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Another searing sip of coffee burns my throat as I watch the final physical remains of Earl Matthews drift away toward the towering oak that shades the barn.
I’m left holding an empty plastic bag. The woman working at the funeral home was definitely judging my refusal to purchase an urn, but I didn’t know what I would do with it after spreading Gramps’s ashes. Now, I’m left to ponder what I do with this bag.
Keep it?
Toss it?
It’s the type of ridiculous, morbid predicament Gramps would have been in stitches about. The memory of his booming laugh prompts a smile to tug at the corners of my mouth for the first time in over a week.
The flicker of amusement is what causes me to flick the radio in the barn on for the first time in weeks when I walk inside. I even sing along to an old Billy Joel song as I mix the grain and supplements that make up the horses’ diets.
There’s a dusty piece of paper affixed to the bulletin board above the bins of grain, covered with Caleb’s scrawl. It’s hard to recall the time when I thought Caleb Winters was selfish and entitled as I study the notes he made about each horse’s diet so he could help me feed them.
Resentment mixes with gratefulness. He’s making this choice a hard one. Accepted or not, I know I wouldn’t be even considering Clarkson if not for Caleb.
I distribute the pails of grain throughout the mares’ stalls, then set about mucking out the manure while they eat. The mares get turned out in the east pasture, then I repeat the process in the stallions’ barn. Summer days are long enough I’ve switched to riding at night, during the sweet spot where the sun is retreating but the bugs haven’t come out yet.
After showering and changing, I hop into the truck and head down the driveway, smiling when Stormy trots along the fence line to keep pace with me. It’s not until I turn on to the main road that she spins and canters back to join the rest of the mares.
I’m halfway to town before I realize I never ate any breakfast. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately, and I know it’s not only attributable to grief. I’m also stressed. The heavy, omnipresent sort of anxiety that sits in your stomach no matter what you do, like a dark cloud. The kind of worry that accompanies a big decision with no perfect outcome.
Since I’m ahead of schedule, I stop at the local coffee shop where Cassie and I used to spend Sunday mornings.
There’s no line at this hour. Most of the summer tourists are likely sleeping in. Most of the locals probably have espresso machines in their state-of-the-art kitchens.
The sleepy teenager at the counter surprises me by greeting me by name.
“Hi…” I squint at the nametag affixed to his apron. “Charlie.”
The boy beams at me. He can’t be older than sixteen. “What can I get for you?”
“Iced latte, please. Extra shot of espresso,” I reply. “And…a blueberry muffin,” I tack on reluctantly.
I’m still not hungry, but the bowl of cornflakes I ate last night weren’t much of a dinner.
Charlie nods, then grabs a pair of tongs and sets to work, fishing a muffin out of the pastry case.
“How is Caleb liking camp?” he asks, giving me an expression that’s akin to an overeager puppy.
“Uh, I think it’s fine,” I respond.
“This is going to be his best season yet,” Charlie predicts, as he tosses a muffin dotted with blue spots into a bag and hands it me. “Seriously. That’s what the guys on TV last night were saying.”
Caleb’s ability to throw a baseball being discussed on television is news to me, but I don’t say that. I never knowwhatto say when people bring up Caleb and baseball.
I have nothing to do with that part of his life. His athletic accomplishments are his and his alone. I’ve never even seen him pitch in an actual game.
But that’s not what people want to hear. They want the inside scoop. The team drama. The professional prospects.
“That’s great.”
Charlie nods. “Coffee will come out at the end of the counter. And…uh, I’m sorry, Lennon. About your grandfather.”
“Thanks,” I reply, pairing it with a smile. It’s not the kid’s fault he just went two for two on topics I don’t want to discuss.
My latte appears in minutes. I sip on the cold coffee slowly once I’m back in the truck. The amount of caffeine I’ve already consumed today is probably burning a hole in my stomach. Until I start sleeping, there’s no other option.
It’s a short drive to the brick building that houses theLandry Gazettefrom downtown. The newspaper offices are perched above a real estate office, just one block from the racetrack. I whistle under my breath as I pass the listings posted in the window. Land in Landry isn’t depreciating. The least expensive property is listed for just under seven figures.
