Page 80 of Awaiting the Storm
“Did we eat all the chicken?”
His eyes dance with amusement as he replies, “You want to discuss chicken while I’m still inside of you?”
I shrug. “I worked up an appetite.”
He dips his face to mine. And nips at my bottom lip.
“Then let me go feed you again. You need to refuel for round two.”
The week went by in a blur. The construction on the new arena was full steam ahead. We accepted the bid given by a highly recommended contracting firm out of Jackson Hole on Wednesday, and they began the surveying process on Thursday.
Carla and I spent hours going over schedules and budgets while Holland flew to Kentucky, leaving everything in my hands.
I spent Thursday evening at Wildhaven Storm, having dinner with Matty and her family before the two of us snuck off to make out in the barn like a couple of horny teenagers. She came while bent over a hay bale with my face between her legs.
It was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.
Friday morning, I was up bright and early to meet the mortgage loan officer at the bank and sign all the needed paperwork to secure the loan and close on the property before heading to the farm for the weekend.
Mom is out front, gathering leaves, when I pull up the drive.
“This is what I hired the landscaping company for,” I say as I rush over to take the rake from her hands.
She swipes at her forehead with a gloved hand. “I told those boys they didn’t need to come back until spring,” she says.
“Why? They could have done this for you.”
She shrugs. “I didn’t realize the leaves were so bad until Howie delivered the pumpkins and mums I’d ordered, and I came out to decorate the yard for Thanksgiving.”
“No one is going to see your decorations from the road,” I remind her.
“I know. That doesn’t mean I don’t want a pretty yard. I’ll see it, and so will the mailman.”
I shake my head, but I know better than to argue with a woman’s logic.
I send her inside as I finish up raking and bagging all the fallen leaves. Then I sweep her porch and the walk that leads from the house to the mailbox at the top of the road.
When I’m done, I wash up, and we sit down to the dinner she prepared.
“So, you close on your new homestead next week, correct?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am. Just signed the papers for the loan this morning,” I reply as I grab a roll to sop up the mushroom gravy my Salisbury steak is swimming in.
“And you have the money you need to build?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah, I had those costs factored into the loan. Plus, I’ve got a good chunk of change saved.”
“Okay. Just so you know, I have the money from your father’s life insurance payout—”
“Mom,” I interrupt, “that money is for you to live on for the rest of your life.”
She waves me off. “Oh, please. What do I need it for? The farm is paid off, and I receive his Social Security benefits.”
“You need it for incidentals. Property taxes, homeowners and auto insurance, medical bills, and anything else that pops up outside of your normal utilities and groceries. Plus, that old Jeep isn’t gonna last forever,” I say.
I tear off a piece of bread and run it over my plate when I hear a soft sniffle and look up. “Mom? You okay?”
“I just … your father took care of all that stuff. I don’t know what I owe to whom.”
