Three Day Summer(56)

I admit, I even miss her a little. Despite the nagging.

That being said, when Cora’s mom asks if I want seconds, I don’t hesitate to say yes.

I’m just about to cut into my fresh helping of chicken when I hear the front door open behind me.

“It’s an absolute disgrace out there, Iris,” a man’s voice grumbles. “I don’t think even all this rain can wash away the stench of those hippies.”

A squat man with a red cap walks into the kitchen and stops short as soon as he lays eyes on me.

“And who the hell are you?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cora’s face go gray.





chapter 65


Cora


I am mortified.

“Dad!” I cry at the same time that my mom says “Bernard!” in surprise.

Dad looks at me and we stare at each other, the air between us as taut as the wires in the chicken coop.

I collect myself and remember we have company. “Dad,” I say, testing the waters like they’re rigged up for electrocution. “This is Michael.” I point over at him while mentally pleading with my dad to act normal.

Dad takes one look over at him, and then turns on his heel and walks out.

My mom gets up, addressing Michael. “I’m so sorry. Let me go see . . .”

But I stand up. “No, it’s me,” I say. I pull out my chair and place my napkin on the table. “I’ll go.”

Mom puts a hand on my arm then. “Cora,” she says softly, looking into my eyes. “Please be nice. I know you can’t see it, but his feelings run deeper than you know.”

I suck in a breath and nod. Of course my mom would know what happened last night.

I find him in the first place I look. The barn. He’s placed a bucket underneath April and is milking her.

I walk over before I lose all courage and change my mind. “Dad,” I say softly.

He doesn’t look at me.

I take a deep breath. “Look. I’m sorry. I was angry last night and I said some terrible things to you. I didn’t mean it.”

Silence, except for the distinct hiss of liquid squirting into the metal bucket. I wait.

“Didn’t you?” he finally grunts, keeping his eyes focused on April’s udder.

“No,” I say. “I didn’t. It’s just, sometimes I feel like you treat me like a child.”

“You are a child,” he says.

“Not really,” I say. “I’m seventeen. Next year, I’m going to college. I can’t follow your every rule anymore, Dad. Some of them don’t even make sense.”

“College,” he says with a snort. “I’ve always known you think you’re so smart and I’m just an idiot without a high school diploma.”

“I don’t think that,” I say, startled. “Not in the slightest. You’ve been running this farm since you were twenty, Dad. You’ve grown it. You’ve kept it profitable. And really, it’s been an amazing place to grow up. I mean that.”

I wait for him to say something, but he remains focused on milking, even though I can tell April’s just about dry.

So I continue. “But it’s the growing-up thing, Dad. You have to let me do it. Because the truth is, whether you allow me to or not, it’s happening. Me and Wes. We’re our own people now. You may not agree with everything we do or say, but I know you love us enough to let us make our own choices. Can’t you accept you and Mom have already given us the tools to make good ones?”

Finally, he stops milking. He stares into the bucket for a long time before looking up at me.

“I’m not so sure we have,” he finally says, his voice scratchy. “All that protesting that all those hippies do, that Wes does, that you agree with. You’re protesting soldiers, you know. You’re protesting Mark. And me.”

I draw in a sharp breath. Is that what he really thinks? “We’re not protesting you . . . ,” I say softly, but it sounds weak even to my own ears. I never really considered this viewpoint before.

He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything.

“Have you . . . ,” I start. “Have you ever told Wes this?”

He laughs bitterly. “Your brother hasn’t listened to a word I say in about a decade.”

“That’s because in some ways you’re so different, Dad, but in some ways you are so much the same.”

He gives April a pat. “You sound like your mom.” He gets up then, taking the almost-full bucket with him.

“She’s a smart lady,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

“Of course she is.” He heads toward the barn’s entrance, walking past me.

I touch him on the arm to stop him. “Dad. I am sorry.” And I know that I’m not just talking about coming home after curfew or even cursing at him last night.

He searches my face for a moment before nodding. “Okay,” he says simply. And I immediately reach over and hug him. He pats me awkwardly on the back.

“All right,” he says. “It’s over now. Let’s not beat a dead horse, okay?”

“Dad!” I protest, feeling like a huge weight has been lifted. “Not in front of Shannon!” I point at our mare, who is glancing over disconcertingly.