Part of me hopes Bel stays that long and then some.
Another part, the rational one, hopes she doesn’t.
There’s a big old pot of rice pilau in front of us. It’s an old family recipe, passed down from generation to generation, along with the cast-iron pot Samuel cooks it in. Basically, it’s a Southern take on risotto; you can put pretty much anything in it. Tonight, it’s loaded with brisket, plenty of bacon and butter (because this is the South), Carolina gold rice, and green veggies from our garden. Okra. Asparagus. Green onion.
Add in the clean, cool Italian Arneis wine Samuel’s paired it with, and Lordy, I’m tempted to do some kinda murder on my usual diet.
Delicious doesn’t even begin to describe it. My house smells like heaven.
Smells like home.
I’ve had a complicated relationship with Blue Mountain Farm over the years. It’s been a place of pride. A reminder of sadness. The scene of tragedy.
But this right here—food, family—makes me glad I stuck it out and made my dreams for the property come true.
I made Mama and my siblings’ dreams come true, too. I knew what I wanted for this place. But having my family alongside me as we developed it from the ground up has made this farm so much better.
The dream is complete.
Almost.
“I’m gonna need y’all to cover for me a bit more than usual this month,” I say, careful not to meet anyone’s eye as I top off my water with one of Milly’s fancy clay pitchers.
“Oh?” Milly raises a manicured brow, wineglass in hand. “This have something to do with a certain guest of ours?”
“Annabel?” I feel Mama’s smile on me, and I look up. “I like the sound of this. Y’all have plans together?”
Dang it, I shouldn’t have looked at Mama. She’s hopeful, I can tell. She loves Annabel, no surprise there. Like the rest of my family, she’s not-so-secretly been hoping the two of us will end up together.
The space in my chest throbs—the one that’s felt both hard and tender ever since I kissed Annabel at the dock house.
I do my best to ignore it, shoveling food in my face. Healthy way of dealing with shit, I know. But I gotta keep my feelings in check here. My head must prevail. The one on my shoulders, not the one in my pants.
’Cause that fucker’s been giving me grief, too.
“She’s been having a rough time of it.” I chew my food. “Same as me. She suggested we do stuff around the resort together as a way of, you know, passing the time. Healing.”
Because Bel will heal eventually. She’ll bounce back from the depression, stronger and wiser and more determined than ever.
But me? There’s no bouncing back from what I’ve got.
“You saying she needs you to heal? Or you need her?”
I point my fork at Samuel. “Do you ask everyone inappropriate personal questions? Or just me?”
“Everyone.” Hank merrily chews. “But you especially.”
Samuel rubs his hands together, grinning. “What can I say? I like to dig.”
“Probably why Emma wants to kill you,” Milly says.
Samuel’s mirth fades. “Feeling’s mutual.”
“She doesn’t want to kill me,” Hank says.
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Samuel shoots back.
Hank’s expression darkens. “Nothing. Never mind.”
“Maybe it’s not such a good idea for me to take some time off—”
“No. Nope, I got it handled, Beau, I promise.” Samuel holds up his hands. “Emma and I—we’re just off to a rocky start, that’s all. If you’d just let me take over—”
“How many times does he have to tell you no?” Milly cuts him a look.
“About as many times as we have to tell you to mind your own beeswax.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
Samuel shrugs, his smile back. “I’m a complicated man.”
“You’re an ass.”
Hank snorts. “You should hear the things Emma calls him—”
“Y’all,” Mama pleads. “Beau’s asking for our help. Can we at least pretend to get along so he feels a little better about taking the time he deserves to be with his friend?”
“His ‘friend’.” Hank curls his fingers in air quotes. “Beau, would you be offended if I told you we took bets on how long it takes before y’all become more than that?”
My stomach drops. I hide my—what is this feeling? Surprise? Shock? Embarrassment?—by grinding my teeth. If only they knew the more already happened.
“This family is going to drive me to drink,” I mutter, reaching for my wine glass.
Hank’s smile softens, and so does that hard feeling inside my chest.
“I’m just teasing,” he says. “Of course we’ll cover for you. Just say the word and we’ll make it happen. I’m glad you’re taking some time for yourself. It’s long overdue.”
They know why I’ve worked my fingers to the bone over the past five years to get the resort up and running. I don’t know how much time I have left. Daddy drove his truck off a cliff at forty-seven. Dementia set in years before that. It came and went until the end. He’d have his lucid moments when he was himself, but then he’d have moments when he was someone else entirely.