Unable to hide his curiosity, Wendell had been listening to the stories. If Alan wanted to keep talking, that was fine with him. Buthe had no desire to talk himself. “My turn?” he shook his head and held up his glass for the bartender.
Alan leaned in. “Tell me about Wesley.”
Wendell could’ve turned and punched him in the face. The urge hit him before the thought did. Instead, he pushed his empty glass away. “Not your concern,” he growled beneath his breath.
Alan didn’t hesitate. “You need to talk to somebody. Whatever happened over there—it’s eating you alive.”
“What the hell do you know?” Wendell asked. Who did Alan think he was?
“I know my father saw something in you all those summers you worked for him in college,” Alan said. His voice was as gruff now as it had been when he took the chain saw away from him earlier that afternoon. Wendell’s cheeks burned at the memory. “And I know you’ve come back carrying a burden that you can’t afford to carry any longer. So tell me.”
Wendell scoffed. Alan was full of himself, so privileged. “Alan, you don’t want to know. You’ve probably never had a blister on your hand, let alone carried an eighty-pound backpack across a desert in hundred-and-ten-degree heat.”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
“You’ve never followed your company commander through mountain villages asking civilians where the Taliban is.”
“Never have, Wendell.”
“Or stayed up all night on watch, bored to near death, only to suddenly hear the firecracker snapping that comes before a supersonic round passes.”
Alan’s eyes were trained on his. “Go on.”
Wendell did not mention how he’d received word of Wesley’s death by a suicide bomber while he was coming in from a night patrol. How a helicopter had landed to deliver the news and bring him back to base. What he shared was coming home alone. Anddriving to Bradley Air National Guard Base with his father in the truck to meet Wesley’s remains. “The look on my father’s face when he picked me up. I will always wonder if he wished he was picking up my little brother instead.”
It was the first time Wendell had said it out loud. And Alan was the only person he’d ever said that to.
“I want you to get help,” Alan said when Wendell was done speaking. He rested a hand on his back. “I’ll let you stay on at White Pines, but first you have to agree to get help.”
Now, eight years later, Wendell still saw Dr. Westerberg on occasion. He was better, thanks in part to Alan’s intervention, and thanks to the therapy he’d received. It wasn’t just White Pines that had saved him; it had also been Alan.
As the men worked along the lake, Wendell turned the Gator back up to the barn and drove across the southern fields. By then the mist had dissipated in the morning heat, and the view was clear to the main house on the rise. There was no sign of the girls, but as he headed up the hill he noticed a tall figure walking down the upper lawn. It was a woman, and as he approached, she waved.
Wendell pulled up to meet her and cut the motor, careful to wipe his palms on his jeans as he hopped out of the Gator. “Wendell Combs,” he said, extending his hand. “I manage the property for Alan.” He paused, realizing his mistake.
But if it bothered her, she gave no indication. “Candace Lancaster. Nice to meet you.”
She had a slight British accent, Wendell noted with curiosity. “I am very sorry for your loss,” he told her. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
She nodded. “Thank you.” Then her gaze shifted to the greenlandscape behind him. “I’m sorry to interrupt your work, but I wanted a moment to speak, if that’s all right.”
“Of course.”
“As you can probably imagine, there is much to be decided. I have come over from London to see to the girls. However, it also falls upon me to manage my brother’s estate.”
Was Candace Lancaster referring to White Pines or to Alan’s will?
“Until we decide next steps, I would like to continue running things as my brother did. You are the general manager, I hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m the full-time manager, though there are two other men who assist me. My schedule is Monday through Friday, eight o’clock to four p.m.” He paused. “I’ve worked here since your father oversaw the property.”
“Then you’re well acquainted with what needs to be done.”
“I am. Right now we’re focused on mowing around the lake and trimming the orchards. Alan has an arrangement with a local farmer who comes in twice each summer to hay the upper fields, but that won’t be until mid-July, when the grasses come in—”
Candace raised an elegant hand to stop him. “I don’t need all the details, please. I’m confident you have everything under control.”
Wendell closed his mouth. Something about her abruptness made him wonder whether she was overwhelmed by grief or, rather, did not care to know the details of White Pines. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Please know I will take pains to make sure everything is taken care of, and I won’t bother you with any details unless something important arises.”
