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The one question I’ve asked myself a thousand times is this: would I have played as hard as I did had I known CTE was in my future? Like Rhett at his age, I thought I was Superman.
But I knew how and why Daddy had died. I should have retired then and there.
Should have.
Could have.
Didn’t.
By the time we wrap up arm day, I’m soaked. I shower, skip the shave. Annabel and I don’t have anything planned for the afternoon, so I decide to pop into the office so I can make a few calls and check my email.
I take the long way to my office at the main house. I’m not sure why. I don’t want to revisit this particular stretch of memory lane. But I drive there in a stupor. Probably tired from the workout. Tired of not sleeping because I’m always thinking about Annabel.
The road, a single lane of blacktop, takes me by a white farmhouse, the oldest extant building on the property. It’s white, two stories, pretty in a plain way. Nothing like the rambling, fashionable homes my siblings and I inhabit. Mama and Daddy lived simple before he got famous, and they lived simple after, too.
It’s where I grew up.
Where Mama brought all five of her babies home.
Where Daddy began and ended his slide into depression, dementia, and eventually death.
We had an architect draw up plans to develop this part of the mountain into a sprawling spa and sports complex. It’s supposed to be phase two of the property’s general overhaul I began years ago. But I can’t bring myself to touch the house.
Too much sadness happened there. Too many ghosts haunt it.
I keep the yard mowed and Mama’s old flower garden tended. Otherwise, I’ve left it alone.
The house is testament to how easily a man’s glory can turn into his downfall.
The house is a tomb.
I hit the gas, my throat and my grip on the wheel tight. It makes me so angry, the memory of it all. What we had before it all went to shit. What I had before the insomnia and the headaches and the depression got too bad to ignore.
But I needed the reminder. It’s my reality. My future. My sentence. And I hate it. I hate everything about CTE. I hate that it chose me. I hate that seeing a house on a hill with blooming gardens is a reminder of why I can’t pursue Annabel. That house right there—life was so good inside, until it wasn’t.
A world turned upside down, just like that.
Chapter Seventeen
Beau
The next day, I ponder whether or not I should cancel the cooking lesson.
Annabel’s already texted me, telling me how excited she is.
Truth is, I’m excited too. Not so much about the lesson.
I’m excited to see Annabel.
Which is why I should cancel the fucking thing. That, and my head’s been a little fuzzy today. It took me all morning to proof slides for an advertising presentation because I just couldn’t concentrate. I’m worried the same thing will happen during the lesson. This mental fogginess is a new phenomenon that’s been happening on and off over the past six months. It pops up at the worst times, and it frustrates me to no end.
My thumb hovers over her number. But no matter what I tell myself, no matter how good my reasons are, I can’t do it.
“Fuck,” I say.
And then I go and pick up Annabel.
I know I’m in trouble the second we walk into Chef Katie’s sunny kitchen.
Beside me, Annabel gasps at the setup, eyes going wide. The massive island in front of the range is set out with all kinds of goodies: wine glasses in every shape and size, more than I can count. Wooden bowls of fresh, fragrant ingredients. Butcher-block cutting boards. A pretty charcuterie spread set out on an antique bread board, complete with sausage, mustard, pickles, soft white cheese, and honey, all made or harvested on-site here at the farm.
Millie killed it, as usual.
A nice breeze blows through the open window over the sink. It’s warmed up over the past week, still a little chilly but less so as the days pass.
It’s cozy and romantic, and I know—I just fucking know—I should’ve pushed to do the skeet-shooting excursion I offered instead.
But since Annabel was such a good sport about the fly fishing, I wanted to do something she’d be jazzed about. Since she loves to cook, and loves wine, a cooking lesson with a James Beard Award-winning chef was just the ticket.
I can already tell Chef Katie has an awesome afternoon set up for us. I just hope I don’t ruin it.
I introduce Chef Katie and Annabel, the two of them shaking hands across the island. Katie, a Black woman in her late thirties, completely transformed our food program on the farm. She’s an incredible talent, an even better person, and she, more than anyone else, is what put Blue Mountain Farm on the culinary map.
