Page 43 of Ropers Can't Tie Knots
“Not right now.” She tosses some salt into one of the pots and hands me a spoon. “Keep stirring those for a few more minutes, then we can package them.” By the table, she has boxes labelled for each location that contain packaging materials. We fill them up with the food she makes and then deliver it. I’ve done this since I was ten years old, and nothing has changed.
But I came here with a purpose other than reconnecting with Margie.
“So, ah, did you like Gabe?”
Margie’s small smile signals I’ve come to the right person, and I quietly puff a breath.
“He seems lovely. Very charming and devilishly handsome. How long have you been married?”
The soup I’m stirring is done, and I carry it to the large table to cool. She smiles, happy that I’ve fallen into her process again so easily.
“We just passed four months and…”
I stir the other pot while Margie perches on the stool next to me. “I’ve heard some rumours, Hunter. When he died, I tried calling you to warn you, but you were just as stubborn as he was.”
“I’m not like him,” I bite out, and Margie pats my arm.
“I know, dear, but you ran and asked nobody for help. I expected you to turn up here, but you never did.”
Not a fact I’m proud of, but self-preservation was my default. I wasn’t sad that my grandfather died. I was scared about my future and angry at myself for letting it get to this.
“I’m sorry. I was a prick. I should have come to you, but…I was embarrassed and, fuck…I didn’t want anyone to know he practically excluded me from the will. It’s humiliating.”
Fuck, that felt like spitting shards of glass to say out loud, but it’s the truth.
“Fair enough, but I’d never judge. So what did the son of a bitch do?”
Despite myself, I laugh at Margie’s candor. “God, I love you.” I smile at the grey-haired spitfire, and not for the firsttime wonder how many years I have left with her. When everyone in your life dies or leaves, that’s your default mode of thinking. How much longer, and how badly will it hurt this time?
“I almost bankrupted myself trying to keep the ranch bills paid because he left the property in a trust. I’m allowed to live there for as long as I want, but his lawyers failed to add me as someone who could access the trust to pay for things. After I fought them for almost two years, my attorney made some progress. It was stressful.”
“I should’ve known he’d make you work twice as hard for it as anyone else. He was always too hard on you, Hunter. So many times I wanted to grab the nearest fry pan and smack him in the face.”
“Margie!” I gasp, but she laughs.
“It’s true. You were just a boy when your life was torn apart. Your gram could only do so much to keep the peace. That’s why she brought you here so often. So you could be yourself and be a kid.”
Some of my happiest memories were here, and yet I clung to the ones on the ranch instead. My entire life to this point has been a series of poor judgment and mistakes. Maybe this is another one.
“Gabe is a marriage of convenience, Margie.” I hate referring to him like that, but it’s true. “If I weren’t married, I couldn’t access the residual, and if I never married, his money would go to an anti-LGBTQ+ organization. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“So…he’s not really your husband?”
The second pot of soup is finished, and I carry it over to cool with the other pot. “We made a deal.”
Margie remains quiet for a moment before easing off her stool and opening the fridge. She rattles around and pulls out a bottlethat she raises towards me. “Grab us two glasses. We’re sitting and drinking this out.”
“It’s barely 9 AM.”
“So? You’re not gonna spill it all unless that tongue relaxes, so come on then. You didn’t come here to beat around the bush, and I have meals to finish.”
Grabbing two short glasses, I follow her to the front porch where the beagle snores. She sets the bottle on the small wrought-iron table, and I pick it up to pour us two glasses of the maple liqueur she had hidden in her fridge.
“What kind of deal did you make with the handsome devil?” She sips the liqueur and sighs. “This is straight from Quebec. They do maple the best.”
I don’t recognize the label, but I wouldn’t doubt Margie would special order to support the cause of a memorial park for a late husband who’s listed on the label. That’s just who Margie is.
“He’s a new lawyer here. Real city boy. He was wearing suits to the office.” Margie makes the appropriate scoff of disbelief, and I nod. “Right? So he’s more casual now, and I’ve introduced him to a lot of the big ranchers. The business is picking up, and he should be successful now.”
