Page 34 of Always Meant for You
“I can’t fall behind on the dairy’s bills,” the man laments. “That bottle of milk you drink every morning don’t pay for itself.”
These people aren’t only farmers. They’re my friends. My neighbors. Good folks I’ve known all my life.
I square my shoulders and let the silence settle before I speak. “I hear your concerns. And I share them. You know I do. But we need to stay the course.”
Jamie would know what to say. He’d rally them, give them hope. Put a smile on their faces. That was his strength.
All I can do is hold steady. Keep my expression neutral. But the look in their eyes guts me.
Jamie—for the love of Christ—help me help these people. Send me what I need. Send me a sign—anything.
The group starts packing up. Resigned. Tired. And then a voice cuts through the square.
“Stanley? Is that you, honey?”
I turn, and the mix of comfort and heartbreak lands square in my chest.
My grandmother sits in a wheelchair, her shoulders hunched, a blanket draped across her lap. She looks so small now, skin paper-thin, hands folded like she’s holding herself together. The laugh that used to carry across this square is gone. Her eyes, once bright enough to charm the sourest farmer in town, are dull and drifting.
Ruben, one of the nurses from her care facility, stands behind her with one hand on the chair. He’s built big, broad through the chest, arms thick under his scrubs, rich brown skin catching the sun.
I like the man. He’s steady, and he’s good to my grandmother.
I drop to one knee and take off my cap. “Granny, Stanley was my grandfather, your husband. It’s me, Callan, your grandson.”
“Callan?” she repeats, her voice light, her eyes blinking like she’s chasing a memory that won’t settle. “Stanley has auburn hair, andshedid, too. Fiery like the sun.”
I nod, then stand, working overtime to keep my emotions in check.
Ruben shakes my hand. “Hey, Cal, I thought your grandmother might enjoy a little fresh air.” He looks around,taking in the empty square. “I know we’re late, but I didn’t expect it to be this quiet.”
I shrug. “It just ended.”
I don’t have it in me to admit it’s looked this way all day.
Ruben glances at the bright stacks of vegetables and goods that no one has come to buy. “I’m sure it’ll pick up.” His tone stays easy, but I see the worry in his eyes.
Everyone in town—even those who don’t work the land—knows everything is riding on my success.
Pressure builds behind my ribs, and I shift my attention to Gran. Her eyes track some distant spot beyond the square.
I lower my voice. “How’s she doing today, Rue?”
“It’s touch and go,” he says gently. “I was hoping a walk might help her reconnect.”
We’re speaking in hushed tones, but we don’t need to. One look at Gran’s hollow stare says everything. She’s not here. Not really. Not anymore.
“I appreciate it, Ruben. Thanks for trying.”
I’ve gotten good at playing the part of the stoic and steady farmer. I’ve always been serious, even as a kid, but these last few years hardened whatever softness I had left.
“Ice cream,” Gran says, her eyes brightening with one of those rare lucid flashes.
They happen less and less. I miss her. I miss my grandfather. But thinking about the past doesn’t change a damn thing.
What’s done is done.
Elias Muldowney says that. And he’s not wrong.
