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I didn’t bother with any makeup this morning, and I want to laugh about how I packed my hair dryer and straightening iron. The thought of using a device thatproducesheat makes me shudder.
I help myself to a bowl of cereal and pour a cup of coffee, adding milk to both. Typically, I use an oat milk creamer in my coffee, but I don’t bother asking Mabel if she has any on hand.
She seems to want me here—or at least doesn’t resent that I am—and I don’t want to risk any goodwill. Mabel must know why Kyle is choosing to leave music. The fact that she knows and is encouraging me to stay gives me more hope than anything else that’s happened so far.
I eat quickly, then hand-wash my bowl and mug with the sponge sitting next to the sink. There’s no sign of a dishwasher, but the other appliances all look fairly new.
That’s another mystery—the state of the property. Did Kyle grow up here? Is he visiting? Does he plan to stay here? All questions I’m unsure about asking since the answers are none of my business and I’m sure Mabel won’t be shy about telling me so.
“Do you, uh, do you know where Kyle is?” Embarrassingly, I stutter through the question. I sound like a teenager talking to her crush’s mom, not the strong businesswoman I’m trying to project.
“Nope,” is Mabel succinct answer.
“There was a lot of commotion by the barn earlier.”
She nods. “Staff Miles hired. They handle the dairy operations. John has a hard time getting around. Got to be too much for him.”
“How many cows do you guys have?” I ask, hoping the phrasing will cause her to clarify who owns the ranch.
“About a thousand.” Mabel is as evasive as I’m curious.
“That’s a lot.”
“Bigger operations around,” is the only response, accompanied with the steady thud of the knife falling.
A louder pounding starts on the roof, just as rhythmic as the slice of Mabel’s knife. I glance at her for guidance, unsure of what’s going on.
Mabel’s eyebrows are high and bunched, the corners of her mouth pinched tight with disapproval. But she just keeps cutting, ignoring the concerning sound.
It continues for another minute with no sign of ceasing.
“Is something wrong with the roof?” I finally ask.
“God help us if it hails,” Mabel mutters so low that I hardly catch the words. Then, she glances at me. “Grief never looks the same way twice.”
I nod dumbly, having no idea what to say in response.
Last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I thought about what might be the source of the certainty behind Kyle’s firm words in the kitchen. I considered everything from a paternity lawsuit to burnout. Years in the music industry have taught me there are plenty of unfortunate side effects to fame. You don’t have to experience them personally to comprehend there must be pitfalls to having your life on public display.
Tragedy didn’t cross my mind.
For one, I assumed I would have heard about it. That if Kyle had suffered a loss, it would have been splashed across headlines.
And I don’t think I’m an unsympathetic person—I don’t eat meat because of a pig I knew for aweek—so I’m not sure why my tendency is to never give Kyle the benefit of the doubt. To judge and assume first whenever he’s involved.
Maybe because he’s always acted like the type of person fate seems to favor.
Maybe because he easily achieved what I’ve seen so many others struggle for.
Whatever the reason, I’m contending with an unfamiliar pang of regret where Kyle is concerned. As if I didn’t already feel uncomfortable enough about being here, it turns out that I’m intruding on someone while they’re grieving. So, that’s…awful.
Too much time has passed for me to respond to Mabel’s comment. I’m still not surewhatto say. Is she grieving too?
“Can I help with anything?” I ask, figuring I can at least make myself useful.
Mabel glances up, her eyes sharp and assessing. “You made jam before?”
I shake my head. “I’m a fast learner though.”
