Chapter 7

[Pear]

Things got a little intense last night and my nerves prickle with dread at the thought of facing Brock this morning. After my deep confession about my sister, I suggested we watch a movie and pushed open the dove-decorated panels to reveal a flat-screen television behind the doors. Dad built a slim box to contain the modern device above the antiquated fireplace.

Brock agreed to watch holiday rom-coms, despite Christmas having passed, and we picked apart every cheesy statement and lacking plotline. After such a heavy discussion, the laughter felt good even at the expense of weak acting and even weaker on-screen chemistry. We criticized how unrealistic each representation was about budding relationships. Brock was exceptionally good at predicting what the men would say, and even better at determining the overall storyline within the first few minutes.

But even spoiling the plot and mocking the characters, I admitted to loving every awkward moment and scandalous last-second kiss (said with full mockery) like a pearl-clutching ninny tee-heeing from a rush of arousal.

The movies were further proof of my hope and belief that true love exists.

When I went to bed, I’d realized I’d come to a small town, although not my hometown, lost and seeking clarity, where I’ve met a rugged man who wears flannels, or at least he had earlier in the day. However, we aren’t trying to save a farm, family business or bakery, and he doesn’t own a dog. That I know of.

Two out of four isn’t bad but we aren’t the type of couple viewers would root for.

The thought gives me another giggle in the morning as I walk toward the kitchen, enticed by a heavenly smell. Emerging from the hallway, I stop short when I see syrup and butter on the dining table set with two plates .

“You made breakfast?” I glance up to see Brock wearing jeans and the requisite flannel shirt. He looks as delicious as the kitchen smells.

“Hope you like French toast.”

How did he know my favorite? And when a plate with three perfect triangular slices sprinkled with powdered sugar and cinnamon are set on the table for me, I could kiss him. No mistletoe required.

“Are you feeling okay?” He’s being awfully nice to me. Flowers yesterday. Grocery shopping. Watching holiday movies. Now breakfast. “What do you want?”

Brock falters beside the table, staring back at me. “I didn’t know it was a crime to make breakfast.”

“It’s not. It’s just . . .” I’m not used to someone—a man—being so nice to me. Not that people are generally rude or openly mean, but his thoughtfulness goes above and beyond while serving a twelve-day sentence. And whenever Reggie wanted something or he’d done something he knew I wasn’t going to like, he’d be nice for a few hours. Like make me breakfast.

Brock watches me for a long minute, waiting on me to further explain myself, but I don’t. Instead, I lower onto a chair. “Thank you.”

The two simple words make his smile grow three sizes larger. His grin should come with a warning because those dark eyes brighten, and the curve of his mouth is sinful. He nods, allowing me another pass on sharing a snowflake story, as he calls my history. Busying himself with a mug of coffee and a hot chocolate for me, he brings both mugs to the table before he takes a seat across from me.

Without much preamble, he starts shoveling in his food like a man who hasn’t eaten in weeks. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the vase of white tulips I placed on the center of the table last night. There’s a contrast between the delicate petals, the blossoms still closed tight, and the powerful hand lifting food on a fork to feed himself. I don’t know what the dichotomy means but I don’t try to analyze it.

Instead, I dig into French toast and hum with pleasure as I taste the breakfast Brock made for me.

+ + +

“So, I noticed these busted fence posts on my run the other day, and they need to be repaired.”

Brock and I stand at the corner of an area marked off by wooden posts and wire fencing between the orchard and the neighboring property. The morning is surprisingly sunny and crisp but not biting. Snow still covers the ground as the sun can only do so much to melt the blanket laid down days ago. More snow is predicted in the coming days so getting this fence fixed feels like a must.

“Afraid the cows will get out,” Brock mocks, knowing we don’t have any cows at the orchard.

“Nope. More worried about them getting in.”

“What?” Brock stands upright from his crouched position inspecting the posts that are practically snapped in half.

“The neighbor has cows, and they are free to roam. Scared the heck out of me when I was coming down the lane one morning and a giant heifer wandered into my path.”

Brock chuckles at the image as I recall the black and white beast that stepped before me, moo-ing at me like I was in her way.

“Should come with a warning bell, huh?”

“Something like that.” I smile. “So the fence posts . . .”

“Typically, you’d dig out the old post and replace it with a new one, but this ground is frozen solid, and an average post-hold digger won’t get you anywhere. I’d suggest a trip to a home improvement store for some lumber and maybe some new wires as a temporary fix.”

“That works.”

We need to take Brock’s truck, and when we enter it, he notices the absence of a car for me.

“How did you get here?”

“I Ubered to my aunt’s house to surprise my dad on Christmas Day, hoping to spend some time with him between the holidays. Surprise was on me, though, because he wouldn’t be here for the next two weeks. He’d probably told me, and I’d just spaced on it.” I’d had a lot on my mind recently.

“And you didn’t rent one?” Brock’s brows pinch. “How would you get somewhere if I wasn’t here?”

I shrug. “I hadn’t considered going anywhere. You can get almost anything you need delivered nowadays.”

His expression hardens. Jaw tightening. I can almost hear his thoughts, going into dad mode. What would you do in an emergency? If I were in a state of emergency, I probably wouldn’t be able to drive anyway. Plus, my car was being shipped to Chicago, due for delivery any day, but I wasn’t ready to share this information with Brock.

Finding what we needed at the home improvement store was relatively easy. However, Brock refused to let me pay for the items and we spent ten minutes arguing about how he wasn’t responsible for the expense of the fence, only fixing it. To which he countered that he’d invoice Dad later for the money.

