Page 60 of Where It All Began
The high school marching band warming up before a football game.
The crickets on a summer night.
“Just five more minutes, dad.”
“I love you, John.”
There is something that I can find here and only here on these two hundred acres. I feel it in my bones as if they’re made from the same ground beneath my boots. I’m meant to be here, meant to work this earth. I’m meant to live here, love here, die here.
Phoebe loosened her grip on the papers in her hand, her eyes damp, her chest tight. He’d painted a picture of a beautiful, perfect life. He was a poet, a man who would be a hero to his wife and children.
The hairs on her arms stood up as if lightning were about to strike. Perhaps it already had. Not outside in the dark where man and dog wandered. But in her chest where her heart beat for the man who’d written down the life he wanted in blue ink on lined paper.
She’d gone and done it. She’d let down her guard and fallen in love with John Pierce, poet farmer.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Phoebe refilled the kibble in Murdock’s food dish and opened the door to welcome the rain-cooled breeze. After last night’s storm, they hadn’t been expecting more rain, but the heavens had opened up again for a brief but satisfying drenching which ended their day a little early.
Phoebe laughed watching the little dog wag his stump of a tail as he chewed. She could hear John singing Culture Club upstairs in the shower, and it brought a smile to her lips.
It seemed like all the occupants of Pierce Acres were feeling the mood. She felt lighter than she had since her father’s accident. This moment, this day, this summer was turning out to be so much more than she could have hoped for.
She grabbed the chicken breasts that she’d been marinating in the refrigerator and turned on the oven. She’d pair the chicken with light salads and John’s own green beans fresh from the garden.
Humming, Phoebe slid the chicken into the new casserole dish. Her first impression of John as the hero, the caretaker, had proven to be correct. All she needed to do was mention how a casserole dish would open up her menu offerings or tell him about her grandmother’s sourdough waffle recipe, and within days, a cheerful red dish and new waffle iron made their way into the kitchen.
The phone on the kitchen wall rang, and Phoebe kicked the oven door shut, wiped her hands on the tea towel on the counter, and picked up the phone.
“Pierce residence,” she said cheerily.
“Hi, sweetheart!” Phoebe could hear the excitement in her mother’s breathless greeting.
“Hi, Mom. How are—”
“I just got off the phone with a Mr.—” Phoebe heard papers rustling on her mother’s end. “Ingersol with the FDA.”
Phoebe’s hand tightened on the orange receiver. “What did he say?” Her voice rose seven octaves. Murdock shot her a wary look before going back to his food.
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John padded downstairs barefoot, hair still damp from his shower. He heard Phoebe in the kitchen. Her voice happy, her laughter bright. It was hard to remember what the house had been like before her. Quiet. Very quiet, he decided.
The phone cord stretched across the doorway. The meager foot-long cord had been plenty for him. To John, phone calls should be brief, perfunctory. But to Phoebe, they were a way to give detailed reports of every second of her week to her parents, her sister, and friends. His long-distance bill was going to be astronomical.
“A job? You’re sure he said they were offering me a job?” Phoebe asked, squealing a moment later. “Mom, this is everything that we need!”
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, John told himself. Technically, it was his house. And technically, he was just standing in the hallway where Phoebe could see him if she walked past the doorway. It wasn’t like he was hiding.
She crossed the doorway. One hand on her head, her smile bright, her gaze on the ceiling, and he ducked behind the old hutch in the hallway. “Yes, of course this is what I want, Mom. Why do you think I would change my mind?”
A job with the FDA. It’s exactly what she’d wanted, what she’d planned for. Then why didn’t he feel happy for her? Why did he feel like his stomach had just dropped into an elevator shaft? He faced the wall, staring at the hideous black and orange wallpaper. It was on his list. This whole fucking house was on his list.
Why would she want to stay in a broken-down place with ten seconds of hot water and shitty orange flowers peeling off the wall? She knew what she wanted. A good job in a flashy city with a paycheck flush enough to support her parents. It was a shame that he knew what he wanted now, too. Phoebe. But he couldn’t give her what she wanted.
“Don’t cry, Mom. Please?” Phoebe’s voice was softer now. “You and Dad sacrificed for the last twenty plus years for me and Rose. It’s our turn, and you’ll be back on your feet and planning cruises and dinner parties in no time.”
She was quiet for a moment or two, and John could feel her enthusiasm fade just a bit. “I promise this is what I want, Mom. My thesis is almost done. I’ve been polishing it for a while.”
