Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths #4)(38)
Plus, I have to admit, it makes me feel good.
Beyond the house, row upon row of trees stretch over the dips and rises of the property as far as the eye can see. We pass by a honey-colored barn to our left, obviously built much later than the house. Large doors sit closed at the front, flanked on either side by small windows. And in the darkness within, I’m almost positive I see a face peering out at me. But it’s gone so fast I can’t be sure.
“We can have lunch out on the sun porch,” Wilma offers, leading us into the house. The interior is dated but in a quaint way, with worn wood floors and floral wallpaper—some of its seams starting to lift—stretching up to crown molding that trims the high ceilings.
“Ben tells me this land has been in your family for generations,” I say as my fingers intentionally slide across the wood grain of a side table. Everywhere I look, I find a piece of rustic furniture. Each one is different, suggesting it’s not mass-produced, and yet there’s something about them that hints that they’re part of a set.
“Over a hundred years,” she confirms. “We’ve done a lot of living here.”
I feel Ben’s hand graze the small of my back as we step out into an all-white room of glass and wood. The wall-to-wall windows overlook the massive expanse of the family grove that I couldn’t quite appreciate from the driveway. I can’t help my eyes from bugging out at the beautiful oak table, laden with breads and meats and salads, partly because of my rumbling stomach, but mostly because of the amount. There’s enough for ten people here. And I don’t doubt that it’s all 100 percent homemade and made especially for her son.
“Manners, Benjamin!” Wilma swats Ben’s hand away from the sandwich platter. “Wait for Reese.”
“She likes me just the way I am,” he says through a smile, wrapping his arms around his mom’s shoulders for another bear hug and planting a kiss on her forehead. It’s cute.
And so completely foreign to me.
As we sit down to eat, I listen quietly to Wilma talk about the coming season—citing concerns over spreading disease and sub-ideal climate as well as the high costs of using the packaging company and having to cut back on staff—and how all the pipes in the house need replacing. All while I look for flaws in her. Deceptive flares, duplicitous statements, self-absorbed topics. Things that remind me of Annabelle. But I find none.
Ben’s mom is genuinely nice and she very obviously loves her son.
Like any mother should love her child, I suppose.
By the time we’re carrying the dirty dishes to the kitchen, my stomach is ready to explode, but I feel like an old resident of the Morris household.
“Reese, have you ever seen a grove before?” she asks, tucking one of her short chestnut curls behind her ear. The gray is just beginning to thread through.
“No, can’t say that I have.”
She pats Ben’s back. “Why don’t you take her out for a while?”
I’m expecting him to decline, insisting we have to get back. But he doesn’t. He simply nods and throws an arm around my shoulders. I look up in time to catch the secretive smile touching his lips as we pass through the house, on our way to the foyer again.
“Where did all of this furniture come from?” I dare ask.
Wilma’s blue eyes flash to Ben as she says, “They’re beautiful pieces, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” I confirm, running my hand along the carved leg of a small desk.
“Ben’s father made everything in here. He’s a carpenter.”
“Really?” Ben hasn’t mentioned a word about his dad and, given no father figure has made an appearance as of yet, I was beginning to think he wasn’t in the picture. Plus, Ben made that comment about helping his mom with her orange grove last weekend because she’s all alone—while groveling for my help at the office.
But Wilma just used the present tense, so his father is obviously around. Otherwise why would she keep an entire house full of reminders? Poking Ben in the ribs, I ask, “Did you inherit your father’s talent?”
“Nope. Can’t say I did. Come on.” He hooks his arm around my neck, pulling me into a gentle headlock, his shirt deceptively soft against my cheek. “Let’s go, MacKay.”
“Don’t roughhouse her! She’s not one of your brothers.” Clasping his face between her hands, Wilma stretches onto her tiptoes and lays a kiss on his cheek. “Now go have fun. I’ll pack all this extra food up for you to take home so you don’t have to worry about cooking.”
I stifle my snort. Ben doesn’t worry about cooking. I’ve seen him walking past my office every day with a Subway bag in his hands. He may as well buy a franchise of the chain. That poor, unsuspecting woman . . . I watch her disappear down the hall and then can’t help but whisper, “Does your mom have any idea what her sweet little Ben is really like?”
With an arrogant smirk, he leads me out the front door. “What do you mean?”
“That your pants are off more than they’re on.”
“Not lately.” Eyes drive down the front of my body, stirring an unexpected flurry of nerves inside me, as he leads me toward the barn. “And that has nothing to do with whether I like to take my mama’s cooking home with me.”
“Fair enough.” I start needling his ribs with my fingers until he loosens his grip of me. “So you have a brother?” Ben knows far too much about me and I don’t know nearly enough about him, I’m realizing.