We were eventually interrupted when a worker asked if we needed help and when we both declined rather adamantly, the older man didn’t flinch. He chuckled instead.

“How long you been married?”

Brock and I blink, glancing at one another before turning in tandem to the man.

“Nothing like home improvement projects to spark an argument. But once that honey-do project is done, she’ll make it up to you, am I right?” He winks at me, but I’m still too floored by his assumption that Brock and I are a couple to respond.

Brock claps the man on the shoulder in a display of good ol’ boys’ club bonding, while side-eyeing me and guffawing. “Oh, she’s going to make it up to me.”

My mouth falls open, but Brock reaches for the edge of the lumber cart and pushes it forward, leaving me a second behind him with the store worker.

“Thirty-seven years with my misses. Worth every fight.” Fondness fills his voice .

Marriage is work. It has its moments. It has its rewards.

I glance at Brock’s back, or rather his backside, as he tilts forward pushing the lumber cart.

Would every fight with him be worth it?

Something tells me it might.

+ + +

Brock sheepishly asks for my assistance with the fence posts. While the work could be done by one, having an extra set of hands would help and I’m feeling generous today. The sun is still shining brightly, and I take a deep inhale of the fresh wintery air around us.

After our silly spat, we chatted easily about anything but fences on our return to the farm. Brock likes hard rock music from the eighties; I’m a country fan. He likes espionage films; we’ve already established I like holiday rom-coms. Which leads to a discussion about Die Hard being a Christmas classic . . . or not. And whether Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix should be included in holiday movie debates.

“It should,” Brock adamantly argues.

“You’ve watched Harry Potter movies?” I don’t know why I’m surprised.

We’ve driven as close as we could to the broken fencing and Brock hardly gives me a glance, concentrating on the first fence post while he answers. “My daughter Ellie was a huge fan. She’s the Hermione-type. Know-it-all, smart as a whip, heart of gold.”

Delight fills his voice as he speaks of his daughter.

“Wants to be a teacher when she graduates.”

“A noble profession. And what about your son?”

The tool in his hand slips and Brock pauses, staring at the post before him. “He’s a good kid.” He sighs. “I rode him hard in high school. Wanted him to take advantage of every opportunity at school. Work hard. Play football harder. Wanted him to get a scholarship.”

“And did he? ”

“Yeah.” Pride fills Brock’s voice once more, but something strained mingles with his proud papa tone. He snorts. “But he doesn’t really know what he wants. Says he wants to be a fireman.”

“A noble profession as well,” I remind him.

Brock shakes his head. “I know but I just want . . . I don’t know . . .” Brock stands and runs his knuckles underneath his chin. “I want him to do something more. Something that would bring him more money. More stability. Less risk.”

“What about happiness? Isn’t that important?”

“A job’s a job.” Brock squints and glances off into the distance.

“Are you unhappy with the department?”

His head swivels and his eyes narrow at me. “Are you trying to head shrink me again?”

“No.” Taken aback by his sharp tone and sudden change in demeanor, I stare at him.

Maybe I’m referring more to myself. My job had been just a job and I’d wanted something more for myself. I didn’t know what that would be any better than Brock’s college-age son, or so it seemed. For me, I hadn’t been able to stomach one more day in Atlanta. I had no idea what was next for me.

In answer to Brock’s question, I wanted him to be more open-minded. “So what if your son wants to be a fireman? Let him learn for himself if he loves or hates the job. Let him discover if it’s a job or his life’s calling. Let him be his own person.”

Brock huffs, eyes still aimed toward the opposite farmland. The silence around us turns as cold as the air.

“Is this about you and your family? Your sense of obligation and the responsibility you took to be there for them when you were young.”

“What?” His head whips in my direction, eyes aimed at me, hot like burning coal.

“Your son doesn’t need to step up like you did, and that’s a good thing, right? But that doesn’t mean he’s stepping down by being what he wants to be. ”

“He’s twenty years old and talking about quitting school for the department. He doesn’t know what he wants.”

“Neither do I at times, and I’m forty-one.” Forget that I’ve just given up a job and have no plans for the future.

“You’re an adult,” Brock grunts.

“But he’s not a kid.” Maybe he wasn’t a gainfully employed adult, living on his own, and providing for himself, but he’s not a child. He has choices. His choices, and he needs to make them for himself.

Suddenly, I’m twenty-two myself, recalling conversations with my dad about being my own person, and not always Precious’s twin. I didn’t begrudge being a twin, but she was more dynamic than me. Social. Outgoing. And I’d been in her shadow ever since she was born three minutes before me.

Unfortunately, with the loss of my sister came some of the first choices I made for myself, resulting in a move to Atlanta and an engagement to Reggie. Both mistakes, but mistakes I had to make on my own.

“And you’re not a parent.”

The blow claws into my chest like it was delivered by the notched hammer he’s holding.

“You’re right,” I whisper, defeat in my tone but heat wrapped around the admission. With a nod, I drop the board I’d been holding for Brock, waiting on his instructions, and stalk toward his truck.

“Pear,” he calls after me, but I’m done with this man today. Hot and cold. Up and down. I want off the emotionally loaded, careening out of control sleigh ride.

I should send him packing. Instead, I stomp toward the lane leading back to the house and see myself off. He can fix the three fence posts on his own. Maybe he’ll have time to reflect on his family.

From the sounds of it, he has some mending to do there as well.