Cynthia Thomason - His Most Important Win

“I’ll give him a hand.”

Bryce stood aside as she walked ahead of him to the pickup where her order was stacked on the pavement. Knowing he was behind her made the skin at the nape of her neck prickle. Her footsteps felt leaden; the distance of only a few yards to her truck was like the length of a football field.

A line of trucks and trailers had started to form behind her. “We’d better hurry and get this loaded,” she said. “You have other customers.”

The three of them filled the pickup’s cargo area. Rosalie quickly consulted her list and wrote a check. When she tore it out of the book, she hesitated, looking first at Juan and then Bryce. “Who do I give this to?”

“Give it to Juan,” Bryce said. “He’s the boss. I’m just here to do what I can.”

She handed over the check and opened the door to the truck. “I suppose your father is happy you’re back.”

“He seems to be. I hope I can be more of a help than a hindrance.”

She climbed inside the truck, shut the door and started the engine. Bryce leaned on her open window. “Funny, but as soon as I got out here among the harvest this morning, it all came back to me,” he said. “I suppose produce is in my blood.”

“And football,” she said.

“Yep. And football.”

Rosalie stared out her windshield. All she had to do was put the truck in gear, and this whole anxiety-inducing episode would be over. She’d survived a face-to-face with Bryce. Maybe she could even walk by him in the halls of Whistler Creek High School without dissolving into a mass of insecurities. Not risking another look at his face, she lifted her hand. “Well, see you. Say hi to your parents.”

“I will. Give my regards to Claudia.”

“Sure thing.” Eyes straight ahead. Lips tight. Truck shifted into drive.

Now just take your foot off the brake… .

“Oh, Rosalie,” he said, his arm still on her door.

She swiveled her head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. “Yes?”

“You want to get together?”

Now her eyes snapped to his. Was he kidding? No. He actually appeared sincere. “Ah …”

“I’m only working until noon today, just until the out-of-town orders are loaded on trucks. Maybe we could meet at the Whistler Inn for lunch.”

“Lunch?” She gripped the steering wheel and resisted the urge to slap her forehead. She was an English teacher for heaven’s sake, and all she could muster was monosyllabic responses.

He chuckled. “Yeah. It’s the meal in the middle of the day. Most people eat it.”

She glowered at him. “I can’t do lunch.”

“Are you sure? I thought maybe I could catch up on fifteen years of Whistler Creek gossip.”

“Bryce, your parents can fill you in on what’s happened around here.”

“I suppose they could, if all I wanted to know about was the sixty-something country-club set. But I never cared much about those people when I lived here.”

Right. You much preferred the simple earthiness of the Campanos. Well, not any more. “Look, I just can’t. I’m working at the stand today.” That was a lie. Saturday was Rosalie’s errand day. She did chores while Danny helped Claudia at the stand. Now she had to hope Bryce didn’t stop by.

“Some other time then?”

She eased off the brake, gratified when the truck slipped away from him. “Maybe. Who knows?” she said.

“Rosalie?”

She gingerly stepped on the pedal, slowing the truck to a crawl. “What?”

“I still miss him, too.”

She hit the accelerator and drove off. When she looked in her rearview mirror through burning eyes, she saw Bryce standing there, hands on hips, watching her leave.

Marjorie Benton slid another pancake on top of the stack she’d already layered on Bryce’s plate. “You ready for more bacon?” she asked.

He stared up at her. “Mom, enough. I’ve only been home a few days, and I’ve probably gained five pounds.”

She scooted the syrup bottle closer to him. “It’s Sunday, Brycie. We always have big breakfasts on weekends, remember?”

Bryce sought help from his father who remained hidden behind the newspaper. “So that plate of scrambled eggs and sausage that you brought to me in the wholesale market on Friday morning was a light meal?” he said to her.

Roland Benton covered up a chuckle with a rustle of the sports section.

Marjorie sat at the table next to her son. “It wouldn’t hurt you to put on a few pounds,” she said. “I know you don’t cook for yourself as a bachelor …”

He started to tell her that he was a good cook, even had a recipe box in one of the cartons currently stored in the garage, but figured she’d then tell everyone in town about her son, the kitchen wizard. Probably not the best image for the new football coach to project. Besides he could always tell when his mother was on a roll and knew the futility of trying to stop her.

“… I suspect you haven’t eaten properly in years,” she continued. “I know that woman you were married to didn’t like to cook.” She paused. “Or keep a clean house.”

Bryce smiled around a bite of doughy pancake. It wasn’t as if he and that woman had lived in squalor for four years. True, Audrey hadn’t been the domestic type, but she’d made sure the cleaning lady showed up weekly, so he’d never been able to write his initials in the dust. And she’d mapped out the best take-out restaurants in Lubbock, so when he didn’t feel like cooking for the two of them, they’d never gone hungry. Housekeeping issues hadn’t been what broke them up.

Marjorie raised one finger in the air. “But …”

Bryce swallowed and washed down the pancake with a big gulp of milk. Here it comes .

