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“Grab the sugar out of the cabinet. And wash three lemons.”
I rush to follow Mabel’s instructions, turning her words over in my head while I grab the canister of white granules and rinse the yellow citrus fruit.
“Grief never looks the same way twice.”
I grieved the end of having happily married parents.
I grieved not making it in music myself.
I grieved Wilbur, the sweet pig with a short life.
But I’ve never experienced the gaping loss Mabel seems to be alluding to. And it explains a lot—about the obvious changes between the Kyle I’d interacted with before and the sour man who stood on the front porch yesterday afternoon.
What it doesn’t do is help my current situation.
I have even less of an idea of how to approach convincing Kyle to return to music now than I did five minutes ago.
“Add three cups,” Mabel says, tapping the side of the large pan on the stovetop with a wooden spoon.
I measure out the sugar, carefully smoothing the top flat so the precise amount gets added. Follow the rest of her instructions just as exact, relieved to focus on a certain task instead of the many questions spinning around in my head.
Once all the ingredients are added to the pot, Mabel instructs me to keep stirring. I watch her wash a collection of glass jars, then dip them in boiling water, one by one.
“I didn’t know,” I say, still dutifully stirring.
For some reason, it’s important to me that Mabel knows that. She’s a stranger I met yesterday. But I care that she possibly thinks I’m a heartless suit here to suck more money out of her nephew during a painful time.
Mabel doesn’t ask what I mean. She says, “I know,” in a matter-of-fact tone.
And then we go back to making strawberry jam.
CHAPTEREIGHT
KYLE
“There’s a woman staying in the bunkhouse.”
My next swing of the hammer misses the post entirely.
I clear my throat, connecting with the nail on the next try. “Yeah, I know.”
“She’s hot.”
I shake my head and swing again. “Jamie…”
He grins wide enough that I catch it out of the corner of my eye, even as I try to focus on the task at hand. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. Hard to miss that hair.”
“Just hold the damn board. We’re almost done.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jamie says nothing else, but I can feel his attention on me as I hammer in another nail and then shake the board, checking to make sure it’s securely attached to the fence post. It holds steady, so I gesture to Jamie to hoist up the next piece of wood.
He does so easily, and my screaming muscles make me feel like an old man as I nail it into place.
I might be in good shape from the weights and cardio routine set up by a private trainer, but it’s no help with manual labor. I’m already sore from yanking shingles, which isn’t helping. Neither is the scorching sun.
“She’s here for her job. She works for my for—for my record label.” I catch myself beforeformerslips out.
