got fences to check and a stuck push gate to fix.
I meant to check on Vern’s place earlier, but my sister, Norah, had some questions about one of our accounts that is opening a new store in Billings. Norah handles most of the administrative work for our family cattle ranch. She is a fantastic bookkeeper with multiple other duties, including managing all purchase orders, ranch budgeting, and financial records, just to name a few. She and I work closely together, and between the two of us, we manage to keep things running pretty smoothly.
Almost four years ago, I took over the ranch full-time when Pop retired. As owner and ranch manager, it’s my job to assess, plan, and execute the overall vision of the ranch. I pride myself on being an active member in the community and working hard to steward the land well. I love it. It’s more than my livelihood, and since the very beginning, my priority has been to cultivate a healthy relationship between the land and cattle. It’s paid off, and the ranch has been awarded the Montana State Conservation Award for the last two years.
In addition to running the ranch, I’ve spent the last five years or so helping Vern take care of his place. At ninety-four, Vern had been active up until the day he died. Granted, there isn’t much to do on the day-to-day out here at his place, but he kept himself busy tinkering in the garage or reading in his den.
Once a week, I come out to mow the lawn, take the trash to the road, and pull a few weeds when needed. There hasn’t been a garden in a good number of years, but there is a large plot of ground out back where his late wife, Eliza, grew her prize-winning veggies.
According to Harold Sherman, Vern’s estate attorney, he isn’t sure what will happen to the Hardcastle place since his passing. Vern and Eliza had only one son, Thomas, who had only one daughter, Wrenley. And if the past was any indication, there was little chance she would deign to set foot back in this town after seventeen years. The property had already been vacant for over three weeks.
Mom, Pop, and I came out the day Vern died to clean out the fridge and lock the place up. My granddad and Vern had been best friends for sixty years and, in turn, he and Eliza had sort of become honorary members of the Hayes family. As far as anyone else was concerned, no one but me had been back to the house since the day Vern died.
I had balked at the mere mention of hiring a management company to help facilitate keeping up the property when Vern passed, even though, according to Sherman, money wasn’t an issue. Technically, I shouldn’t know that, but Timber Forge was a small town, and he knew how much I had helped Vern over the years.
The house would likely be sold eventually, but the property still needed upkeep in the meantime. So, I’m continuing with the task I've already been doing since Vern had gotten too unsteady on his feet about five years prior. That is how things work in small towns. People take care of their own, and I’d always had a soft spot for the Hardcastle family.
The gravel crunches under the tires of my truck as I roll up in front of the two-story farmhouse. The dappled sunlight litters the peeling white paint of the clapboard siding. A single black shutter hangs crookedly from one of the front windows and I make a mental note to check the garage for the missing hinge. The neglected plants on the porch look droopy in the summer afternoon sun.
The screen on the porch is closed, but beyond that, the front door stands open. I come to a stop in the half-moon gravel drive and cut the engine. Grabbing my favorite baseball cap from the dashboard, I fit it onto my head and climb down from my truck.
“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath. I haven’t been inside in over a week. Maybe Pop stopped by and forgot to lock up? That doesn’t sound like something he would do, but the only vehicle around is the truck I just arrived in.
I also notice the hose lying unraveled in the grass next to theporch. A sprinkler is hooked to one end in the middle of the front lawn, sputtering at just a trickle. I know for a fact I didn’t leave that there or turned on.
The mechanical whir of the garage door draws my attention. Skirting the porch, I twist the water spigot off and head in that direction.
At first glance, the garage itself appears to be empty. That’s when I spot a pair of red Chuck Taylors just beyond the workbench.
First, surprise, and then a cocktail of irritation and anxiety coils in my gut. My eyes fall closed with a sigh.
There is only one person I know who wears red Chuck Taylors like it's part of a damned uniform, and I am in no mood for a run-in with her. I’ve had a really long day, and this is the last thing I need. I stop, with my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides.
