Cynthia Reese - Not on Her Own

The comment took her by surprise, for one, that he would understand the aesthetics of a bungalow and its setting. For another, the sudden change in topic. “Well, yes, I guess so,” Penelope said. “But I couldn’t afford to be picky. Besides, I’ll plant some fast-growing trees, and in a few years, it won’t look the same.”

She could have sworn he winced. What was so bad about trees?

“You know…I was planning—” Brandon started, then broke off.

Penelope waited him out. He started again. “At one point, this land belonged to my uncle. Well, to me and my uncle. Did you know that?”

“No. No, I wasn’t aware of that.” She folded her arms and waited some more. Alarm bells sounded in her head.

“Yeah. Murphy—your grandfather—I don’t know how to put this politely. But he and his brother-in-law hatched up a tax scheme to put a squeeze on Uncle Jake, and my uncle was forced to sell this section of his land.”

“Really.” Didn’t sound a bit like the story Grandpa had told her. Penelope’s thoughts raced as she tried to predict where Brandon was going with this conversation.

“Yeah. Really.” A sharp edge bit at Brandon’s words. “This land—where you’ve got your house sitting—it’s the best cropland of the whole tract…of Uncle Jake’s old tract, I mean.”

“Uh-huh.” What was this guy’s agenda? Maybe her gut had steered her wrong after all.

Brandon rubbed his hands together, shuffled his feet on the scratched finish of the hardwood floor.

“I was…I came here today to see if you’d be up to making a trade. This plot of land for another. The one I had in mind is a much better site for the house. It’s got maples and sweetgums, lots of shade for the summer.”

“But I’ve already got the—”

“And we could, um, throw in the cost of moving the house…and maybe, the foundation. The cost of moving it shouldn’t be that much.”

She’d been wrong. This guy was a nut, albeit a cute one. He actually thought—

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he asked.

“Well, yeah. I’m inclined to that way of thinking…or that maybe there’s some sort of treasure buried here.”

His face heated up. “Nope. No treasure. This—it’s only that I’m more than a little attached to this land. Maybe it’s just that it is such good land. Or maybe it’s because of the way my uncle lost it. I don’t know.”

“I’m really sorry. I can’t imagine how you must feel…but I’m really happy with my land. And I don’t even want to think about moving this house again. I’ve got two months to get my sculpture built and delivered.”

Brandon looked as though he might argue. Then his jaw tightened and he stuffed his hands in his back pockets. He stood there for a long moment before moving stiffly toward the door leading to the hall.

“Well. Guess it was worth a shot. Though why I ever thought any granddaughter of Murphy would understand where I was coming from…”

She heard his footsteps echo off the empty rooms, and then the front door shut with a loud thud.

“T OLD YOU that girl was moving fast. Here, have some more rice and peas.”

Before Brandon could stop Uncle Jake, the man had dumped a clump of sticky rice and some field peas onto Brandon’s chipped stoneware plate. A cook Uncle Jake most definitely wasn’t, not that he could afford better food.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been busy these past couple of weeks, Uncle Jake. Not only have I been working my regular nightshift, but we’re short during the day, too.” Brandon tried but failed to keep the defensive note out of his voice. If only he’d come up with the land swap idea sooner, before she’d re-roofed the place, maybe then she’d have been more receptive.

“I know. You’re always busy. That sheriff of ours keeps you bustin’ your chops. Hardly ever see you these days.”

Uncle Jake flopped back in his chair. After a moment of silent concentration, he attacked his own second helping of rice with gusto.

Brandon knew that look. He’d seen it often enough since he and his mom had moved in when Brandon was a skinny ten-year-old and his brother was an even skinnier eight-year-old.

“You’re thinking I was wasting my time, aren’t you?”

The old man looked up from his dinner plate. “Well…folks don’t want to split up their land, especially not a woman who’s got a house set down.”

Brandon snorted. “Not much of a house if you ask me.” But then, with eyes that would see it like a stranger would, he saw his uncle’s dining room, with its stacks of books and newspapers, its yellowed white walls and the vinyl rug curling up in one corner. Shoot, Uncle Jake took up more time repairing his pigpens than he did his own place. Since Brandon’s mom had passed away three years ago, Uncle Jake had sure let the place go. The house wasn’t much of an improvement over Penelope Langston’s bungalow.

“I won’t lie, son. It’s that ‘no-never’ that gets you every time, the idea that I won’t ever see a plow of mine on that land now.” Uncle Jake paused in his eating, his rheumy old eyes far away. “I still remember the day I signed the papers to buy that land where she’s put her house. I knew it was good for growing, and I couldn’t wait. I didn’t even have a tractor of my own yet, ’cause I’d spent every penny I’d saved just for the downpayment. So I borrowed my daddy’s old Massey Ferguson and broke ground that same day.”

Brandon had heard the story a hundred times at least, but he didn’t interrupt. A man had a right to grieve, after all. When his uncle finished, the two of them sat in silence.

“An artist, you say?” Uncle Jake asked suddenly.

“Yeah. Big metal abstract pieces. She wants to put up a barn to work in.”

“You and the FFA kids gonna help her?”

He did a double take at his uncle. “Why should I help her put more things on that land that I’ll have to tear down when I finally get it?”

“Son, it is obvious you don’t know much about women.” Uncle Jake took a swig of his iced tea and scarfed up the last of the peas.

“Oh, and you, the lifelong bachelor, are an expert?”

His uncle grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “Why you think I never married?” But then he sobered. “See, with a man, you could have offered to swap my field, I mean her field, for that section with the hardwood, and he would have considered it. But a woman? Nope. She’s got an idea in her head about how things are going to be. She’s picturing this dream…house’ll be here, the picket fence, there, the flowers over yonder…Takes something big to dynamite that picture from a woman’s head.”

Brandon thought back to how elated Penelope had been that first day. She’d even used the word “dream.” Maybe Uncle Jake was right.

But he couldn’t just give up on this.

“How serious can she be?” Brandon asked. “How long can she last? Whoever heard of a sculptor living here, anyway?”

“There’s that fellow that does chain saw carving. He makes a living at it.”

Brandon snorted. “He’s retired from the military. Of course he’s not starving.”

“But this one’s got grit.”

“Huh?” Brandon saw the frown on his uncle’s face and quickly amended the “huh” to “Sir?”

The frown cleared. “Want some apple pie? I bought a frozen one from the store.”

Brandon’s stomach leapt in anticipation of actual, edible food. “Where is it? I’ll get it.”

“Fridge. Bottom shelf.”

As Brandon retrieved the pie—burnt on one side, but still an improvement over the rice and peas—he prompted his uncle. “What do you mean, she’s got grit? You’ve never met her, have you?”