“I think we should discuss what’s really concerning me this morning,” his mother said. Behind his newspaper, Roland took a long swallow of coffee.

Bryce set down his fork and pushed away his plate. “Mom, do we really need to go over this?”

She tapped a manicured fingernail on the tabletop. “I don’t see why you’re meeting with a real estate agent today, Bryce. Give me one good reason why you’re rushing into this.”

He set his elbows on the table and looked at her. “Mom, would you like to see my driver’s license? It’s proof that I’m thirty-three years old.”

Her spine stiffened. “I know how old you are, Bryce. I was there the day you were born.”

“But you haven’t been there every day for the last fifteen years,” he said. “I’m used to living on my own. I need my own place.”

“What’s wrong with your old room?”

“Nothing. It has four sturdy walls, a big window overlooking the back patio, a view of the cornfield and the peach orchards. It’s a paradise.” He took a deep breath. “In fact, I think you and Dad should strip it bare, paint the walls a bright sunny color, move in your sewing machine and cutting table and make it your home hobby center.”

“Really, Bryce! I’m only thinking of you.”

He glanced at the ceiling as if inspiration, and patience, could be found there before covering her hand with his and once again wishing he weren’t an only child. “Mom, I love you. You know that.”

She brushed a strand of blond hair off her forehead and sniffed.

“I want a home—my home—and I want it in this town.”

She pursed her lips a moment. “ This is your home, Bryce. What need do your father and I have for this big house?”

“That’s a good question,” he said. “And one for you and Dad to think about. But for now, I’m tired of living in places that, for the last fifteen years, have always seemed like temporary shelters to me. Dorm rooms, apartments, condos. I want a house, a little bit of land, some grass with honest-to-goodness roots that I can fertilize and watch grow. I’ve waited a long time for this opportunity to come my way, and I want those roots in Whistler Creek soil. Soil with my name on the deed.”

Marjorie looked out the sliding glass doors which opened onto a view of acres and acres of rich Benton farmland. “But all this will eventually be your soil, Bryce.”

“Maybe so, Mom, and I look forward to helping Dad when he needs me. But for now …”

Marjorie started to speak, but stopped when Roland suddenly made a show of folding the newspaper and setting it on the table. Roland didn’t say much, but when he did, everyone in the room generally gave him the floor. “He’s a grown man, Marjorie. He’s going to contribute to this community in more ways than just as the heir to Benton Farms.” Roland leaned forward, leveling a steely gray gaze on his wife’s face. “Let him go. What’s a few miles between you and him anyway?”

Marjorie fingered the flowery buttons on her robe before standing to her full, impressive five feet eight inches. She picked up Bryce’s plate and walked to the sink. “Fine,” she snapped, turning the water on full blast.

Bryce sat in the uncomfortable silence for a full minute wondering if he should say something to bridge a gap between his parents which all at once seemed cavernous. And then his father reached across the table for a slice of crisp bacon on a platter. He picked it up and had it halfway to his mouth when Marjorie, the always effective eyes in the back of her head in full operational mode, stormed the table and smacked his hand. “Don’t even think about it,” she said, pointing to his chest as if his heart had ears.

Roland dropped the bacon, gave his son a little smile and picked up his newspaper.

Bryce stood in the middle of a stand of live oak trees and looked at the front of the weathered clapboard house he’d just toured. Turning to the real estate agent he’d hired, he said, “I can’t believe how many times I’ve driven this road, Lisa, seen this driveway, but never really knew what was back here behind all these trees.”

“I’m not surprised,” the agent said. “You can’t see the structure from the road.” She consulted notes in her portfolio. “The house was built in 1953 by a Canadian man, Clive Harbin. It’s only had two owners, Clive and his son, who inherited the place and used it as a winter residence since sometime in the ‘80s. The son, whose name is Wyatt, has been unable to make the trip for the last three years, and the house has remained unoccupied all that time. I guess that’s why Wyatt’s kids convinced him to sell.”

Bryce noted the missing shingles, crumbling bricks on the chimney. “It needs work,” he said. “Gutters need to be replaced. The whole house needs painting, inside and out.” Even as he listed the home’s problems, his hands itched to get to work on it. An hour ago, when he’d cleared the narrow, rutted drive and had his first view of the house, he’d fallen in love with its clean, traditional lines. Now he was trying to keep his enthusiasm at a reasonable level so he wouldn’t make a mistake with an offer.

A classic cottage farmhouse, the Realtor had called it. Steep second-story roof, a pair of gabled windows, an inviting porch that extended along the front and wrapped around one side. The inside floor plan met his needs exactly. A big living room with a stone fireplace, nice-size dining room, a kitchen that needed updating but was plenty big enough for a small table and chairs. A master bedroom downstairs with a small bonus room he could use as an office, and two small bedrooms upstairs.

“Let’s walk around back,” the agent suggested. “It says on my specs that the property extends three hundred yards into the wooded area.”